‘Not a soft lady, is she?’ murmured Walkelin, more than a little in awe.
‘A fine one, and caring. Better that heat than cold in a marriage bed.’ Catchpoll, many years married to a woman who had reacted in a not dissimilar fashion in days long past when he had returned with less than a whole skin, was appreciative.
‘But I doubt she is truly obedient.’
‘If you wanted just obedience you would have a dog, not a wife, and you need a care. The Welsh are soft of lilting voice, if you can bear it, but swift of temper. When you take that Eluned of yours to wife, as opposed to just taking her, you will find that out. Biddable now, aye, she will be, but … you recall the Prince of Powys’s lady.’
‘But she was daughter to a king. They have pride and everything. My Eluned is—’
‘Worth getting back to. Well, then, we take a draught of ale, wait a while, and then we goes back home to Worcester.’
Within the cool of the hall, Hugh Bradecote watched Christina take his son, delighted to see his sire, from the nurse and set him within his arm. The child smiled and patted the stubbled cheek.
‘He has not pined in my absence. I swear oath he is heavier even after but a few days.’
‘He eats well, and thrives.’ Christina spoke with pride.
‘And you?’
‘I thrive also, my lord, and indeed am also no doubt the heavier.’
‘Good.’ He bent forward and kissed her cheek.
‘Now, let me give Gilbert to his nurse and see to it that you have your wine, and arrange that there is a good meal for this evening. You must rest. Would you care to lie upon the bed?’
‘With you? Yes. But I cannot, for I have not completed my task as yet.
‘The killer is caught, surely. Are they dead? You bring none to Worcester.’
‘He is dead, yes.’
‘Then you can remain. You have a wound and—’
‘No. I go into Worcester and report to William de Beauchamp.’
‘Serjeant Catchpoll is quite able to do that.’
‘He is, but I was sent in charge, and the killer was a lord and met his death at my hand. It is my report to make.’ He saw the challenge in her look. ‘Besides, the best healer I know is Brother Hubert at the Priory, and I swear I shall go and seek whatever he can produce for the pain, and see that the healing apprentice’s work was good.’ He smiled at her, though the smile was a little awry and there was still pain in his eyes. ‘I know I disobeyed you, love, but not by intent. This is nothing. In a week or so it will be forgotten bar the mark.’
‘I do try, my lord, not to be too worried, but now especially …’
‘I know.’ He pulled her close with his good arm.
‘I am a solicitous wife, I promise. I have such a care to you, so much care …’
‘I know that also, and expect nothing less than the most tender care,’ his voice dropped to a husky whisper, ‘and a great deal of personal attention once I return from Worcester. Then I will forget any pain.’
They emerged from the hall a not unseemly time later, lady touching-close to lord, and with Gilbert Bradecote on her hip. The undersheriff called for his horse, and Catchpoll, who had been sat upon a bench resting his eyes, opened them and stood slowly. Walkelin, who had been sat beside him whittling a piece of wood into a fair semblance of a hog, also rose, but without a grumble.
‘Glad I am ’tis not far home,’ murmured the serjeant, and went to unhitch his own horse.
A few minutes later and the three men were mounted. Christina stood beside the big grey and looked up at her husband. Her hand touched his knee. ‘Ride carefully, make your report and return to me before dark, my lord.’ The look in her eyes held concern, but also a promise, which could be guaranteed to ensure he would make every effort to comply with her command. He smiled down at her and gave a small nod.
‘Let us go and tell all to the lord Sheriff and hope he does not think we made a simple task difficult.’ Bradecote gave a wry smile, which disguised a wince.
‘I doubt he will, my lord, and if Roger de Lench is less of a prickly hattefagol than his father and brother, then he will be pleased enough.’ Catchpoll knew William de Beauchamp too well.
‘Ha, I would not say Baldwin de Lench curled up in a ball much.’
‘No, but being close to him was not at all comfortable. I doubt the lord Sheriff liked it any more than anyone else. He will say we should have had it all trussed up neatly earlier, but then he always does that, eh? He thinks it makes us work harder if the praise is small or non-existent, and also gives the idea that if he had attended to it himself it would have been ended the sooner. Thing is, my lord, he can think what he likes, but we knows what we knows.’
‘But this time, Catchpoll—’
‘This time we got the answer and justice was done. ’Tis over, and we await the next duty.’ Catchpoll was never one to lose sleep over what they did or had done. ‘Come, my lord, or you will not be home as your lady here commands.’
‘Ah, you noted that too, did you?’ Bradecote grinned, and set his heel to his horse’s flank, wheeling it about towards the gateway. Catchpoll just grinned.
The three horsemen urged their mounts to nothing more than a trot, aware of the lady Bradecote’s eye upon them, and did not spur them to a canter until they were assuredly beyond her view.
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About the Author
Sarah Hawkswood describes herself as a ‘wordsmith’ who is only really happy when writing. She read Modern History at Oxford and her Bradecote and Catchpoll medieval mysteries are her first foray into fiction. She is a member of the Crime Writers’ Association, the Historical Writers’ Association and the Historical Novel Society, and lives in Worcestershire.
bradecoteandcatchpoll.com @bradecote
By Sarah Hawkswood
Servant of Death
Ordeal by Fire
Marked to Die
Hostage to Fortune
Vale of Tears
Faithful unto Death
River of Sins
Blood Runs Thicker
Wolf at the Door
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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allisonandbusby.com
This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2021.
Copyright © 2021 by Sarah Hawkswood
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–2720–9
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Blood Runs Thicker Page 23