‘If you wants sympathy go elsewhere. I’m getting too old for sleeping on floors, and it takes me an age to get up off ’em.’ He sounded grumpy, and hunched his shoulders as they went out into a morning that had a freshness in the air after the storm which had lasted several hours into the night. The ground was damp, the earth darker, and within the bailey a scattering of straw from the cartloads coming into the barn had a randomness as though it had fallen from the skies as pale golden rods.
‘Now the harvest is in, they will bury the lord Osbern, which is good and proper, but makes it easier for them to put it behind them and forget things, sort of intentional. Life is for the living so …’ Catchpoll shrugged expressively, and Bradecote wished that today he could do the same without grimacing in pain.
‘But Baldwin will not forget. In fact, the more he thinks on it, the more he will need to find someone to wreak his revenge upon. I doubt yesterday assuaged that,’
‘Which leads me to the beggar, my lord.’ Catchpoll pulled a thoughtful face. ‘It would be good to find him, and I wishes Walkelin good hunting in Evesham. A beggar would not take a hat and leave other good clothing, since the hat is least useful in summer, leastways the sort of hat a lord might wear. So we has to think that he is wearing the rest or the hat was all that he found. If so, then why was it on its own? Was it tossed into a bush, and where are the other things?’
‘Very true. Unless it was the thing that was distinctive, and they, one or several, decided it was too great a danger to keep. What happened thereafter sort of proves that as true.’
‘Now that is a good thought, my lord. Should have thought of that myself.’
Walkelin emerged in the wake of Fulk the Steward, yawned, and came to his superiors.
‘The lordling was less trouble now the smell of chickens is not as strong, and he is afraid of thunder, but nothing else to report, my lord. I am ready to ride to Evesham.’ He looked quite eager.
‘The excitement of riding a horse that won’t wear you out kicking it, young Walkelin?’ Catchpoll’s mouth lengthened in a smile.
‘Yes, Serjeant. I don’t think the animal I usually get is a horse at all, just a cow in disguise.’
‘Well, remember you are about the lord Sheriff’s business, not riding for pleasure, and bring us good news if you wants a warm welcome back. Off you go.’
‘Yes, Serjeant.’ Walkelin could not help grinning as he disappeared into the stable.
‘The simple pleasures of youth, eh, Catchpoll?’ Bradecote gave a wry smile, and his eyebrows rose, creasing his forehead.
‘One of ’em, my lord. In his case the other is that wench Eluned, who is assuredly now a maid by her work but otherwise a maid no more. The castle knows all about it, but I wonders if his mother does. I am not sure whether she’ll tan his arse with her broom or welcome the girl to her bosom as a daughter.’ The smile in his eyes faded, and he said, more solemnly, ‘Do we go and look at the body one last time, my lord? If there is none else by.’
‘Will it profit us anything?’ Bradecote wondered how it had fared over two days, even in the cool of the church, for the weather had been so close before the storm broke.
‘Couldn’t say, but we cannot be about asking questions of the villagers while they are rising, or as they files into the church and pays their respects, however little they mean it.’
‘Fair enough.’
The pair went to the church. Father Matthias was not present, and there was a stillness in the very air itself, as though not one mote of dust had moved since sunset. The priest had brought in bunches of lavender and wild garlic, clearly as a precaution. Mortality was not a good smell, and one best avoided, since it lingered almost as a foul taste in the mouth. They genuflected before the altar and then turned to unwrap part of the shroud from the now-coffined corpse of Osbern de Lench. It made things more difficult, but Catchpoll seemed to be able to reveal the face and upper torso without making it obvious that the body had been disturbed. Bradecote thought, not for the first time, that the dead soon looked as though they had never drawn breath at all. Catchpoll touched the fatal knife wound, pale lips of parted flesh where no lips should be.
‘The death wound is simple enough, but one meant to kill, not injure so that the man might be robbed and left to die. The killer wanted the life from him, and got it. We must hold that in mind, my lord. They truly wanted him dead, which means a strong reason to kill him. Then they struck twice to make it seem less planned, but without a killing madness, no vengeful strike.’ He sighed. ‘Reminds us that talk of robbers is just talk, or a trick to keep us from the real reason for the death.’
‘Yes, the theft of the clothing was indeed a false trail laid for us, but does it make the question of the hat more interesting?’ Bradecote rubbed his hand about his chin. ‘Of course it might just be the colour was thought to draw the eye too much.’
‘We cannot be certain of whether it was thrown away on its own until Walkelin returns, my lord, and only then if he comes with a smile upon his face.’ Catchpoll rearranged the cloth with such care that even the priest would not have seen that they had been there, and then looked directly at Bradecote. ‘So after the burial we speaks to the villagers. Do you come the high and mighty and let me act the willing vessel into which they pours their rememberings?’
‘Well, that way the easily overawed will speak with me, and the others you catch when they are less wary. I want to come into church when all are assembled, and we watch from the rear. I doubt Father Matthias would welcome us stood like acolytes at his shoulders, and though we cannot see faces for the service, we shall see them as they depart.’
‘Fair enough, my lord. Where would you have us go till then?’
‘Back to where the body was found, I think, though it will gain us nothing but thinking time.’ Bradecote sighed. ‘I hope we glean something from a villager.’
‘Well, I will leave Winflaed the Healer to you, my lord. You have a way with older women. The way she looked at you last night you would think she was about to get more ’n a smile off you.’ Catchpoll chortled at his superior’s horrified expression. ‘No?’
‘No.’
With the harvest in, there was a sense of relief in Lench that even the presence of their lord’s corpse in the church could not diminish. In the end, who had power over them was of less interest to the villagers than knowing they would not starve next summer. They would pray dutifully for the man’s soul, but none would have their heart in it. The lord Baldwin, wanting things to be done properly, but with an eye to keeping the villagers at work, wanted the funeral rite administered without them all standing dusty and coughing from threshing in the barn, so the service and burial were early. As undersheriff and serjeant came back onto the Evesham track the church bell began to toll, slowly, though it was a small bell and its note was bright. They arrived in time to follow Fulk the Steward and be before the family. Baldwin de Lench looked solemn, almost haunted, and walked first. Behind him by several paces came the widow and her son. The lady was veiled, and Bradecote thought it must be concealing not grief but a mixture of relief and uncertainty. Hamo de Lench looked as unconcerned as he would simply attending Mass.
The sheriff’s men stood at the back, observing rather than taking part beyond the required responses. Speaking with the villagers was for afterwards, but watching them, even without seeing their faces, gave an overview. There was quite a lot of shuffling of feet, and women looking sidelong at other women. Father Matthias made much of the lord Osbern’s piety and ignored the less appealing aspects of his character, as funeral orations were wont to do. He did mention, briefly, that whilst man was mortal and death a part of the cycle of life, this death had been the result of an act of evil, and God would punish the offenders whether they faced earthly justice or not.
‘So is he hinting we will fail, or saying it does not matter if we do?’ whispered Catchpoll, out of the side of his mouth.
‘Could be either, or both.’
‘We
ll, my prayers are we succeed, my lord.’
‘Amen.’
Walkelin was enjoying his ride back to Lench, and not only because for once he felt he was doing less work than the horse beneath him. Serjeant Catchpoll had said that if he wanted to be greeted with favour he should return with good news, and he therefore hoped to be met with commendations.
He had gone first to Abbot Reginald, thinking it polite to seek permission for his questions, though as he opened his mouth he realised that should he be denied he would find himself in a difficult position. Returning to Lench to tell the lord Bradecote and, far worse, Serjeant Catchpoll, that ‘the lord Abbot would not see me’ would earn him a clip about the ear and days of disfavour. However, the abbot had been amicable when the sheriff’s men had been in Evesham in the spring and was happy enough now for his obedientaries to assist the law, though he shook his head over the need of it.
‘The lord Osbern was a man who found piety in the middle of his life, though I could not say it tempered his nature. A man of impulse, he was, and alas, of anger within his heart, though he was generous enough to us and spared no cost in the renewal of his parish church.’ Abbot Reginald sighed. ‘I am inclined to think both were his attempts to make up for that character, which he knew fell short of what God would wish. His repentance was real, but he continued upon a path where it was much needed. “A soft answer turneth away wrath” was not a message that he understood, but soft answers are less used than hard swords in the realm these days. Ask your questions, my son, and may the answers aid justice.’
Walkelin had found the Guest Master in the Almoner’s little room, for the giving of shelter and alms were often intertwined. Both expressed shock at the news of the violent death of the lord of Lench. The Almoner went quite pale as he crossed himself.
‘Such an end to a life. Thanks be to Heaven he saw his church finished. I will pray for his eternal soul.’
‘As will we all,’ added Brother Jerome, the Guest Master, piously. ‘Now, you came not to bring just the sad news I take it?’
‘No, Brother, I have questions also, about those who took shelter here last night, of your charity.’
‘Then I shall leave you and be about my duties,’ murmured the Almoner, and left, brows knit together.
‘Brother Theodosius is a soul who feels the pain of others most acutely,’ explained Brother Jerome, when he and Walkelin were alone. ‘He even rescued an injured crow from boys who were stoning it, some years back, and cared for it until it recovered, so well that it would linger about the enclave and if he came outside would land upon his shoulder. Some objected, saying that since we have no possessions a pet should not be allowed, but Father Abbot decreed that the bird was not being kept, and that if alms of food were given to one of God’s creatures, there was no harm in it. The novices still call him Brother Corvus behind his back.’ The Benedictine smiled, but had to explain the Latin.
‘Ah, I understand. But now, Brother, what of your guests?’
The Benedictine had reported that there had been three guests the previous night from whom he had asked nothing but attendance at the Mass in the morning, and one had come, he knew, from Stow-on-the-Wold to the south-east. Of the other two one was known by name, as he passed through quite often. He was Alnoth the Handless, and his name told all. Some men lost hands for crimes committed, but he had been born with one forearm tapering to nothing and the other bearing but two misshapen fingers. The Guest Master said he was a ‘gift from God’ because there were some midwives who would have ensured he never drew breath, mortal sin though it would be. Walkelin had not thought this man sounded likely as the one he sought, until the Guest Master added that he had been in a good humour, and even offered a halfpenny for his bed and board, having come into silver, and being blessed with new garments and good boots, though he said it would take more wool gatherings in them to make them fit without rubbing raw.
‘You know, he had a leather tunic, open and sleeveless, and made a jest of it, saying he who was somewhat lacking in arm was better off than a poor tunic that lacked any sleeve at all, and would care for it. Mind you, I said no to his offer of coin, for his wealth was but a penny ha’penny, and that will not last him long if he wants to eat on his travels. He is a godly soul, and I think the Almighty listens to his prayers.’
‘Is he here still, Brother?’ Walkelin had tried not to sound too eager.
‘No, but he had hopes of earning a little by guarding baskets of produce at the market today and will no doubt return this evening. He often stays with us for a day or so if there is the market.’ The good brother smiled at Walkelin’s consternation. ‘Yes, I can see you wonder how a handless man can guard anything, but he is known, and none would steal from the goods he protects. It happened once, a few years back, and he called down the Curse of Heaven upon the culprit, who fell as he ran and broke his arm. No, none would take from the baskets under his eye.’
‘So I shall find him in Evesham still.’
‘Assuredly, but surely the Law does not seek Alnoth for a wicked killing?’
‘No, merely seeks to know what his eyes may have noted on his way here. Thank you, Brother. Er, I came quick this morning and have not so much as taken a beaker of beer. Might your kitchens be generous to one in the service of justice?’ Walkelin had smiled, looking virtuous but hungry. The Guest Master sent him to Brother Cellarer with his blessing. It had been a contented Walkelin who set off among the buyers and sellers in Evesham that morning.
Identifying Alnoth the Handless was not a problem, so Walkelin did not have to advertise his interest in the man by asking after him. He was beside a stall of fruit, bowls displaying the first picked blackberries from the hedgerows, and jewel-like currants in blood red and pearly white. The stallholder was a girl of about twelve, who clearly had little faith in her ability to prevent the filching of her laboriously gathered produce. She actually begged Alnoth not to desert her when Walkelin began to speak with him.
‘I am not here to take him from you, maid,’ Walkelin had assured her, and had given the girl a small smile.
‘Then what is it you seek of me, friend?’ enquired Alnoth, sounding curious but not wary.
‘I am Walkelin, Sheriff’s Man, and I need to know about the hat you sold to a man of Flavel yesterday, and how you came by it and the boots upon your feet.’
‘By no thievery or wickedness, I swear oath.’
‘No oath is needed, for the man who owned them before, left this world the day before yesterday, right by Lench, which is not two days’ walk from here.’
‘But it is two days since I came upon the things, Master Walkelin.’
Walkelin had been momentarily taken aback, for nobody had ever addressed him so respectfully. Had the term been used it had been laced with irony and accompanied by a sneer.
‘Er, it is?’
‘It is.’ The man clearly had no thought to dissimulate. ‘I was on my way from Worcester. I takes it at an easy pace, though my legs are as good as any man’s, and had spent the night at Aston, on a way as gives me fair lodging, not the swiftest, for I knows when the markets are held and need only to be in the towns for them. The God Houses are always generous and kind, but townsfolk can be harsher than their country brethren, and I like the walking. The lord of Aston is none so particular welcoming, but his man as is steward has always seen there is room in a dry stable for me and a meal in the kitchen. In exchange I bring the news of the shire as I hears it. Amazin’ how many thinks a man without hands is also without ears or wits.’ Alnoth chuckled. ‘I gave the manor the news when the lord King was freed from chains, afore it came to the lord himself, and knows the gossip of the markets, where there have been thieving bands upon the roads, even the sins of the lords, though none would let that reach their master’s ear. The lord of Flavel, now, he has a woman in Worcester, fine skin she has and a fair figure. Not a patch on the poor Mistress Ricolde, God have mercy on her soul,’ Alnoth crossed himself, ‘but she was of as beautiful of hear
t as body, and generous. Never failed to give me a ha’penny if she passed me. The lord Raoul’s woman has him in her bed out of need, for her husband died and her stepson took the trade and cast her out.’ He sighed. ‘’Tis an unfair world.’
Whilst interested in Alnoth’s rambling discourse, Walkelin needed him to return to the matter of the clothing, but he first asked one question.
‘What is the name of the fine-skinned woman?’
‘Her name be Leofeva, widow of Will Brook, the coppersmith. Now—’
‘I thank you, but we must speak of the hat and the clothes you found.’
‘Ah yes. Well, as I said, I was on my way from Aston, and was a bit short of Lench. Came a time I needed to step off the way, you might say, my innards being something urgent.’
For a moment Walkelin had been completely distracted by how a man with but two fingers like talons might drop his breeches, and his face made Alnoth laugh. He was a surprisingly happy fellow.
‘O’ course, you being a man as questions things would wonder. I has a piece of wood with a hole bored through it, and the cord is tight through that and long enough so as I can hold the end with my teeth and move the wood with my fingers. Ways and means, master, ways and means is how such as I get by. It takes a little longer, but I found an old tree stump and—’
‘You found the hat there.’
‘No, no, you gallop when you should walk. I was there, a-doin’ what was natural, and I heard a voice, a man’s voice, and twigs breaking. Well, I supposed it to be a man with mine own intent, and kept quiet, or mayhap it was a man with a maid, but there came no woman’s words. The voice muttered for a moment, and then it was quiet, and I waited for the sound of him leaving and the branches telling me so, but there was nothing. When I came from my tree stump behind the bushes I was curious, and went towards where the sound had been, and there they were, a hat of fine, dark red, felted wool and a short cloak, well used and the bottom edge given a new binding, but sound. It was not so thick as to keep out rain and winter, but another layer is always of use to me. Since they had been cast into the wood I took them, and no thieving was it, for I do not steal, God’s oath.’ Alnoth repeated his avowal.
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