‘My lord, think straight, I beg you.’ Fulk the Steward, still holding the sagging body of Osbern de Lench by the shoulders, spoke up. ‘There could be no cause for Young Messire to do such a thing. What gain would there be?’
‘He speaks true. What gain is there to me in our father’s death? None. It is you who gain.’ Hamo pointed a wavering finger at his half-brother.
‘I have been the heir of Osbern de Lench from the moment I was born. I have no more reason to wish his end today than yesterday or ten years past. I do have greater reason to grieve than all others, though we raised our voices at each other sometimes.’
‘My lord, this death must be reported to the lord Sheriff, William de Beauchamp, and to the lord Bishop also. He will not permit thieves and cut-throats to go unpunished in the shire. He will find out the truth of all.’ Father Matthias spread his hands, placatingly.
‘I know who did it,’ growled Baldwin, ‘and if William de Beauchamp wants to take his corpse—’
‘No!’ cried the lady de Lench, stepping to stand in front of her son. ‘It is because you hate him, hate me, nothing else. Hamo, get you to the church. Pray for your father’s soul, and you, Baldwin, I defy you to drag any from their prayers and kill out of malice only. Shame upon you. Your sire lies cooling, barely an hour dead, and you are thinking only of yourself. Think of him. Let us all think of him. You ride to Worcester, Fulk, to the lord Bishop and lord Sheriff, and ensure the lord Sheriff or his deputy comes back here. We ought to set about a hue and cry, for at the least some sign may be found of which way the killers departed, and if strangers are seen from Evesham way, they can answer if they have seen anyone who looked lawless or not.’
‘It is my manor, not yours, lady. I give the commands.’ Baldwin clenched his fists.
‘Then act the lord, not the jealous brother,’ she flung at him. ‘If I give commands it is because you have failed to do so.’ Her bosom heaved, and her eyes, eyes that had spent years being downcast and submissive, outstared the new lord of Lench. It was he who coloured the most, and he who looked down. She felt guilty but elated, and it showed. When Baldwin raised his eyes again, he saw that look.
‘When my father is buried, think where you will live, lady, for it will not be here, I swear it. Your dower is a miserable hole my sire never saw but once and pissed upon when he did. So I make you welcome of it and expect to see you crawling back to your own sire, and oh, how little he will want you. A nunnery might be best, then you can pray for my father and for your son’s soul.’
‘You cannot harm … Fulk, ride swiftly to Worcester.’ Her brief confidence evaporated in an instant, and Fulk looked to Baldwin. After all, he was the lord, and his master now.
‘Yes, go away and tell all. But if you are not swift there will be no need of sheriff or men. You can tell William de Beauchamp that, from me.’
‘And what about the harvest, my lord?’ An aged man, rather bent and lacking his front upper teeth, asked a pertinent question. Deaths or no deaths, the harvest was vital and the weather not likely to hold fair.
‘We bring it in. That is what my father would have said, and I say it also. Leaving it so we starve next summer does neither his soul nor our bellies any good. Back to the Great Field, all of you, and no time for whisperings and gossiping.’
A few minutes later and Baldwin was alone at the oaken door of his manor house. He ran his hand through his hair and closed his eyes, just for a few moments.
Chapter Two
‘I do not see it as sensible at all, my lord.’
Hugh Bradecote stood with folded arms and a look which could best be described as obdurate. His wife’s cheeks reddened with anger and she was ready for an argument.
‘I will not see you put yourself at risk, Christina.’
‘What possible risk could there be in me going out to see how the harvest is advancing before it is all brought in?’
‘You might have tripped over, and you did not tell anyone where you were going.’
‘But it was to the North Field, not … York, and I am not incapable, just with child. Besides, almost the entire manor from swine boy to Father Achard is out in the fields, so I had nobody to tell except Nurse.’ She huffed. ‘Stop treating me as if I had no more wit than baby Gilbert.’
‘Then act like the sensible woman you are and obey me.’
She looked mulish, and her bosom rose and fell rather distractingly.
‘You play the tyrant.’
‘No, I play the husband. It is a good role.’ His calm voice infuriated her the more.
‘And sometimes they are one and the same.’
He stepped close to her then, unfolding his arms so that he could hold her, though she stiffened and leant away from him.
‘No tyrant. I just want you safe and …’ He closed his eyes for a moment.
‘Hugh, this is not about me, but about you. How can I make you understand there is nothing to fear? I keep telling you that what happened to Ela will not happen to me.’
‘You cannot promise that.’
‘No, I cannot promise, but I can tell you with certainty. This child will be blessed.’ She relaxed a little and placed her hands upon his chest.
‘It is not just the child, Christina. It is you. I could not bear to lose you. I have said it so often.’ It was true. It still gave him nightmares, the thought of her suffering as Ela had suffered, dying as Ela had died.
‘You will not lose me, my love.’ Her voice softened, and she stroked his cheek. ‘But do not turn me into a wasp-tongue wife with over-cosseting. I am enjoying being with child, with your child, as I have never done before, and now it has quickened … I feel as if I am doubly alive.’
‘I am no tyrant,’ he repeated, but it was more of a plea than an assertion.
‘No. But you are an overcautious lord. I will be dutiful and obey, but only in that I will not go outside the walls of the manor without telling you or Alcuin the Steward. I am happy. Be happy with me.’ She gave an encouraging smile, and he bent to kiss her, even as he heard voices in the passage that crossed the end of the hall. They curtailed his kiss, and he turned as Serjeant Catchpoll appeared in the opening, looking disconcertingly cheerful, and followed a few paces to the rear by Walkelin, his serjeanting apprentice.
‘Why is it that when you look like that, Catchpoll, I worry?’ Bradecote’s lips twitched.
‘Like what, my lord?’ The cheerful look became his death’s head grin.
‘Like that, you wily bastard. Have you come to drag me in to Worcester?’
‘No, that I have not.’
‘Then …’
‘I have come to drag you off to Lench, where the lord Osbern de Lench has been found dead and the heir is keen to see his brother hang for it.’
‘This fills you with joy, Catchpoll?’
‘Well, I looks at it this way, my lord. The lord Sheriff has been in a temper for days over some squabble with his kindred and lashes out at all in range, which mostly means me, and the wife has been scolding me since the day before yesterday for breaking her best pot so …’
‘So investigating a killing is as good as a treat for you?’
‘Seems fair to say so.’
‘And for me?’
‘Well, we cannot all be happy, my lord.’ Catchpoll sounded the voice of reason.
Christina laughed, and shook her head. It occurred to her that however much she loved having her lord at home, it would do him good to have something else to think about than her thickening figure for a week.
‘You must go, my lord, and ensure that brother does not end brother without cause. You need have no fear,’ she paused, for her true meaning was between herself and her lord, and then continued smoothly, ‘for the harvest is all but in, and Alcuin will oversee the threshing. I shall do no more than admire the hard work and ensure there is ale for parched throats at the end of the day.’
‘Are you …?’
‘Must I command you to your duty, my lord?’ Her eyes held a tw
inkle.
‘No, but …’ He sighed and grinned, though a kernel of concern remained within him. ‘Take yourself a beaker of beer, Catchpoll, and you also, Walkelin, and I will be ready by the time you have drained it. We can reach Lench before nightfall if we are not sluggards.’
‘We are not, my lord, but I cannot say the same for my horse,’ complained Walkelin.
‘Well, you just kick him more, so as I do not have to kick you afterwards,’ said Serjeant Catchpoll, still looking as though upon some treat.
Hugh Bradecote withdrew into the solar with his wife, who indicated that the nursemaid should leave the chamber with a waft of her hand. Bradecote took his son from her arms, and Gilbert Bradecote batted his sire’s cheek with a pudgy hand. He laughed.
‘Good,’ declared Christina. ‘I want you to depart without gloom. These things do not take months, but barely weeks, and if anyone is to be worried, it is me, for I shall do nothing but get rounder of belly, and you will likely attempt foolishly brave things.’
‘I have too much care for my wife and son.’
‘Did you have that when you launched yourself into the Severn when you cannot swim?’
‘No.’ He had the grace to blush. ‘But there are no rivers near Lench, and I swear to you, love, that never again will I launch myself into deep water, even after a murderer.’
‘Small comfort that is, but I shall take it, nevertheless.’ She came close, stroked a hand down his cheek and offered her lips. At which point both discovered that kissing was remarkably difficult when one of the couple had an infant in their arms who resented not being the centre of parental interest. Giving up, Christina took the baby from him, smiled ruefully and complained about ‘jealous men’. She watched in silence as Hugh packed a few things into a rolled blanket. He looked at her as he finished.
‘I will take care.’ It was his promise.
‘Yes.’
‘And you will take care also.’
‘Yes, my lord. I will take care also. Now, be gone, so that you may return the sooner.’
‘So, Catchpoll, what do we know, and why does one of Osbern de Lench’s sons want to hang his brother? Other than brotherly dislike,’ Bradecote asked, as he urged his big grey into a loping canter.
‘It is a half-brother, my lord,’ interjected Walkelin, before Serjeant Catchpoll could reply.
‘Well, the less likelihood of love betwixt them but …’ Bradecote still looked to Catchpoll.
‘We got a tale that was as twisted as a maid’s plait, and no, young Walkelin, that is not something to grin at. The steward of the manor came, on a horse sweated up and nigh on dropping, and him little better. He had gone first to the lord Bishop, as if that would be of use, and had been sent straight on to the lord Sheriff, and with some priest at the man’s elbow, forever butting in to be helpful and thus muddying things further. All we know for sure is that the lord Osbern de Lench was alive this dawning and dead by a little after noon, his body found by his heir, Baldwin de Lench, after his horse came home riderless. The body was pretty nigh stripped. The lord Osbern was keen to ride to the top of the hill above his manor each noontide, so the son thinks whoever killed him, or had him killed, knew this. He also thinks it was his little brother, er, half-brother, though the steward cannot think why, and has threatened to hang him before we reach Lench unless we are swift. The lord Sheriff sent the steward back upon a fresh horse, not a very good one, mind you, and with a strict command that Baldwin do nothing until our arrival, on pain of the displeasure of the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire. The depth of this displeasure was … made very clear.’
‘Then if Baldwin ignores the advice he is a fool beyond belief. Nevertheless, I think we do not make the journey at an easy pace, Catchpoll.’
‘I feared you was going to say that,’ sighed Walkelin, resigned to sore heels from kicking his reluctant mount.
‘Well, I can at least entertain you upon the ride, for this is a family where they have killed each other before,’ the serjeant declared.
‘Go on.’ Bradecote was not going to let his jaw drop like Walkelin’s.
‘It was when I was as Walkelin is now, my lord.’
‘Still making mistakes and riding a beast that is barely a horse?’ Bradecote’s lips twitched.
‘Perhaps a few less-than-sound decisions,’ conceded Catchpoll, ‘but the horse was better.’
‘And I haven’t made a mistake in … a long time, my lord. Not a big one.’ Walkelin was not totally sure that the undersheriff was in jest.
‘That depends on your idea of big, young Walkelin.’ Serjeant Catchpoll was secretly very pleased with his protégé’s progress but would not want him to know its extent. ‘Now, back then, Lench was held by a man called William Herce, a widower who had married a very comely young woman. He was quite envied, right up until she did for him. He was a jealous husband, and rightly so, for she grew tired of her balding lord and turned for her pleasure to another man, though she never revealed who he was, indeed cried her innocence throughout. When the husband came too close to knowing the truth she poisoned him.’
‘How was it proved her blame, and how was it known she had a lover?’ Bradecote frowned. He could not but think of his Christina and her mistreatment by her first husband. A woman that abused might seek escape if not through taking her own life, then that of her abuser, whatever the risk to her immortal soul. ‘I would have thought if she were the lady of the manor and he died, it would be accepted as an accident.’
‘A man don’t die blue-lipped, after thrashing about and screaming of many-headed beasts just because he ate too many herb dumplings, and at a meal he shared with his lady and sons. It was poison, right enough, and most like slipped in his wine. She tried to claim it was some mischief from the wise woman in the village who had been treating him for the scarlet toe, which gave him great pain.’ Catchpoll saw the undersheriff’s frown deepen. ‘I heard off an apothecary that the Foreign is something like goot.’ The frown eased, and Bradecote nodded in understanding. ‘She used nightshade in the poultice for that, and that alone, she gave her oath. The wise woman was sworn for by all the village as one who had done nothing but good her whole life, aye, and had a softening of the heart for the man since she was but a young wench and he had more hair and a roving eye. There was no cause for it to be her, and just to take any doubt from it all, the wife had been asking about the poultice and what was in it.’
‘Then that does give how, but not why, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote was being as dogged as Walkelin.
‘The lover was real, though he had neither face nor name to the end. She had taken to slipping away of a forenoon, if her lord slept late after much wine, and always came back in good spirits and smiling. The swine boy said as he had heard her in the woods, laughing and talking to a man, for he heard a man’s voice and Foreign speech. He never saw, for he thought seeing might mean being seen and his life cut short by a lordly dagger, which was most likely true.’
‘But that is not quite proof, surely?’ Walkelin had been listening intently.
‘Not of why, but since we had no doubt she did it, and none other had cause or way of doing it, it was good enough. The manor went to the elder son, Osbern, the man now dead. He must have been no older than sixteen, I reckon. The younger son, Roger, was given the manor that came from his mother at marriage, and somewhere not in the shire. Osbern was always “Osbern of Lench”, not “Osbern Herce”, presumably because he felt it was unlucky. Did not mean he avoided a sudden death though, after all.’ Catchpoll gave a grim chuckle, as though he felt a man trying to avoid his wyrd was foolishness.
Despite the sheriff’s men making best speed to Lench, it was early evening when the trio arrived in the village, and they slowed to a walk to follow a cart through the gateway into the bailey. A lad was leading the oxen, and a gathering of villagers followed it, the oldest and youngest to the rear. They all had stooped shoulders and lagging steps.
‘The harvest waits for none,’ murmured Catchpoll.
‘True enough, and I wish I was at home for my own, but there.’ Bradecote knew there was no point in worrying about it, for Alcuin the Steward was as trustworthy as they came, and his lady would, whatever he said, be taking an interest in how much progress was made each day. It was the better part done as he left. It struck him that this scene was so ordinary that it was hard to imagine they were about to seek the killer, or killers, of the manor’s lord.
A man emerged from the hall, a man looking worried and even more tired than the harvesters. He nodded at Catchpoll in recognition and made obeisance to Bradecote.
‘My lord Undersheriff, I am glad you are here. The lord Baldwin is within and the lady de Lench.’
‘And no hangings yet.’ Bradecote did not make it a question, merely a seeking confirmation.
‘No, my lord, not that it has been easy … Glad I am that you are here. Messire Hamo is in the priest’s house, away from the eye of the lord Baldwin. Kenelm,’ the steward jerked his head at one of the younger men, ‘take the lord Undersheriff’s horse and the others thereafter. I will take you in to the lord Baldwin, my lord.’ He bowed again to Bradecote, and did as he said.
The hall was as all halls, rather dark and pleasantly cool after a warm ride. Upon the lord’s seat at the end of it sat a man perhaps ten years younger than himself, judged Bradecote, and a man unused to the position. He gripped the oaken arms rather firmly, and half rose before thinking it better to assert his own authority by remaining seated. It did not bother Bradecote, though he heard Catchpoll’s hissing intake of breath. Serjeant Catchpoll was very jealous of the importance of the office of undersheriff.
‘I am Hugh Bradecote, the lord William de Beauchamp’s undersheriff, with Catchpoll, the lord Sheriff’s serjeant, and Walkelin, trusted man.’ Bradecote thought it showed Walkelin was not just a horse-holder but would not mark him as someone the servants had to treat with caution and in whose presence hold their tongues. He felt, rather than saw or heard, Catchpoll’s approbation.
‘Baldwin de Lench, lord of Lench,’ responded the seated man, and totally ignored the lady sat a little to the side of him.
Blood Runs Thicker Page 2