Blood Runs Thicker

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘No interest of the Law if they are, but no. It was not that. She sent word with a carter on his way to Bidford that her landlord was pressing her to pay more at Michaelmas and threatening her with … dire unpleasantness.’

  ‘Would the landlord’s name be Mercet?’ asked Catchpoll.

  ‘Yes. Nasty bastard. I went to confront him. He mewled and made excuses, but I told him if he raised her rent then I would complain to William de Beauchamp and have all his taxes doubled.’

  ‘I would have loved to see that,’ murmured Catchpoll, with a sigh.

  ‘He backed off then, of course, and I told him also if anything happened to my woman I would cut off his pintle.’

  The serjeant actually beamed at Raoul Parler. He could sympathise with that desire to do Mercet violence, and often regretted the law held him back.

  Bradecote could also understand wishing violence upon Robert Mercet, but still disliked Parler’s dereliction of duty to his manor and family.

  ‘So you visited Mercet. That could be done in a day with ease. You were away for three full days. Keeping your whore safe, or keeping your lust assuaged? By the Rood, Parler, have you so little care to what is yours by right and duty, your wife and your land?’

  ‘You tell me my duty and preach like a priest.’ Parler’s lip curled in disdain. ‘I have an excellent steward, whom I trust, and as for my wife … she does her duty well enough.’ He shrugged. ‘Too well.’

  Bradecote opened his mouth to speak but decided against it. What could be said to a man who blamed his wife for producing children that he got upon her with such regularity that it was perfectly clear that it was literally wearing her to death? What was amazing was the devotion of that lady to her lord in such a case, so strong that she had fainted at the thought that harm had come to him. He was unworthy of such regard.

  ‘You were at odds with Osbern de Lench, as we have heard proof from his heir.’

  ‘Half the hundred was at odds with him, and the other half did not know him, so were unaware of their good fortune.’

  ‘Your lady said that your hatred of each other came to a head at Lincoln, at the time of the battle. Why was that?’

  ‘She would have been better to keep my affairs private.’ Parler did not look pleased.

  ‘Why were you such enemies?’ Bradecote would not let the question be ignored.

  ‘He wanted my eldest daughter for his whelp. He came to me, full of the “advantages” of the match. I saw none. Lench is just …’ Parler spread out his hands, ‘this, and I had already a far better marriage planned for the girl. Besides, I had doubts the church would sanction it. Some of the rules on blood are not obvious.’

  ‘Why?’ Bradecote was genuinely puzzled, and his brows drew together.

  ‘My first wife was his younger sister. I had had enough of the family. She proved sharp of tongue, unwilling and as good as barren. When she did eventually fulfil her duty, she died in childbed and took the babe, a son too, with her. I could almost say that was spite. I wasted four years with her.’

  The undersheriff stood very, very still, so tense that Catchpoll thought he might reverberate like a bowstring. Hugh Bradecote disliked Baldwin de Lench, but this man appalled him in his callousness. Yes, a wife was expected to produce an heir, but he had seen what the cost could be. He had come to the stage where the memories of Ela were no longer as bright as the blood as her life faded, though he conscientiously prayed for her soul. He had not loved her, but he had cared about her, his wife. This man blamed his first wife for not giving him living children, and his second for giving too many. There was a long silence before Catchpoll spoke, filling the emptiness.

  ‘I can see as how you might refuse the bond, my lord, but not how it would lead to such as we saw when you arrived. Nigh on a blood feud, that was, from the manner of the lord Baldwin.’

  ‘He is like his sire,’ sneered Parler. ‘He thinks roaring and stamping impress. You want to know why we were at each other’s throats? Well, Osbern discovered the union I had planned, and went and told the man Baldwin had been before him with my daughter. Sullied her name enough that it came to naught. I could have had an alliance with a lord who holds manors in six shires but for that. In the end I married her off to a lesser lord down below Oxford. It is fair enough, but not what I wanted. So I paid him back.’

  ‘How?’ Bradecote had power of speech again.

  ‘Well, his first wife died. Fell when riding, as I recall. I just made it clear, in front of many, that she died in an accident and he was with her, alone. He went white of cheek when he heard that.’ Parler smiled, but it turned to a grimace. ‘Then bad luck would have it that we were in the line alongside each other in the battle. I had to watch my back. As it was, he ought to have stood firm but stepped back when we clashed with the Empress Maud’s men, just enough to leave me open on the blind side. I tried to parry a blow but lost these.’ He held up his left hand, missing the fourth and fifth finger. ‘I heard Osbern laugh. He laughed, I tell you.’ Parler ground his teeth.

  ‘And did you have any reason for thinking the death of the wife was not an accident?’ Catchpoll made the question almost casual.

  ‘That? Why should I? It was the only way I could pay him back in words, and it worked better than I expected. He was not made as welcome by several important men.’

  ‘Did Baldwin de Lench fight also that day?’ Bradecote asked the question, which had not occurred to him before. Baldwin was certainly of man’s years and ought to have been at his father’s side.

  ‘No. He had broken a bone, as Osbern gave it out, a bone in the forearm. His sword arm was useless.’

  ‘And you and Osbern de Lench never came nigh unto each other after the battle?’

  ‘No. He turned, offered his sword to the Empress, when he thought the crown hers. Much good it did him. We did service once, afterwards, at the same time, but we neither spoke nor ate near each other. The lord Sheriff decided we would not be called upon the same duties. He sent a servant, Osbern did, with his threat that if ever I was found upon his land, I would not leave it living. I returned the compliment. It meant that we both had longer rides, he to Worcester and me to Evesham, but it matters not.’

  ‘Why did Osbern want the match with your daughter at all?’ Something did not sound quite right to Bradecote, hidden in the detail.

  ‘That is easy enough. That fat toad Pipard, as holds the half of Bishampton, the half, mind you, had married off his son too well. With his new relatives at his back he might have caused both of us trouble. Untrustworthy he is and no mistake.’

  The description of Pipard did not match the undersheriff’s first estimation of the man, but the reason was sound enough in dangerous times when petty rivalries hid beneath greater ones. Perhaps, just perhaps, Osbern would have thought it safer to be on better terms with Raoul Parler than find him even going to support Pipard and his powerful ally. It did make sense, and Bradecote was aware his bias against Parler’s character was not based upon any lawbreaking.

  ‘Very well, my lord Parler, you have given your account. Should there be any other reason to speak with you, I, or my serjeant, will come and have words.’ Saying that he might delegate to Serjeant Catchpoll was a nice insult, and he saw Parler’s eyes narrow for a moment. ‘You may go.’ Adding a dismissal doubled it. Raoul Parler glared at Bradecote, then turned away and walked out in silence.

  ‘Now I had not thought to see you find a man you disliked more than Baldwin de Lench on this trail, but so it is, my lord.’ Catchpoll rarely saw his superior more than tetchy, and lords were often that, as if it proved their lordliness.

  ‘And neither looks likely to be more than just a bastard. You saw the wife, Catchpoll, and you heard him.’

  ‘Aye, but it seems he cannot have taken a knife to Osbern de Lench.’

  ‘No, but … Walkelin, since you have enjoyed galloping about the shire today, you can ride again. I want you to go to Worcester and speak with the coppersmith’s widow he uses. Find ou
t exactly what happened and when. It might be possible to have ridden south and killed Osbern and then gone back on himself and to Worcester.’

  ‘But why, my lord?’

  ‘Because I say so,’ declared Bradecote, sharply, venting the bubble of wrath inside him.

  ‘No, no, my lord. I meant not that, but why would the lord Raoul suddenly think “I shall kill Osbern de Lench today” when he was called to Worcester.’

  Bradecote ran his long fingers through his hair. What Walkelin said made good sense, and he was thinking in anger. He sighed.

  ‘You are right, Walkelin. There is no good can come of sending you to Worcester. Like Walter Pipard, Parler is glad Osbern de Lench is dead, but did not kill him, for there was no reason at this time and old hatred was just that – old. So we have to look here, and here alone, and as the chance of it being a field-working villager is almost none at all, we are left with the most likely knife-wielder being the manor steward, and we have not yet spoken to Fulk, not properly.’

  ‘My lord, I think what the lord Raoul said may be true enough, for among the things Alnoth told me was that he, the lord of Flavel, keeps a widow in Worcester.’

  ‘Oh aye, and who would that be?’ enquired Catchpoll, with interest.

  ‘The widow of Will Brook, the coppersmith.’

  ‘Well now, I suppose that would fit. Will’s son by his first wife has no love of the second, who is but a handful of years his senior. Comely woman she is, and no doubt had hopes of another craftsman taking her to wife, but her luck was out, for the son cast her off before it was seemly to wed again. Without kinfolk it is not easy and I thought she must be taking in more than washing, but whoever it is, he is not from within the walls of Worcester.’

  ‘Which all means it is very unlikely that Raoul Parler had anything to do with the death of Osbern de Lench. You stay here, Walkelin, after all.’ Bradecote rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. ‘The best thing to do now is to speak with Fulk the Steward, and away from the lady.’

  ‘You think he would say anything to protect her, my lord?’ Walkelin asked. ‘But it was a man as left the—’

  ‘We have heard that Fulk was not only in the hall when the body was brought back but has been known to be there at other times, times when his lord was upon the hill.’

  ‘But … he wouldn’t dare … I mean …’ Walkelin was shocked, not so much by the thought of the sin, for he was learning to see the world through a serjeant’s eyes, but at the risk.

  ‘Oh aye, Osbern would have flayed him alive no doubt, if had known of it,’ Catchpoll folded his arms, ‘but sometimes folk take risks that go against sense. The lady is the sort of woman many men feel protective over. Mayhap it began like that, and him seeing her treated harsh like, well he might get ideas if she showed him kindness. From there it would be but human nature.’ He sniffed, as if he was not too admiring of the idea.

  Bradecote kept silent. To betray one’s lord was akin to a mortal sin before one even added the obvious sin of adultery. He could understand why even a lord less bellicose than Osbern de Lench would show no mercy to one of his men who betrayed him in such a way. Since they had already been given the hearsay that Osbern had killed his first wife for a perceived betrayal, it must mean there was no thought of that in Lench itself, for Fulk would not have risked not only his own neck but the lady’s also if the man had shown such violence before, would he?

  ‘If we do get Fulk to tell us the truth, it will come out slowly, if at all, and if the lady was involved, he may deny it to the end.’

  ‘We can only find out by asking him, my lord. I will fetch him from the hall.’ Catchpoll saw no need to dither.

  ‘Not here. I think admitting adultery, murder or both would be hard in the church, unless to a priest. We will go to his dwelling and await you there. With young Hamo absent it will be empty enough.’

  The trio left the church as Father Matthias came to say the Office. The priest gave a slight smile and an acknowledgement to the sheriff’s men.

  ‘Let us hope that all will be peaceful now,’ he said, with a strong overtone of hope over expectation in his voice. As if to prove he was to be sorely disappointed there came yelling from the hall. Ignoring the priest, the three men ran to see what was happening within.

  Chapter Ten

  Hamo de Lench was sprawled upon the floor of the hall, his mother leaning over him, both solicitous and protective at the same time. Baldwin was staring at him, breathing hard. Even as Bradecote entered the chamber, the youth scrambled to his feet again, shouting incoherently, pushing his mother away, and launched himself at his brother, who sidestepped and kicked him hard in the backside as he stumbled past him.

  ‘What is—?’ The undersheriff got no further, for Hamo, wild-eyed, whipped round, drawing his knife from its hanger at his belt. There was a madness in the eyes that was a battle-rage, a determination to spill blood and a recklessness about his own. ‘Put it down, messire.’ Bradecote spoke firmly but without heat. Hamo ignored him, his eyes upon his half-brother.

  ‘You had no right. Nobody touches it, nobody,’ Hamo panted.

  ‘Hardly relics, were they. Just useless scribbles,’ Baldwin goaded, fanning flames of anger that were already a conflagration.

  Serjeant Catchpoll did what was best in cases of fire; he threw water on it. There was a shallow dish set upon a trestle, with a damp cloth hanging over the rim. It had been used to bathe the brow of the injured Edgar. He picked it up and dashed the contents over Hamo de Lench. It did not calm him, but it did stop him in his tracks. Catchpoll then stepped smartly forward and, grabbing the spluttering lordling by the scruff of the neck, pulled him backwards and off balance. Baldwin, seeing his chance, advanced, but found his way blocked by Bradecote.

  ‘No.’ The single word of command was as curt as if to a hound. The undersheriff stared him down, and Baldwin reluctantly lowered fists and gaze. He was at least silent. Hamo was, by contrast, voluble in the extreme.

  ‘You had no right. It was my box, my treasure!’ he cried.

  ‘Treasure.’ Baldwin spat the word derisively. ‘I never heard of bits of old skin with marks upon them being treasure. They held no value.’

  ‘They are God’s words,’ the youth cried, piously. ‘God’s word is to be treasured.’

  Whilst not disagreeing with the theological argument, Bradecote was yet again surprised by Hamo de Lench’s very literal attitude.

  ‘What did you do, de Lench?’ He thought asking the older brother would at least get an answer that he understood.

  ‘Nothing worth all this. I found his box of so-called treasure. He has always been so secretive about it I wondered if he held anything precious after all. In many ways I was wrong, for it was full of scraps with writing upon it, but there was one thing of great value, at least to me.’ He opened his palm and in it, the pin drawing drops of blood where he gripped it so tightly, was a copper badge, wrought with indented crosses and with a large amber boss in the middle. ‘Ask the worm where he got my father’s badge. Ask him, my lord Undersheriff.’ He ground his teeth.

  Bradecote looked at the squirming young man in Catchpoll’s grasp, and his eyes rose for a moment to the serjeant’s. What he saw was a reflection of his own surprise.

  ‘It is a fair question, messire. How came you by your sire’s hat badge?’ The undersheriff at least sounded as though the revelation was not unexpected.

  ‘I did not. I have not seen it, not since last it was upon his hat.’

  ‘Which could have been the moment you took the life from him,’ remarked Bradecote, knowing the exactitude of Hamo’s speech.

  ‘I saw him last in the morning, when he was shouting at my mother. It was too loud and so I went hawking. I never saw his hat or badge again. It was not in my box.’

  ‘Yet that is where I found it. Did elves place it there?’ sneered Baldwin.

  ‘And where did you find the box, de Lench?’ Bradecote was still watching the youth.

  ‘Does it matter?’
/>
  ‘Answer me.’

  ‘It was with the priest. Oh, I knew he kept it there, long ago, but …’ Baldwin hunched a shoulder. ‘It seemed unimportant then. But you see, unlike you, my lord Undersheriff, I have been wondering about this badge. A good thing too that I did.’

  ‘Tell me, messire, did you think your box secret from everyone?’ Bradecote was not prepared to see the finding as proof of guilt in an instant.

  ‘Father Matthias has always known, since I left it with him.’

  ‘That is understood. Any other?’

  ‘Not unless Father Matthias told, and why would he? He knew it was my private thing.’ Hamo could not see why anyone would be other than straightforward.

  ‘Walkelin, go and fetch the priest.’ There was more command than usual in Bradecote’s voice but Walkelin guessed aright that showing it was important in this hall.

  ‘At once, my lord,’ he responded, as one who would jump to his lord’s command in an instant. Walkelin caught Catchpoll’s eye for a brief moment, and saw approval. He bowed and went straight to the door, leaving a chamber silent but for Hamo’s still-heavy breathing and made oppressive by the atmosphere of anger and loathing. Hamo stared at Baldwin, who stared back. The lady, her hands clasped together, and pale of cheek, watched them both, and looked unsure as to whether she would cast herself between them, or simply swoon. Bradecote’s authority lay over everything, maintaining the peace that was not peaceful at all.

  Walkelin returned with a slightly breathless Father Matthias in tow, the hem of his habit held up to reveal pale shins.

  ‘Here he is, my lord,’ declared Walkelin, seemingly eager to prove he had obeyed. A muscle twitched, very slightly, at the corner of Catchpoll’s mouth. Overdoing the obedient servant was young Walkelin, but his acting could not be faulted.

  In response, the undersheriff, who would normally have indicated at least a nod of thanks, ignored Walkelin and spoke to the priest.

  ‘Father, the box belonging to the messire Hamo. Did anyone know where it lay other than yourself?’