Bradecote was a little surprised. He had not thought the lady had much beyond a sad and pretty face. She saw more than expected. It was a sound enough conclusion to reach.
‘So you would see Baldwin happy to save your son.’
‘Hamo is the only child I will ever bear. I would give my life itself for him, however so strange he may be.’
‘And Osbern saw it as what? Betrayal?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘He said I was disobedient and disloyal. Said I betrayed him and there was no greater sin in a wife. Then he held me, hard, and said it again, very deliberately. I thought he …’ She looked frightened, the ghost of the fear Osbern must have seen. There was a silence, and then, slowly, Bradecote asked the question at long last.
‘Had he cause, lady?’
‘He had cause. God in Heaven forgive me, he had cause.’ She bowed her head in shame and began to weep, softly. ‘It was comfort and meaning something to someone.’
‘And so when Fulk came you told him what had passed between you.’ She nodded her answer. ‘And was it he or you who decided that the only way to protect you both was to kill Osbern de Lench?’
‘No!’ Her head rose instantly, and her answer was vehement. ‘It was not like that at all. Fulk is not a man who would stand back, seeing me hurt, would give his life for me, but I did not want his life given. I made him promise he would do nothing and said that we must cease our … meetings.’
‘And he agreed?’ The undersheriff’s disbelief was obvious.
‘I am the lady de Lench and he is the manor steward.’
Bradecote was surprised to hear the assurance in her voice. Would a woman who was surely far more like Ela than Christina, and had brought out the protector in Fulk, assert her rank?
‘But if your husband had strong suspicions, ending the disloyalty would not be enough. He would make you pay for past deceit, as he would the steward. His life would still be forfeit, as might yours be.’
‘I was not entirely certain, and Fulk said his life was here or nowhere. What would a steward who had run from his lord do? Heave flour sacks on the Evesham wharf? Not that Evesham would be far enough away. No, Fulk would not leave Lench, and my life is not so much to forfeit.’
Bradecote felt he understood, at least in part. Just as Osbern de Lench had a powerful connection with this land as his, so did also the folk whose ancestors had been working it for generations. A few left, girls to marry, youths to crafts, as Edgar of Flavel had left his home, but the tie was strong, a tie of blood and earth. Fulk would rather die here in Lench than live elsewhere.
‘And would you swear Holy Oath that Fulk did not leave you until the riderless horse returned and those from the harvest arrived?’
‘I would swear, my lord.’
Bradecote gave a small nod, and turned to Catchpoll, grimacing a little. It had seemed so likely, was still possible, but only just. The lady was not a good liar, so when she had spoken true it was equally clear. They left her, drying her eyes.
‘Are we much the better for that, Catchpoll?’ grumbled the undersheriff, clearly not thinking to receive an affirmative answer.
‘Every little thing that makes the path clearer is worth the effort, my lord, and I thinks that does. The steward is not some innocent lamb, but nor is he the killing wolf in this. He had the chance, but he has the lady who would swear oath for him, and it would be a good one.’
‘So now we await Walkelin, and what comes from Worcester. I dislike Parler, but that just means I find it the easier to believe the man guilty without solid reason, and if it is not him we still have no reason, no reason at all.’ Bradecote shook his head. Much now depended upon Walkelin. ‘Is there anything we might do while we wait? Let me see. I suppose we might speak with the woman Gytha, to be sure what she saw of the riderless horse, and if any other horse passed through the village. It will not give us much, I am sure, but I do not want us to be sat here, kicking our heels. I want to gather every loose end of the tangle so that nothing else might surprise us.’
‘Fair enough, my lord. We can do that.’
That they had not as yet spoken with the mother-to-be Gytha had not been a matter for concern, since it was unlikely that she would reveal anything if the father of her child was a man now dead and not her husband. She seemed preoccupied, but then with a belly as round as hers and no experience of childbirth, it was reasonable that she did not give all her attention to them. They sought her out in her home, since the only labour she was fit for was the bringing forth of new life. At least they might speak in private.
‘I am sorry we are asking questions now, but they must be asked.’ Bradecote did not want to sound the bully, though Catchpoll felt that he was too apologetic. ‘You and your husband must be eager to see the child and hear its cries.’ A whisper of sorrowful remembrance passed through his consciousness. Ela had heard cries, but dimly, and for so short a time.
‘Aye.’ It was a guarded confirmation.
‘After all, a man is always proud to be a father, see his line continue.’
‘Aye.’ She looked to the ground.
‘And your husband, Edmund,’ there was a very small pause, ‘he is the father?’ Bradecote hated himself for asking, for she looked honest, and what gain could a village woman have made from giving herself freely to her lord?
‘Aye.’ There was doubt in the voice, and then she took a deep breath, almost a gasp. ‘I hopes and prays so.’
So that was it. The poor woman did not know if she bore her husband’s babe or one foisted upon her by a commanding lord.
‘And Edmund, does he know of … the doubt?’
‘Aye.’ She frowned. ‘I am an honest wife, in all I can be.’
‘We understand, mistress. Now, the day the lord Osbern was killed, you saw his horse return and raised the alarm.’
‘I did, my lord.’ She was glad to speak of other things.
‘And you saw or heard no other?’
‘No, my lord. It was very hot, indoors and out, and my back ached and I was not comfortable anywheres. I was coming outside and the lord’s grey mare came trotting in, just as always. I suppose I thought to see him on her back, but when I turned my head I saw the saddle empty. Fair shook me it did. I … part of me hoped … but it was a sinful thought and I have confessed it to Father Matthias.’ She winced. ‘Then I went to the Great Field, to tell the others, tell our steward.’
‘You did not know he was here, not in the field?’ There was a pause, and he repeated the question.
‘No, my lord. I must have been inside when the lord went off up the hill. My Edmund, he has made a cradle, to show he … I was thinking of the babe in it and had fallen asleep upon the bed … then I woke and needed the pail and when I came out I saw the horse. I saw nobody and heard nothing afore that, ’cept a horse passing through, a bit before.’ Her frown became one of a deep concentration and she held her breath. ‘Might have been the lord Baldwin but …’ The words were forced and ended with a moan. ‘My lord … I can’t … not now …’ The ‘now’ was more a cry of pain.
‘You mean …?’ Bradecote turned in horror to look at his serjeant.
‘We leaves this to women,’ declared Catchpoll, evenly, and turned to leave, the sound of Gytha’s groan following them.
In the open air the undersheriff took a deep breath.
‘I’ll get the girl Hild and whoever else would be with her.’ Catchpoll did not look in the least perturbed, though Bradecote had paled a little. Having lost a wife to travail almost exactly a year past, and with the prospect of his new lady passing through that particular ordeal in but a few months to come, well, he might just be forgiven a pale cheek.
Catchpoll did as he said, and Hugh Bradecote leant back against the warm daub of the wall of the cott. Another cry of pain came from within, louder now the woman felt able to express her agony. He offered up a prayer, heartfelt, for this woman in her time and for his Christina, when hers came.
Hild appeared, as pale as he was h
imself, and with her oldmother, who looked a little like her sister in shape but not in features. Hild carried a basket covered with a cloth and did not acknowledge his presence in any way but moved on past him. He was not affronted. The girl had far more urgent things in her head than politeness. Behind them came Catchpoll.
‘Right, my lord, I do not see more can be learnt from Gytha, and I saw her husband. He looked confused, to be honest. Did not know whether to be eager, worried or miserable. As of now I suppose the middle one. I never saw him as dangerous and he was in full view with the harvesters. It does mean she could have heard the lord Raoul’s horse, not the lord Baldwin’s, but that is not much use to us either way.’
The oldmother emerged from the cott and did remember to dip in obeisance to the undersheriff.
‘Sorry, my lord, she forgot the vinegar. My sister swore by it.’
Bradecote was wondering if the labouring woman had to drink vinegar, and why. His curiosity made him ask the question, and the old woman laughed.
‘Bless me, no, my lord. It is to rub the end of the cord when the babe be born. Winflaed, God rest her,’ she crossed herself and sighed, ‘said it helped it shrivel clean.’
‘I pray it all goes well.’
‘Aye, as do I, my lord. Poor girl, she will have a hard time of it.’
‘It is likely to be a difficult travail?’
‘Ah no, my lord, I meant my Hild. It is her first.’
‘And the woman Gytha’s also.’
‘Yes, but … she has good broad hips and is strong. I just hopes as her size does not mean there is two. For the both of ’em.’ The oldmother tutted and went to find the missing vinegar. Another tortured cry came from within, and the undersheriff moved away. It was a distraction he did not want.
Chapter Thirteen
Riding back to Worcester, and being depended upon yet again to make discoveries and decisions on his own, filled Walkelin with a bubbling excitement. He would go directly to the castle stables and return the horse, and give orders that the animal belonging to the lord of Lench be ready for him upon his return. He smiled to himself. Yes, this was Walkelin, erstwhile just a man-at-arms, going to give orders to others. He felt he had somehow achieved a rank, not that of serjeant of course, but above his previous station. It was also good that the information which gave the name and location of the lord Raoul Parler’s woman had come through him. This was his part of the tangle to unravel and make plain. He did not gallop as if the Devil were on his tail, but he made a good pace, and the horse, which he silently blessed, was willing and fleet of foot.
As he approached the castle from the Sutheberi gate he could see the gates were open, and could not resist urging his mount back into a canter and entering with a degree of speed and purpose. He dismounted with urgency, and called to a man engaged in no more than picking his nose to have the horse rubbed down and stabled, and to have the animal from Lench held ready.
‘I am on my lord Bradecote’s orders, and to be swift,’ he announced, in a confident voice. It was, he felt, the spirit of truth even if the lord undersheriff had not actually spoken the words. He was pleasantly surprised by the man’s obeying without a word. This was command, and he must now look like a man who commanded. Alnoth the Handless called him Master Walkelin, and although being looked up to by a beggar was not much, it was a start. As he turned to go out into the streets, he glimpsed a shapely figure emerging from the kitchens. It was not, he decided, wasting the lord Bradecote’s time if he smiled and raised his hand at his own favoured maid. Eluned gave him a saucy look, and, having checked nobody else was watching, Walkelin blew her a kiss and winked.
Serjeant Catchpoll had told him where Leofeva, the Widow Brook, was living, and it was not long before he was knocking upon the door. It was not much of a place, and nothing compared to that of her late husband, the coppersmith, which was a fine burgage plot. No answer came to his knocking, however, and he was cursing his misfortune when a neighbour emerged, shaking out her besom and making a hissing sound as if shooing the dust from it.
‘If it’s her you’re wanting, she is down by the river with the washing today.’ The woman gave Walkelin a sideways glance and her eyes narrowed for a moment. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
‘I am Walkelin, the sheriff’s man,’ he declared, in his new-found voice of authority.
‘Are you indeed. I was just thinking you are the nephew of poor Mildreth Hedger as was sent from life on a knife’s blade.’ The woman did not sound very impressed.
Walkelin frowned. He did not much like being reminded of his aunt’s fate, nor that him being a sheriff’s man had not enabled him to save her from her wyrd. The woman, having made her point, moved on from the fate of Widow Hedger.
‘Report him, did she?’ She gave a nod towards her neighbour’s door. ‘Well, I doubt anything will be done, not when he is so high and mighty. Fine lords like him can do as they please and no notice taken.’ The woman sniffed. Walkelin had the idea she was a woman that sniffed a lot.
‘There was no …’ Walkelin was going to deny any reporting, but caught himself in time, ‘mention that she would not be at home this morning.’ He paused. ‘Did you see anything of what happened?’ It was worth a try.
‘Not saw, but half the street heard, if not half of Worcester. She screamed as if he were tearing her limb from limb, but there, if she takes to selling what she has been selling, it happens, and it is not my fault, whatever Dunstan over the way says. If she was honest there would be none of it.’ The woman looked suddenly guilty. The Walkelin of less than a year ago would have looked blankly at her, but now a more knowing Walkelin made an educated guess.
‘Took in more than one man’s washing, did she?’ The accompanying leer would have made Catchpoll proud, though it sat a little oddly on the fresh and slightly freckled face, and the woman looked momentarily taken aback before answering.
‘Foolish thing to do, dealing with two of the lordly sort, and neither of ’em the charitable kind, and I would have said nothing, not one word, if him with the nose and the sneer had not been rude and dismissive of me. So pleased with himself, he was, he needed that smile wiped from his proud face.’ The woman, whose own nose was turned up and narrow, giving her a very nasal sound, clearly bore the lord Raoul ill will. Walkelin also wondered if she resented her neighbour’s previous more comfortable existence, or whether the Widow Brook, however low she had come, still had the airs of a burgess’s wife.
‘So you told him he was not her only visitor, did you? If neither looked charitable you were setting her up for trouble. You call that neighbourly?’ Walkelin could not quite disguise his disapproval, much as he tried.
‘I could not have thought she would end up like she has though.’ The woman was defensive again. ‘I did not wish it upon her, I swear oath I did not.’
‘And her other lord, what is he like?’ Walkelin was not very interested, but it sounded a good serjeanting question to ask.
‘Shorter, fatter, a bit older. Always wears a red hat with a smart badge on it, leastways till he gets in her bed. I doubt he wears it then.’ The accompanying smile was not a pleasant one, but the young sheriff’s man did not even register it.
‘A badge?’ Walkelin felt his heart thump. ‘What was it like?’
‘Just a badge, copper, which is funny when you think what her late husband was, and with an amber stone set in the middle.’
Walkelin actually felt sick with the rush of excitement, but kept his voice calm and asked where upon the riverbank Widow Brook generally did her washing. She was not the only one at the chosen spot, but she was easily identifiable, for no other woman looked as she did, and they all seemed to be keeping apart from her as if she carried some disease. She was stood, slowly wringing out some sodden clothing.
‘Widow Brook?’ Walkelin did at least make it sound a question, though the answer was obvious. The woman turned to him and merely nodded, looking cowed and wary. The slow and reluctant way that she moved made him think she
had been kicked, or beaten with something heavy about the body. Her face was a mess.
Both eyes had dark circles about them that made them seem as if sunken into her skull, and far more than the sort of black eye he might see when two men took a swing at each other to settle an argument. Her right cheek was puffed up, shiny purple and red where it was not sloe-black, and swollen from lower lid to halfway down her face, distorting it so that he could not imagine her as the good-looking woman Catchpoll had described. Her coif hung a little loosely at the neck where she had been bending forwards, and he could just see blue marks. He thought very harsh thoughts about Raoul Parler.
Walkelin had lived a simple life in a household where his mother’s word held sway, even back in the days when his father lived. Until he had been taken under the wing of the sheriff’s serjeant he was in blissful ignorance of just what happened to women in some other dwellings. Serjeant Catchpoll had taught him about the beating of women, women who then denied all but a ‘foolish slip’. Men in drink, men in blind rage, they might lash out at a wife, a daughter, a whore, grab her by the throat, perhaps shake her, bang her head against wall or floor. If the woman did not die, little was done by the law, especially if the woman had children about her skirts, for a breadwinner was a breadwinner, however rough. If he learnt about it, however, the serjeant had a way of ‘having words’ which made men think twice, at least when sober. As Catchpoll said, a breathing, beaten woman might be a corpse another month, and he would rather it was not so. He had added that at least, if it came to pass, it was a lot easier if all the sheriff’s men need do was bring in a guilty husband.
‘I am Walkelin, Sheriff’s Man, sent by the lord Undersheriff of the Shire, to ask you if the lord Raoul Parler was with you three days past.’ He spoke firmly, but not loudly. If the other women did not know the widow’s trade then he would not add to her dishonour.
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