‘That can only be one of three.’ Walkelin sounded more hopeful.
‘Four.’ Bradecote corrected. ‘All along we have discounted the lady Avelina, for sound reasons. But, and it has to be considered, what if what was seen by … the girl in the field on the second morning, did not develop as she assumed? What if Hywel got nasty, forceful, and the lady Avelina decided she was not prepared to go beyond fondling in the shrubbery?’
‘Nobody mentioned her looking upset.’ Catchpoll pulled a face.
‘I agree, but it is possible she gave in without a fight, but without wanting to. If that were so, she would be one very, very angry lady, and if she suggested to Corbin even a fraction of what happened …’
‘No, my lord, he would have been a young hothead and gone straight out with his eating knife and done for him in full view.’ Catchpoll saw the flaw.
‘By nature, yes, but she would not want it common knowledge. She would have pleaded with him to do her this service quietly, and she would be forever indebted.’
‘You mean till he asked something of her, and then she would revert to “my lady” and look down her nose at him,’ scoffed Catchpoll.
‘Without a doubt.’
‘Then there is four as has reason, but I cannot see the lady Avelina hitting Corbin over the head, and so hard as to knock the wits, if not the life, from him.’
‘I agree, Walkelin, but it had to be looked at to be discounted. So, of the three, who is next?’
‘The three?’ Rhys ap Iorwerth looked at each in turn.
‘Thorold FitzRoger, Durand FitzRoger, and their mother, Matilda FitzGilbert.’ Bradecote ticked them off on his fingers. ‘And either man might just have done it if the lady Avelina had played the duped female, betrayed by a wicked seducer, and then blackmailed by a foolish boy.’
‘Oh no, please let us not have her back in,’ cried Rhys, and Catchpoll actually laughed.
‘Is Durand fit enough to have got from the hall to the drying ground, hit Corbin hard enough, and got back, and not been remarked upon, having been scarce outdoors in a month?’ Walkelin asked.
‘Good point, young Walkelin.’ Catchpoll nodded his approval.
‘It makes him less likely, for sure. He is certainly not as weak as he or his mother have made him out to be, which still makes me wonder why, but he would have to have been lucky not to have been seen. What about the lady Matilda?’ Bradecote looked at the others.
‘Strong enough … Corbin is a tall lad, and she is quite short, but if he was lying down, daydreaming, or scrambling to his feet, it is perfectly possible.’ Catchpoll folded his arms. ‘But with what? What could a woman carry and explain if seen, and cause that wound?’
‘Which leaves us … you, with the lord Thorold.’ Rhys ap Iorwerth announced.
‘It does. So we needs to know how he did it, and find some way to prove it, because the man is as slippery as an eel and will deny every word.’ Catchpoll grimaced, which was a long-winded process that fascinated the Welshman.
‘Corbin was struck down sometime after Aldith left him, and before she went back to him, perhaps an hour later,’ Bradecote frowned. ‘That gives little margin for anyone wanting to do the deed, and Thorold FitzRoger was not in the company of his goshawk and man for the half of it.’
‘My lord, may I ask a question?’ Walkelin looked suddenly as if not asking would make him burst.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘If you were in Bradecote, at your ease, and went hawking … if you have a hawk that is, and …’ Walkelin’s tongue tied itself in a knot.
‘Get on with it, lad,’ Catchpoll prodded him.
‘Well, if you did, would you wear your sword?’
‘Er, no, I suppose not. I do not wear it at my hip every hour of the day.’
‘Then why did the lord Thorold wear it to go hawking?’
‘Did … yes, of course he did, because he wanted to draw it upon me when I angered him! Well done, Walkelin. But he stormed out of his hall without retiring to his chamber, so he was wearing it before he decided to go out.’
‘Or he was going to go out and you speaking with him merely delayed it, my lord. At which point we ask, does he always wear a sword, to make him feel more the man and lord, or was it just today?’ Catchpoll shut his eyes to think back.
‘I was out in the bailey when he went out a little after we arrived, my lord. You and Serjeant Catchpoll went into the hall, but I did not. I saw him call for his horse again, and mount up. I would swear he wore no sword then.’ Walkelin’s voice had risen a tone.
‘So today he had his sword. But going out and finding Corbin somewhere and slicing him in two would be making himself the most obvious suspect. Who else wears a sword and is out and about?’
‘But he told his brother to leave tomorrow. If he could put enough suspicion upon him so that he feared us and left early, it would look clear that it was the lord Durand as did it.’
‘You know, young Walkelin, once you rid yourself of this habit of looking as if you might pop like a soapwort bubble in a washtub, you are going to be an asset,’ said Catchpoll, with a smile of approval.
‘So, Thorold FitzRoger plans to do away with Corbin, and if another method had presented itself, I am sure the sword would not have been first choice.’ Bradecote was too focussed to be lauding Catchpoll’s apprentice. ‘He is on horseback, so sees him at the drying ground with Aldith. He thinks that opportunity gone because she is there and it is too close to home for blood and whatever fatal wound he planned, but might hope Corbin would linger afterwards. His hawk strikes first time, so he sends it back, and returns to see what has happened. Aldith has either gone or leaves. He dismounts not too close, and instead of sword he uses the sword in the scabbard. That would work for the wound, yes, Catchpoll?’
‘It would, my lord.’
‘But why,’ asked Rhys ap Iorwerth, ‘was this lord with his horse able to ride up to the youth and strike him without a murmur?’
‘Because I doubt the lad was thinking of anything other than what had gone on between him and his girl, Aldith, so recent he would still feel as if upon a cloud.’ Catchpoll winked.
‘You mean they …?’
‘They did, I would almost swear to it. I saw the maid, though she no longer had that title, afterwards. You could have trotted a troop of cavalry past him and he would not have opened an eyelid.’
‘At which point we have FitzRoger taking the opportunity to strike Corbin a sharp blow to the head, and leave him unconscious and bleeding. What is the bet that it is the first time Thorold has ever wielded a sword, even scabbarded, at a real live man. He does not know what killing feels like, or even looks like, so blood and a swoon seem more than adequate, and I will grant the lad looked like death when we found him. He jumps back on his horse, trots away for a suitable time and then comes back long enough after for everyone to be in a panic over the attack, and him as calm as if he has done nothing more than exercise his steed. He can also feign righteous indignation at our failing to prevent the deed.’ Bradecote hit the ground with the flat of his hand. ‘It all works.’
‘It works, my lord, but could you prove even one part of it? Let alone have the man confess. I do not know your law, but it sounds doubtful, though I am sure what you say is what happened.’ Rhys ap Iorwerth sounded apologetic.
Bradecote ran his long fingers like claws through his hair and muttered a fluid line of obscenity. The Welshman grinned, despite all.
‘There, now that sounded so poetic it might almost have been Welsh.’
Brictmer the Steward appeared suddenly from around the corner of the building, chest heaving.
‘My lord, my lord, come quick.’
‘What has happened now?’
‘My son has woken, Corbin lives!’
Chapter Sixteen
Nothing had changed within the single room, and yet everything. The deathbed was now a place of recovery. Aldith had one of Corbin’s hands in hers and was gazing at him as if she mig
ht never look away. Father Dunstan was on his knees still, but hands upraised and chanting a psalm. Corbin lay very pale, but his eyes were open.
‘See, my lord, our prayers are answered. It is a miracle, so it is!’
‘Glad to see you alive, lad,’ Catchpoll sounded once more the kindly uncle. ‘You just tell us what happened.’
‘When?’ The voice was threadlike. Everyone stared at him. Father Dunstan stopped mid sentence. Corbin looked back at them, a small frown between his brows. ‘When?’ The question was more insistent.
‘Corbin, you know me?’ Aldith whispered, with fear in her voice.
‘Yes … Aldith … Grew up together.’ He looked muddled, and vaguely annoyed at the silly question.
‘And today?’ She squeezed his hand. ‘On the drying ground?’ He looked more puzzled, and her face fell. ‘Do you not remember?’
He still looked confused, and she leant and whispered very softly in his ear. His eyes widened.
‘No!’ he cried. She pulled back, affronted, shamed. ‘Would ’member that. Would ’member, please say would ’member?’ There was an edge of panic to his voice, and it actually eased her.
‘You will, Corbin. I will help you remember,’ she soothed.
‘All of which means you do not know who hit you.’ Catchpoll heaved a heavy sigh.
‘Head hurts.’ He closed his eyes.
‘Do people get their memory back, after such things?’ Bradecote whispered to Catchpoll.
‘Bits, I think, but it seems more luck, what returns, my lord.’
‘How far back will he have forgotten?’
‘I am no physician. If he has forgot something as important in his young life as …’ Catchpoll raised an eyebrow and looked at Aldith’s back as she murmured to the lover who could not recall the act of love, ‘then perhaps not since this morning, or yesterday, or weeks, for all that I know. There was a mason, fell from the scaffolding on the priory once, far enough to break bones, but not yet die, and he forgot even how to speak. The only thing he knew was stone. If you placed a mallet and a chisel in his hand, and sat him before stone, he would work it.’
Hugh Bradecote pondered, and came to a decision. He addressed the injured youth.
‘Corbin, I am Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff of this shire. I know your head hurts, but I must ask you one question.’ He waited, and then continued. ‘Do you know why the Welshman Hywel ap Rhodri was killed by his servant?’
The gloomy chamber was heavy with the absence of words. After what seemed an age, Corbin’s voice, weary now, gave a word.
‘Milburga.’
‘Thank you.’ He looked at Brictmer, and Catchpoll. ‘If he recalls that, then he will know who sent him to kill the man also.’ Brictmer opened his mouth, but Bradecote raised a hand. ‘Whoever tried to get him to kill Hywel, and we will find that the reason given would have seemed good, that person tried to kill your son today. Walkelin, you do not let anyone in other than the people you see now, not until we have the answer.’ Bradecote kept his eyes on the steward.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘God be praised your son will recover. We will not press him now, for his mind is as sore as his skull, and cannot think much, but tomorrow, we will ask more questions, the important questions, because answers must come before long. You understand?’
‘I do, my lord. Will he have to answer for …’
‘For not doing something? If every man who has dreamt of ending the life of another, if every man who has considered it, were arraigned, the Justices would never sleep, nor eat.’
‘Then the man who set him upon the Welshman cannot be taken up for it either.’
‘No. But you see, today they really did commit a crime for which we will take them. Keep Aldith here tonight, for her safety as well as Corbin’s comfort of mind.’
‘I will, my lord.’
Bradecote nodded, at him, and at Walkelin, then he, Catchpoll, and Rhys ap Iorwerth went out into the sunshine.
‘Do you wish me to leave now, my lord, now I can tell my prince who killed Hywel ap Rhodri, and why?’
‘I suppose you could reach Leominster before sunset, but I am reasonably sure that if you wait until the morrow, you will be able to give him the fuller story.’
‘Why did you not ask him now who set him to kill Hywel ap Rhodri, my lord?’
‘I wondered that also,’ added Catchpoll.
‘Because … I do not understand minds, but his answers were childlike in simplicity.’
‘Then surely the simple, but most vital, question was the one to ask. The answer would have been but a name.’ Rhys frowned.
‘Perhaps, but if his answers were a child’s answers, I feared his reaction to the question which put him in trouble would be like a child’s. If you confront a small child with a misdeed, how often do they deny it, even if it is undeniable? If he is left, and his head aches the less by dawn, his father and his strong-willed young woman will be telling him how important it is for him to reveal that name, and he will not have to lie there and say “Yesterday I told you false”.’
‘I mislike the wait, but see there is sense, my lord,’ Catchpoll gave a grudging approval.
‘And when he gives the name, the name of his lord Thorold, will it be enough, the word of a steward’s son, against a lord? You said this Thorold was clever, and he looked it. Nasty but clever.’
‘Well, I have not thought the Justices fools often, thus far, and I agree with the lord Sheriff, who said that Thorold FitzRoger was clever, but not as clever as he thinks he is. The planning of the death he can deny as reason for the assault upon Corbin, but I think the attack ought to stand.’
‘And after? There will be a price to pay in coin for breaking the lad’s head, true enough, but what of steward and son after that? Will not the lord dismiss both and send them from the manor? Will he not then have won, and they lost?’
It was a good question, and Bradecote had no good answer. It was in a very sober mood that the three of them went back under the arch of the gatehouse.
‘Do we confront FitzRoger now, my lord, as if we had the sworn word of Corbin?’ Catchpoll wanted an end, and this lingering rankled.
‘I am tempted, Catchpoll, sorely. I think … yes, first we will ask to see his sword, and I think he will smile, because he knows it bears no mark upon it. But you will study that scabbard, and study it closely for the smallest trace of blood or hair. If that gives us what we want, then we definitely press with what we are likely to have as if it were ours already.’
‘Where is my brother?’ Thorold FitzRoger did not ask with any trace of affection in his voice. He stood in the solar, looking at the two women in his life, and realising he wished neither were part of it, and tossed his gauntlets onto the table.
‘He has, against my advice, gone to look at his horse, and the brown that Brictmer’s boy will ride.’ The lady Matilda regarded her son, stonily.
‘Corbin will not now be accompanying him.’
‘Why?’
‘He has suffered an … accident. His head is broken. He will likely be dead before morning.’ He sounded unconcerned.
The lady Avelina, who had been working upon her stitchery for real under the baleful glare of the older woman, let her knife slip as she cut a thread, and exclaimed as it made a tiny cut in her finger. She dropped the knife onto the table, and sucked the injured digit as the red blood welled up.
‘Did he fall? Was he up a tree?’ The lady Matilda was understandably surprised.
‘The sheriff’s unwelcome brood say he was hit about the head, but they only want to make trouble.’ He expected her agreement.
‘Who hit him?’
‘Does it matter?’ Thorold sounded irritated.
‘If someone hit him, then why? Is not everyone in danger?’ The lady Avelina ceased sucking her finger.
‘No. It will be some peasant’s squabble.’
‘Why are you so sure of that?’ The lady Matilda did not let go of a subject easily. ‘And wha
t says the undersheriff?’
‘I do not know and nor do I care. I thought you believed the undersheriff a fool, anyway.’ Thorold paused. ‘My hawk brought down a duck, so …’
‘Thorold! This is important. Corbin is the son of our steward, and to follow him.’
‘I never thought he would make much of the position. I will select another.’
‘But his family have been stewards of Doddenham for generations.’
‘Then the line breaks now. It is not important, not to me. The boy is no loss. All he has done is trot about the solar like an ever-faithful hound, with great eyes only for “my lady” and doing whatever she may snap her fingers at.’
‘He was of good use when Durand was very ill.’ The lady Matilda could be fair when she chose.
‘More, then, the pity.’
‘You speak as if you wished Durand had died.’ The lady Avelina looked reproachfully at her husband.
‘We wish each other dead. That seems fair to me.’
‘But he is your brother, my lord.’ She was shocked. ‘You may dislike him, but you cannot wish him dead. He is your blood.’
‘Is he? Or is he but half my blood, Mother?’ Thorold turned suddenly upon his mother. ‘Was it true what that Welsh weasel told me? Am I Thorold FitzRoger or Thorold, bastard of some Welshman? Because Durand would oust me if he could, doubt it not. Will you help him, since he has always been favoured?’
‘You must have been drinking. This is the madness of wine talking.’ The lady Matilda glowered at her firstborn. ‘Do you think, if I indeed prefer Durand, that I would have had you take his father’s estate, if you were indeed the son of Rhodri ap Arwel? Do you? No. It makes no sense, as you make no sense. Just because I despise you does not mean I would supplant you with an usurper.’
‘You “despise” me?’
‘Of course I do. You are too like unto your father, that is the irony. I despised him too. Roger FitzGilbert was indecisive, weak of will, though at least strong enough in body when younger. You arrived small, and small you have remained, in body, in courage, in mind. You have pretended, worn the mantle of a lord, but your shoulders are not even broad enough to wear that of Roger FitzGilbert.’ The woman was angry, angry not for the moment, but for a lifetime of disappointment, and her words spilt out in a bitter torrent. ‘You have replaced strength with guile, and puffed yourself up in the delusion that a little cleverness among the ignorant is as good as being a strong man, a real man. At every turn you have been weak, mistaking the taking of any decision for taking a good decision. When you said you would wed, I warned you about her.’ She pointed at the lady Avelina, who was staring at her, open-mouthed. ‘What did you think, if you thought at all? That her beauty would fire you out of disinterest, out of impotence? What that Welsh serpent did, molesting our servants, was disgusting, but do you know, just for one small moment when I had heard that the girl Aldith had slapped his face for his temerity, I wished it had been you. Never, even in the first flush of manhood, did your father have to berate you for stealing a kiss from some peasant girl, or appease an angry father whose daughter you had seduced with sweet words. You were simply not interested, as though women were trees. Yet you pick a woman that has men slavering after her just by drooping her lashes at them. She is little better than a common whore, but you have made her so, by ignoring your duty. You did not have to enjoy it. Heaven knows we women rarely do so, but we do our duty, aye, and the greater duty since we have to carry and bear. Did you try? Did you consult a wise woman, or a physician to help your ardour? No. You just pretend to be a man when everyone knows you are without desire.’ Her voice slowed, and became resigned. ‘There are men who cannot sire heirs, but they can still be lords, puissant in their shire. You sit here, without ambition, without an aim but to sit here, and you watch, watch life and the world pass Doddenham by. It may suffice the peasants who seek only stability, but you are not a peasant, and it ought not to suffice you. “FitzRoger the Watcher” is how you will be remembered for a time, and then forgotten as if you had never been. My sire said once that he had been told that in the old, old days when our ancestors were heathen in Normandy, they said immortality was being remembered in the halls, as a warrior, as a “giver of treasure”. While men spoke of you, you lived on. You, Thorold, will be “dead” within a hand of years after your body lies in the earth.’
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