Blood Runs Thicker

by Sarah Hawkswood

  She was fair, rather pale, and had a look that was half fearful and half proud. Not used to being lady of the manor either, thought Bradecote, assuming she was Baldwin’s wife, for she looked younger than her years.

  ‘I would have word with your hus …’ Bradecote halted as her eyes widened in shocked surprise, and Baldwin de Lench interrupted.

  ‘I am not wed. That is my sire’s grieving widow.’ His voice dripped with sarcasm.

  ‘My apologies, lady, for the error. I would not distress you with hearing details you might otherwise prefer to remain unknown to you, so perhaps you would care to withdraw to your solar.’

  ‘My solar, not hers,’ muttered Baldwin.

  ‘What details might upset me when I have washed the body, seen the wounds, my lord Bradecote?’ Her voice was soft but did not waver.

  Catchpoll sighed. He far preferred corpses untouched by respectful tending, for he could learn more from them, but it was a natural thing to have done.

  ‘If you wish to remain, then—’

  ‘I do not want her present.’ Baldwin stood up. ‘She will interrupt to keep telling you her son is nigh on a saint.’

  ‘No saint, but not so great a sinner, and not one who would kill his sire,’ she riposted.

  ‘Then I will speak with you both, one after the other, and to your son, my lady, after that.’ There was such animosity between the pair that Bradecote thought nothing would be achieved with them together. ‘But first we must see the body of Osbern de Lench.’

  ‘He lies before the altar, my lord,’ said the widow.

  ‘Thank you. We will not be long.’

  ‘I shall come with you.’ Baldwin looked suspicious.

  ‘No. A corpse is treated with respect, but it is not fitting for kin to have to observe.’ It had been a hot day, but Bradecote thought the stiffening after death must be setting in by now. ‘We will not be long.’ He nodded, as though dismissing them, and turned upon his heel. He had asserted authority, and only the low mutter from Baldwin showed that the new lord of Lench had realised too late that it had been imposed.

  The church was silent except for the sound of a lone voice chanting in Latin, which faltered as they opened the door and stepped within. A priest with greying tonsure turned his face to them and gave a respectful nod, then finished the prayer and crossed himself before rising from his knees. He noted Bradecote’s garb and demeanour.

  ‘You have come from the lord Sheriff, my lord?’

  ‘We have, Father, and we need to see the body, though we interrupt your prayers.’ Bradecote spoke gently enough but would clearly not brook demur.

  ‘God hears the silent prayer as much as the one that is voiced, and from any place. Would you have me leave you?’

  ‘It is your church, Father.’

  ‘It is God’s church, my son, and in a way Osbern de Lench’s, for he spent much to make it as you see, resplendent, honouring the Creator. The colours are barely dry upon the stone, but there, in comparison with the Glories of Heaven it is but a hogcote, and I pray that the soul of the lord Osbern might, in time, reach them.’

  ‘What sort of man was he, Father? Do not answer to praise the dead but to be honest with us. It helps us, I promise.’

  ‘Not an easy man,’ the priest sighed, ‘for he was afflicted with a temper and of recent years a leaning to the heart-sick. It was as if sometimes he hated his own person but took it out upon others. Love of self to excess is sinful, for it means ignoring others, but hating self can be as bad. The only thing that truly delighted him, always, was the land. He would go up to the top of the hill every day if he could see the manor below and the weather was not foul, and just look down on it and be eased. He always seemed less angry upon return.’

  ‘His family pleased him though?’ Catchpoll crossed himself before the altar and began to draw back the cloth that covered the body, giving silent thanks that the body had not been shrouded by the widow. He sounded almost casual, as if the answer would be just a pleasantry.

  ‘Yes, but … like an ebb and flow of tide, not all the time. Of course the lord Baldwin is too alike to his sire for them to have been always in amity. There were ravings from both sides, much stamping and roaring, like stags before the rut, but they respected each other. The lady, she is the second wife, and I think it hard sometimes to fill that role if the first was loved. The lady who bore Baldwin and his sister died when he was but a boy of six or seven, and those who were here then will tell you the lord Osbern grieved mightily, but wed again three years later, taking a very young wife. I think he feared having only the one son to inherit, life being always out of our own hands. I came to the parish that year and christened the child she bore him, messire Hamo, but the travail was difficult and she was barren thereafter.’

  ‘And this younger son was rejected?’ Bradecote frowned, listening, but whilst watching the silent interrogation of the body by Serjeant Catchpoll, who would undoubtedly have spoken out loud to it had the priest not been hard by. Walkelin stood beside the body also, but might have been mistaken for a respectful mourner, his woollen cap gripped in his hands and his head bowed. ‘It seems unlikely unless the boy showed some marked imperfection. If a man wanted another son and got one, would he not rejoice and dote upon him?’

  ‘What might give you …? Oh, the lord Baldwin accusing his brother … that is, I am sure, just their dislike and jealousy.’

  ‘So you are saying Hamo was preferred, then?’ Bradecote’s frown became more pronounced. He looked away from the body and straight at the priest, knowing that he would hold the man’s gaze. Catchpoll was now getting Walkelin to help him turn the body over. It was not dignified.

  ‘No. But … it is hard to explain, my lord. The lord Osbern liked to command and be obeyed, yet despised those who submitted to him. The lady de Lench learnt the lesson, I fear painfully, early in the marriage, and the meeker she became the more he railed at the slightest failure. She would not stand up for herself, only her child, but she also taught the boy not to annoy his sire. Messire Hamo is a quiet lad, watchful, careful. He does not trust, I think, and you can see why. He is clever, for I taught him to read and even write a little, which is more than his sire or brother could ever do, and he learnt to get what he wanted by only ever asking when the moment was propitious. The lord Baldwin just asked when the idea hit him and was thus often rebuffed. So the lord Baldwin, who hates the lady who took his mother’s place, not least because she is beautiful and young, also hates her son who seems to get what he wants and be favoured. This is so even though he knows his sire loved him for being his firstborn, and in his own mould and that of his mother. She was, they say, a raven-haired, headstrong woman. Rare fights they had, according to the woman who nursed the two babes, but always ended in another sort of passion, if you understand me.’ The priest blushed. ‘Perhaps that is why he picked the opposite second time – he could not bear someone so like unto her.’ He paused. ‘It is one thing I think a priest can never quite understand, the many tangled bonds of man and wife in the flesh and in the heart. I have found in my life the love that is compassion, not passion.’

  The undersheriff said nothing. He felt he had enough tangled bonds in the family of the dead man without adding the influence of a long-dead wife, though the past so often bore down upon the present.

  ‘My lord,’ Catchpoll’s tone meant that he did not need to say ‘come and look’.

  ‘Excuse me, Father.’ Bradecote went to join his men and positioned himself between the corpse and the priest.

  ‘Several knife wounds, my lord, but it was the one up under the ribs into the heart as did for him in moments.’ Catchpoll spoke quietly.

  On the cleaned and cold body the wounds looked rather unimportant, just a few places where the pale skin was split for the width of a knife blade, one low in the belly, one upper right and one a little wider just below the ribs and slightly to the side on the left. There was something wrong about them as a group. The undersheriff opened his mouth to sp
eak but Catchpoll jumped in first.

  ‘No other marks upon the body, my lord.’ Catchpoll’s voice was devoid of any emotion. If this was all that the serjeant had gathered from the body, Bradecote felt he would sound far less unconcerned. There was more, but Catchpoll was not going to discuss it now.

  ‘Thank you, Serjeant.’ It was his turn to sound wooden. He turned to address the priest. ‘We can leave you and the mortal remains of Osbern de Lench in peace, Father.’

  ‘I could have told you as much as you have learnt, my lord. I was with the lady when she washed the body.’ The priest sounded mildly peeved, as though a deceit had been wrought upon him and he could not work out what it was. ‘There was much blood in the undershirt, and both dust and dirt all over him from where he must have been dragged to the ground by whoever set upon him, and the three wounds.’

  Catchpoll coughed. As signals went it was hardly subtle, but the priest was thinking of his dead lord and not attending.

  ‘The law needs to see, not just hear, reports,’ said Bradecote, by way of reason and dismissal, and sounding as official as possible. ‘Sometimes we notice things others miss.’

  ‘Ah yes, I see.’ This seemed to cheer the priest a little. It was just the way things were done. He understood ritual. ‘God aid your discovery of the wicked.’

  ‘Amen to that, Father.’ Bradecote gave him a tight smile and walked out into the evening warmth. Catchpoll and Walkelin followed. The trio did not head straight back to the hall, but walked to the stable and went within, where only the horses’ ears twitched to listen to them.

  ‘Well, Catchpoll, why were those wounds all wrong, and what else did you learn from the lord Osbern de Lench?’

  ‘Not enough, but then it is rarely enough and more questions than answers, though it gives us a start, my lord. It gives us a start.’ The serjeant pulled one of his ruminating faces. ‘I sort of need to start at the end. The priest assumed the body was dusty because some lawless men dragged the lord Osbern from his horse and did for him on the ground. Nice idea if lawless men were ever there, but I doubt that, a lot. We will see well enough when we gets to see the place he died.’ He paused for effect, but Bradecote only raised an eyebrow. Walkelin did not hold back.

  ‘But there were three wounds. A planned killing you would think would have one clean one, but robbers are hasty.’

  ‘There is something not right about the wounds though, Walkelin.’ Bradecote frowned. ‘Three different places and the knife held with the blade horizontal for all three. Random yet no haste.’ He shook his head, and Catchpoll sighed.

  ‘You have it that far but no further, my lord, eh? Those wounds alone show us there were no robbers. If a man is brought down, heavy and sudden, from a horse, you would think there would be some mark, a scuff of skin, just somewhere, though I grant that is not most important. What is important is those wounds. For a start, the two into the belly went in straight, stabbed down into his innards, blows to a man lying on his back. But the thrust that killed him was delivered upwards, not straight as if down into the chest of a man on the ground, Besides, most robbers would more likely slit a belly or throat, or drive the knife straight down through the windpipe, from what I have seen of their ways.’

  ‘So the wound that killed him was the first, and when he was mounted.’ Bradecote frowned. ‘The other two were after death and just for show. That was it. They made no sense because they were with intent but no passion, no anger. I had expected several close, repeated blows, slashes, battle wounds. He was not ambushed, and he let his killer in close, so he knew them. Were they on horseback too?’

  ‘The wound was a little towards the side, and none of the horses in this stable other than yours, my lord, is a tall beast, nor was the lord Osbern a lanky-bodied man. I reckon as the knife was thrust in at about five and a half feet from the ground. Walkelin, get on that horse there, the grey.’

  ‘You are more his height, Serjeant,’ mumbled Walkelin.

  ‘But I am stiffer of limb, so up with you.’

  Walkelin did a little bounce to lean over the horse’s withers and scrambled onto its back. It turned its head to stare at him but did nothing more than stamp a foot.

  ‘There, my lord. There would be a saddle, true enough, but since Walkelin is taller than the dead man he accounts for a bit of that. Also if I pulls him a bit towards me like so,’ he reached and grabbed Walkelin by the front of his cotte and pulled, ‘the distance shortens a little. The knife entered about here,’ he poked Walkelin hard enough with a finger for him to grumble, ‘and even though striking upwards would have far less force from a man on the ground, what it went through was soft flesh into the heart, not breaking bones. Not saying it is more likely, but any man of reasonable height could do it.’

  ‘So we still only have that he was killed by someone on a horse or on foot. Doesn’t get us closer, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote folded his arms as Walkelin slid from the grey.

  ‘Yes, but we knows he wasn’t killed by no robber, and it was someone he recognised, like you said. No stranger would get knife-close to his side, either way.’

  ‘Which means we will find the killer, because they are still here.’ Walkelin sounded delighted.

  ‘And just how many men are still here? A village full.’ Catchpoll grimaced.

  ‘But it is harvest. Everyone would be in the fields, Serjeant, from men-at-arms to oldmothers.’

  ‘Except our killer? Fair point, young Walkelin.’

  ‘We are ahead of ourselves.’ Bradecote was not going to leap ahead to a line of thought that might be too narrow. ‘I agree with what you say. The killer was not unknown to Osbern de Lench. I go no further, yet. Let us hear from the son who found the body, and then we will also see where he was found. Come on.’

  Chapter Three

  Within the hall it was as though those present had been turned, like the wife of Lot, into pillars of salt, for they seemed not to have moved and the atmosphere suggested that nor had they spoken. Baldwin de Lench still looked uncomfortable in his father’s place, and the widow was staring at her folded hands in her lap. Her face was impassive, but those hands were gripped tightly together. Bradecote was unsure whether she was angry, frightened, or both. The one thing she did not look was grief-stricken.

  ‘So, you have seen my father’s body. It is clear what happened. He was stabbed.’ Baldwin looked tired and was even more tetchy.

  ‘We have, but knowing that a man died by knife or arrow, sword or stone is but a very little step upon our path to who did the deed.’ Bradecote was unruffled. ‘I said I would speak with you after seeing the body, and I will, but if it was you who found him, I would have you speak as you lead us to the spot. We have an hour until full dark and can still learn much that is fresh. On foot would be best, unless it is far, which I doubt.’ Catchpoll had already remarked that only a lord would bother to ride to the top of the little hill, since it could be no more than a few furlongs from the hall to the very top.

  Catchpoll did not test this reckoning by paces as they set off out of Lench upon the Evesham road, which rose to the southward. He listened as intently as his fellows while Baldwin described how he had come from the Great Field, as soon as a woman had appeared from the village, gabbling that his father’s horse had returned home alone.

  ‘My thought was the obvious one, that his horse had stumbled or been frightened by a rising bird and jibbed, and my father had been caught unawares and fallen. He was not home even as we reached it, so he must have hurt a leg, twisted a knee, perhaps even broken a bone. I ordered Fulk the Steward to bring two men with a hurdle as fast as they could manage, and set off myself, upon my horse, to the spot.’ He paused. ‘I did not expect to find his corpse. We leave the road here and it is but the track to the hilltop, not one taken on the way from anywhere. No casual passer-by killed my father, my lord Bradecote.’

  Bradecote noted the more polite appellation. He was glad the man was calmer.

  ‘And you knew he would be here because he
had told someone it was where he was heading?’ The undersheriff already knew this was a habitual journey, but it was good when everyone said the same thing.

  ‘It could be no other around the noon hour, and besides, a lad saw him up on the hill, almost silhouetted as he liked to be, with the sun on his back and his manor before him. He used to say the land was the one thing that would never change beyond the circle of the seasons, never betray you. “Lord of the Hill” the people here called him, and I shall be as him and do as he did.’ Baldwin made it sound a vow. He halted. ‘There, that is the place. He pointed to a patch of earth the same as any other but did not go closer. ‘He was lying upon the ground, his eyes open, staring Heavenward, and he was dead. God have mercy upon his soul.’ He crossed himself.

  Catchpoll went forward first, his back bent, looking as though he sought some small precious item lost among the grass and dust. Then he called for Walkelin, with his young eyes, to follow his path. He knelt, grunting, and Bradecote was not sure if it was his usual complaint about his knees or acknowledging some detail that proved something to him. He let his men study the ground and spoke to Baldwin de Lench.

  ‘You say whoever killed him knew him well enough to know his habit of coming up the hill, yet he was robbed of garb and … was there a dagger?’ There was no reason the man would wear his sword, but he might have been a man who always had a dagger at his belt.

  ‘Either the killer thought to disguise their deed as robbery, or was paid to kill and the dagger and clothing were an added gain. I regret its loss, for it was a good one.’

  ‘Yet they did not steal his horse,’ commented Walkelin, rubbing his finger in a horseshoe imprint upon the ground. The weather had been dry, and the lord Osbern took the same path every day. He was not sure if it was new or days old.

  ‘It must have been frightened and headed home to its stable before they could catch the reins.’ Baldwin shrugged. ‘If they were paid, then it was bad luck for them, but not worth chasing after it and being seen.’