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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Bradecote & Catchpoll
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
When an irascible lord is found murdered, undersheriff Bradecote and serjeant Catchpoll are summoned to investigate. August 1144. Osbern de Lench is known far and wide as a hard master, whose temper is perpetually frayed. After his daily ride to survey his land, his horse returns to the hall riderless, and the lifeless body of the lord is found soon after. Was it the work of thieves, or something closer to home? With an heir who is cast in the same hot-tempered mould, sworn enemies for neighbours and something amiss in the relationship between Osbern and his wife, undersheriff Hugh Bradecote, the wily Serjeant Catchpoll and his apprentice Walkelin have suspects aplenty.
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5
Blood Runs Thicker
A Medieval Mystery
SARAH HAWKSWOOD
For H. J. B.
Contents
Chapter One
Harvest time 1144
‘Cease your whining, woman.’ Osbern de Lench snarled at his wife, pushed her roughly from him and strode out into the sunshine, which was at such odds with his mood. It had been a bad morning and his temper had long since frayed. Nobody did what he told them; everyone failed him. He yelled for his horse, and berated the man who brought it in a hurry for not having it ready. The groom cringed, expecting a blow, which he promptly received. It was one of those days. The man knew that he would have been chastised just the same had he been walking the lord Osbern’s horse up and down, since he would have been accused of daring to assume his lord would ride, even though he did so every day at the same hour before noon. He held the stirrup, studiously looking down at the dusty toe of the leather boot, which enabled him to step back smartly and avoid the half-hearted kick aimed at him. Osbern pulled his horse’s head to the right, and cantered away with imprecations upon his lips and the dry earth rising in little clouds behind him.
‘There are days, too many of ’em, when you would wish the lord Bishop of Worcester or the lord Sheriff held this manor themselves,’ grumbled a tall man, wiping a scrap of sacking across his heated brow as he came round the corner of the barn. He nodded towards the receding horse and rider. ‘What cause had he for ire today?’
‘Who knows, other than our lady?’ The groom shrugged.
The tall man glanced towards the hall and frowned.
‘Get you out to the Great Field. Since I will still be here, I will attend to his horse upon his return. We need every man we can with sickle in hand if we are to get the harvest in before the weather changes, and Old Athelstan swears it will within two days.’
The groom was about to ask why Fulk the Steward had himself returned, but thought better of it. The steward might not strike him as the lord Osbern would, but he had a sharp tongue in his head if aggravated, and he already looked less than delighted. Perhaps it was simply an inauspicious day. The groom hoped Fulk would be wary of the lord’s horse upon his return, lest it lash out. The old grey mare might have mellowed in temper a little with age, just as her coat had paled to the colour of snow, but horses might be as prone to ill-temper as men.
The steady rhythm of his horse’s hooves calmed Osbern, as did the very routine nature of his ride. Every day, unless the weather was so foggy as to make it ridiculous, or so inclement as to make it foolish, he rode up the hill that overlooked his manor and sat for a half hour, contented, surveying it. People could be difficult, and often were, but the land changed only by the seasons, and this was his land. ‘Lord of the Hill’ his villeins called him, always behind his back, but he knew of it and rather liked the appellation. It might be held of William de Beauchamp, the lord sheriff of the shire, who in turn held of the lord Bishop of Worcester, but Osbern’s sire and grandsire had lived here, been buried here, and this was his. He knew each ridge and furrow, every tree, and had taught Baldwin, his heir, to value it as he did. At noon the sun was on his back and the hill’s soft shadow cast upon the green-wooded slope to the fields below. His grandsire had cleared the very top when he first took seisin, thinking to create a motte and bailey to show how he was above the old ways and the old lord, the English Alfred. As the story had been handed down, however, he had got no further than felling the trees. His lady had so berated him for foolishness in wanting a breezy hilltop when he could keep a far better eye on his villagers down where the cluster of dwellings were focused about a little church and the stream, that he had changed his mind. Instead he had turned the Saxon hall into a barn, just to prove his Norman superiority, and built a grander hall. The barn still stood, and the new hall also, but the old church was nothing more than the footprint upon which Osbern had now overseen the erection of a new place of worship, adorned with fine carving from masons who had worked on far grander ecclesiastical buildings than a manor church. The building was roofed again, and within the week it would be fully decorated, the walls fresh and white, the arch above the chancel step chevroned in red and yellow ochre. It declared to all who entered that Osbern de Lench was a lord of means, and pious also. It would help his soul when the time came, just a little, he thought, for God alone knew how much there was for which to atone. He crossed himself and was thinking of the next world rather than this and was thus caught off balance when his horse jibbed and came up short as he was confronted.
‘How come you are here?’ he enquired, his brows drawn together. He was surprised, and a little annoyed, but not in any way frightened, which was not a bad state in which to die, all things considered.
The rider was in his middle twenties, well dressed, and with a serviceable sword at his side. He entered the village as though he owned it, and he might as well have, for this was Baldwin, son and heir to Osbern de Lench. He frowned at there being nobody coming out to take his horse, and then shook his head at his own stupidity. He had been thinking of other things, of the future, and completely forgotten that he had passed communities all bringing in their harvest as he had returned from his sire’s manor in Warwickshire. There the harvest had been finished three days past, but it was a small manor, and the steward had been so panicked that the weather would break that he had begged Baldwin to let him commence the harvesting even before their neighbours. Baldwin liked the harvest time, seeing the culmination of the farming year, assessing the yield, the possible surplus to sell, even the act of cutting the grain stalks, which had such purpose. He had even been known to join in during his adolescence, just to show off his strong arms, though his back thereafter ached from the bending. He had not done more than survey the labours this season. He turned his horse about and headed towards the Great Field, a half-smile on his face.
The pale grey mare, almost white with age, trotted into the empty bailey and ambled towards the stables, where it halted before the shut door. The main gate was open to receive the cartloads of gathered sheaves to be threshed in the barn, which stood within a dozen yards of its grander replacement as the lord’s dwelling, but the bailey was otherwise deserted. A woman, very heavily pregnant, emerged from one of the simple cotts with a midden pail. She glanced into the bailey at the sound of the horse stamping its hoof upon the compacted earth. She looked puzzled, and then waddled slowly into the enclosure. Her hand went to her mouth, for a horse to return riderless meant something bad. She dithered. With everyone bringing in the harvest there was no man to alert, and it did not occur to her to enter the hall and call for the lady. She had only ever entered it upon great feast days when the lord broached kegs of ale and had a hog roasted to celebrate the nativity or Easter. She tied the reins of the bridle to a ring driven into the wall, and set off with a slow gait, frowning in determination and concern, towards the fields. It was some time before men came running back, the harvest forgotten, following as fast as they could after a grim-faced Baldwin de Lench. They came to a halt, chests heaving, staring at the now-unsettled grey mare being calmed by the lord’s heir, whose own mount stood abandoned in the bailey yard.
‘Did he go up the hill?’ cried Baldwin, and nobody needed to ask who ‘he’ was.
‘Aye, messire Baldwin.’ The groom came forward and took the horse, soothing it where the agitation of Baldwin de Lench had failed. ‘He went up as usual.’
‘And I saw him, just as always, up there.’ A lad of about twelve pointed up the hill.
‘So he must have fallen on his way back, and not long since.’ Baldwin paused, and then yelled for the steward. ‘Fulk, where in Jesu’s name are you?’
A few moments later and the door into the hall opened. Fulk, who was not only tall but broad-shouldered, seemed to fill the doorway. He was wiping his hand across his mouth. In normal circumstances Baldwin would have made a guess that he had been imbibing his lord’s wine illicitly, but these were not normal circumstances, so it was ignored. The hand dropped before the action was complete.
‘Messire Baldwin.’ He sounded surprised, and not overjoyed. Then he saw the horse. ‘Sweet Lady Mary!’
‘Take two men and fetch a hurdle. If the lord Osbern has fallen and not yet come home, swearing at his horse, he must be hurt and either on the Evesham road or the trackway up the hill. I will ride ahead, and you come on as fast as you can.’
Fulk nodded, tight-lipped, and jerked his head towards two strapping young men. As he strode towards an outbuilding a woman emerged from the hall. She looked wary, and if Fulk had not been best pleased to see Baldwin de Lench, her look was more of loathing.
‘I thought I heard …’ She stopped and stared at the horse, then crossed herself. ‘A fall?’
‘If he took a tumble then the horse did not come down, I would swear oath to that, my lady,’ piped up the groom, who had been feeling the grey’s legs. ‘Not a mark upon her, nor added dust upon the flanks or saddle.’
‘Praise be for that,’ came a mild voice. Father Matthias stepped forward. ‘Best you wait within, my lady, and direct preparations of the lord’s bed. Mother Winflaed, you will be needed.’ He looked to an older woman, the village healer, who pursed her lips and went swiftly for her medicaments. ‘We can pray also.’
The lady de Lench let herself be guided back into the cool dark of the hall.
‘If salves are all he needs then prayers have indeed been answered,’ muttered Baldwin, remounting his horse and heading for the gateway. ‘Run, you bastards!’ he cried over his shoulder at the two men now grappling a hurdle and wondering how best to carry it at speed. They looked to Fulk the Steward.
‘He said run, so best we run, lads. Come on.’
The rescue party departed, and the villagers, caught between the desire to get back to the harvest and a feeling that they ought to remain, milled about rather aimlessly, talking in hushed tones.
Baldwin de Lench rode back into the village slowly, since his horse bore both himself and his father’s body slung across its back. What use was a hurdle for a corpse? He was pale, and when he called out for the priest, his voice shook a little. For a moment he was angry beyond belief that everyone simply stared at him and stood stock-still. He swore. He wanted to dismount, but he was not actually sure that his knees would not buckle. He called again, even more hoarsely, and Father Matthias emerged from the hall, without haste. He stared at the body, crossed himself, and was almost pushed aside by the lady de Lench.
‘It cannot be true,’ she cried, running in a flurry of skirts to the body of her husband. She lifted the cloak that covered it and took the head in her hands, gazing at the face as if she expected him to speak. ‘Osbern. Osbern!’ Her voice rose, she let go of the cloth and stepped back very suddenly, crossing herself, and began to weep. Baldwin looked down upon her bent head.
‘Tears of grief, or of guilt, lady Mother?’ he asked softly, but she raised her head as quickly as if he had shouted at her. He always gave her the title with sarcasm, for she was perhaps no more than five years his senior.
‘What do you mean?’ Her hands, which had been clasped tightly together before her mouth, went to her breast. ‘What do you mean, Baldwin?’
‘I mean he wed you for your looks and to give him more children, and all you bore him was that whelp you dote upon. What sort of a wife does that make you? And where is Hamo himself?’
‘He is not here. He … he went out with his hawk this morning.’
‘Did he, indeed?’ Baldwin’s lip curled, and his face regained some of its colour. ‘And did he by chance go alone?’ Her face gave him all the answer he needed. ‘He did. How … interesting.’
‘You cannot imagine he would harm his father, mes … my lord,’ interjected Fulk the Steward, watching both of them.
‘No, not with his own hand. Too weak and watery for that, my little brother Hamo, but his hand might have given silver to others, yes?’ Baldwin dismounted now, taking his leg over his horse’s withers and jumping to the ground. His knees held firm. He drew back his cloak with what was almost a flourish, revealing Osbern de Lench bootless, swordless, and in only his undershirt and braies.
‘He was robbed? So close to home?’ The priest sounded amazed. ‘He was but going up the hill as always.’
‘Yes, “as always”. Everyone here knows he does … did so. No stranger would. So perhaps it was a great mischance and lawless men set upon him, having by some strange coincidence turned off the Evesham road to go up the hill, but I doubt it, I doubt it very much.’
The lady de Lench, apparently speechless, cast the steward an imploring look, and he shook his head.
‘But why? Why would any of Lench seek the death of the lord Osbern?’ Fulk, frowning in perplexity, voiced the question. The nods from the other villagers were designed to associate themselves with that question, but many were dwelling upon incidents when their lord had been far from popular. The lord Osbern in his ire had been free with boot or hand, even the flat of his sword, and his tongue scathing, even if half his swearing was in Foreign and its niceties lost upon them. There were also memories among some of the women of the man, in his youthful years especially, when handing out violence was not all he did; sometimes he took. Old resentments rose, old fears too, for although Osbern de Lench could hurt nobody now, his heir was in the same mould; moody, intolerant and physical. Perhaps it was not so much ‘why?’ as ‘why now?’. All the things that had caused mutterings and whispered oaths had gone on for ever, and there was nothing new or special. Besides, had not all been in the Great Field with the harvest? It could not be a villager, and of those who knew the lord Osbern’s habit of riding each day at the same hour to survey his land, there only remained the stripling, the younger son.
Baldwin de Lench said nothing. He glowered at them, daring them to think other than as he thought. He could not himself think why his half-brother would see their father dead, since it would profit him nothing, but there must be some cause, hidden like a snake in the long grass, that he could discover.
‘My lord,’ Father Matthias’s voice was soft, supplicating, ‘would you have the lord Osbern laid now in his hall or in the church?’
‘In the church.’ It was the lady who spoke, and she sounded surprisingly determined. ‘Its rebuilding meant so much to him, so very much. Take him there. I will come and do what is needed,’ she shuddered, ‘though it is a terrible thing to have to face.’
‘God will give you strength in this hour, my lady,’ assured the priest, ‘as he does to us all.’ He crossed himself yet again and, seeing that the lord Baldwin looked not so much grief-stricken as angry enough to commit murder himself, commenced an Ave Maria, which he hoped would give time for him to calm himself.
The villagers took up the familiar cadence, heads bowed, the lady de Lench began to weep again, and Baldwin muttered the prayer through gritted teeth. What Father Matthias dreaded was the swift return of Hamo de Lench from hawking. However godly a man, his added prayer was not heeded, for even as Fulk the Steward and the taller of the two hurdle bearers lifted the corpse from across Baldwin’s horse there came hoofbeats, and a dun pony was pulled up short in the bailey. The rider was small, still boy more than man, though he was beginning to broaden a little at the shoulder. His voice had broken but sounded as if he were as yet surprised at its depth, and there were odd notes to it. Hamo would have flung himself from his pony, had he not had his hawk upon his wrist. He was a solitary lad, who loved his hours with his bird of prey, and would as often go out alone as with a servant to carry it. As it was, he dismounted in an odd mix of scramble and care. He was frowning.
‘What has happened? Mother, how comes my father is dead?’ He looked to the lady de Lench, now wringing her hands again, but before she could give answer, his half-brother took two strides to him and hit him across the face. He staggered back, and the hawk flapped in alarm and to regain its balance.
‘You know what happened. Sweet Jesu, there is even blood upon your sleeve. Did you actually watch? Did you get so close you could be sure he was dead?’
The youth blinked, and when he spoke his voice had risen an octave in fear.
‘The … the blood must be from a pigeon that Superba took. I let her enjoy one and kept a brace for the pot. If I had seen our sire in danger I would have come to his aid. It is my duty.’
‘Aid? What aid could you be?’ spat Baldwin, derisively. ‘You can barely wield a sword without whining that it makes your wrists ache. Would you spout Latin at an attacker, or plead with them to be gentle? You could use a dagger, though, if only you could bear the sight of wounds, or mayhap this shows you are not so blood-shy as you have pretended. Was the blow that killed him yours?’
‘He could not do so. He loved his father, and his father loved him’ The lady de Lench rose in defence of her son.
‘Giving in to your pleadings for generosity and gifts was not love.’ Baldwin leant forward, his eyes narrowing. ‘You will not get away with it, stripling. You hear me?’
‘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 twinkle.
‘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.
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.
