‘He …’ She licked lips that had been split, and sniffed, for her nose was running. ‘He came as you say, but he left the morning after.’ Her diction was impeded, and her voice barely a whisper, but clear enough to be understood.
‘He left next morning. Was that late or early?’
‘Early.’
‘Do you know where he went?’
She nodded but said nothing.
‘He did this.’ It was not a question, and Walkelin looked grim. She just looked at him, and then shrugged, wincing a little.
‘What’s done is done.’ She sounded utterly defeated.
‘Does not make it right.’
‘Right? Does that exist? Not in my world, not now.’
‘I am sorry,’ Walkelin apologised, but even as he said the words he realised how foolish and pointless that was. ‘Did he, the lord Parler, seek out a man with a red hat? The lord Osbern de Lench?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded, and sniffed again, wiping her forefinger beneath her runny nose.
‘The lord Osbern is dead, but by whose hand is not yet known.’
‘If it was him as did it, he may return and …’
‘If it was him, mistress, he will not return, except bound, and if not, well, the lord Undersheriff will not permit him to harm you again.’
It was small comfort to the woman, he thought, for now both her providers were lost to her, and washing alone would not keep her in bread and the payment of her rent come quarter day. If her injuries healed but left her disfigured, there would be small hope of another man to keep her and she would exist from one encounter to the next. Walkelin thanked her and returned to the castle in a far less exultant mood than the new information should have led him to enjoy.
Serjeant Catchpoll was idly rubbing the remnants of a broken wheat ear between his fingers and watching his superior, who was leaning back against the outer wall of the hall, and now rubbed his hand across his furrowed brow.
The lord Bradecote had become quite good at the acting of being an undersheriff, playing up to what was expected of the role, just as Catchpoll had honed his ‘sheriff’s serjeant’ to perfection over the years. Yet the man had eyes that could give glimpses within, if you looked, and his weakness, if you could call it that, was his wife. He feared for her future and was impotently outraged at her past, the suffering that could not be undone. Well, that was foolish, in Catchpoll’s eyes, because he could not alter what had been, and what would be, would be. He might be better, of course, once she had safely presented him with the babe she carried. Catchpoll tried to recall if he himself had lived with dread when his wife had been carrying, and he thought not, but then, he had never lost a wife to childbed.
‘Well, we are still at the point where, in spite of our working out that everything fitted if the steward killed his lord, it looks very unlikely that he did it, and if he did not kill Osbern de Lench he did not kill Winflaed the Healer.’ Bradecote sighed. ‘The two deaths have to be linked.’
‘They do that, my lord, especially since there is that burying of the dagger, and it could be nothing else in that little grave, empty as it now is. And as for the steward I don’t see he did it and the lordling looks about as unlikely, for all that pointed to him is just possibility. That leaves us with the lord of Flavel and our new lord of Lench, unpleasant bastards both, but if only unpleasant bastards did murder our lives would be the much easier. So far we have nothing known about the first one, barring he did not tell us a full tale, which makes us suspicious, and no cause for the second.’
‘Raoul Parler will remain an unknown at least until we hear from Walkelin, so we look yet again at Baldwin de Lench. We see no reason, nothing that gave him cause now, rather than in general, so perhaps we should limit ourselves to whether it was possible – could he have done it from the facts we know. Firstly, he had been in Tredington, which lies by Shipston. Unless he came in haste, and nobody said his horse looked sweated up when he reached the field, he must have taken three or four hours, whether he came the northern way through Stratford or the southern through Evesham.’
‘My penny would be on Evesham, my lord, and him leaving the manor the day before. That would give him a night’s fumble with his woman there, and he would take what opportunity he could. I doubt he sought to leave early either. Now, it might be that he left her late to be upon the track to meet his father as he came from his daily stand upon the hill, which means he planned it cold, and the trouble there is he is a man who acts, not thinks first. Also, you would wonder how he got to the village, then the field, and had been there a while afore the near-her-time Gytha reached the harvesting.’
‘It was not a long time, and the woman might well have come slowly, in her state.’ Bradecote did not sound convinced by his own idea.
‘Both true enough, my lord, but it is not far from where the lord Osbern fell, and if the son did for him and jumped upon his horse again to rush and be seen, then the grey mare would have been trying to follow.’
‘He could have secured the reins to a bough?’
‘And risked the animal pulling away faster than he expected, or not at all, and some cry would be raised if the lord had not returned after a while, for there would be someone waiting to take his horse. It would have looked very strange indeed if he was found as if robbed, yet his horse was neatly tethered by the body. We have also that there had to be time to cast away the clothes, and, mark you, there is the burying of the dagger and hiding the hat and cloak, which would mean going through the village, or round it to be safe, and adding more time.’
‘Yes, though the dagger might have been buried the day after. We were not looking for it in particular, nor was Baldwin watched every hour of the day following. Had we taken up his loathed brother, Hamo, he would not have needed to hide it, and could simply claim to have discovered it sometime in the future, if he wished to wear it.’
‘Fair thought, my lord, but you still have to ask why he would leave the clothing in two places.’
‘Because Hamo had gone to the north when he went hawking? No, I am a fool. He could not have known that Hamo had gone hawking. If he had planned it all and wanted to remove the unwanted Hamo, his argument that Hamo paid cut-throats to do the deed did not need the lad to be out of the manor. That was just chance, a good one for him, and he was always keen to advance the idea of killers doing it for silver.’
‘But no thieving killer stuck that knife up under the lord Osbern’s ribs, and nor would they have been allowed so close.’
‘I know, Catchpoll. So if it has to be Baldwin or Raoul Parler that makes Baldwin the more likely, but … he is likely and unlikely in the same breath.’ Bradecote shook his head. ‘Everything he has done since has honoured his sire in memory, the acts of a devoted and grieving son, and I would swear he means them too.’ He shook his head. ‘You know what, I think I am getting some of your serjeanting sense, and that definitely tells me there is something we are not seeing, or not seeing the right way.’ The last word was said slowly, and a look of intense concentration furrowed the undersheriff’s brow. ‘Catchpoll—’
At which point Walkelin galloped into the bailey and pulled his horse up short. It was an impressive entrance, though his serjeant was not going to look impressed at all.
‘Not here to tell us there was nothing of interest then, young Walkelin,’ murmured Catchpoll, as Walkelin almost threw himself from the saddle. He was a little breathless, not that he had galloped all the way from Worcester, but that the Lench horse was not as eager as the animal from the castle stables and had needed a lot more urging to move at speed.
‘No, Serjeant, and that Raoul Parler is a nasty bastard, real nasty.’ Walkelin looked at Bradecote. ‘Even though he is a lord, my lord,’ he added, a little apologetically.
‘Rank does not come into it, and I happen to agree with you. Now, get your breath, and tell us what you found out.’ Bradecote sounded calm but was keen to hear what Walkelin had discovered. The serjeanting apprentice did as ordered b
ut spoke before he had all the breath he needed.
‘He went to Worcester sure enough …’ Walkelin took another gulp of air, ‘but he did not stay, and left the morn of the day the lord Osbern was struck down, my lord. What is more, he was in killing temper and was seeking him out most particular.’
Walkelin had the satisfaction of seeing both his superiors look taken aback.
‘Why was that?’ asked Catchpoll, simply.
‘Well, I went to find the Widow Brook, but she was not at home, and I spoke with a neighbour, the sort as looks and gossips. She told me that the widow had been visited by the lord who looked down his nose at folk, but also said as she, the neighbour that is, had told him he need not look so pleased with himself, since there was another lord who came to the widow’s door and stayed within. She described that lord as one shorter, fatter, with a red hat and a badge upon it, amber bossed.’ Walkelin delivered this nugget with some triumph.
Catchpoll gave a low whistle through his uneven teeth.
‘And then?’ Bradecote felt everything they had learnt so far had been in half-tales and had confused them.
‘I went down to the riverbank, where the widow was doing washing. Easy it was to pick her out. What he had done to her, the lord Parler …’ Walkelin shook his head. ‘Her face was a right mess, all huge bruises and deep black eyes, and I glimpsed blue marks at her throat, Serjeant, the sort you have told me about in the past, when a man shakes a woman and half strangles her. She moved as the man Edgar will move now, in pain. He half killed her, and that’s a fact, and her unable to defend herself.’
Bradecote’s face was grim, though Catchpoll just nodded.
‘So the lord Raoul was killing-mad and wanted the lord Osbern’s blood. Seems a good chance he got it,’ the serjeant remarked, ‘and then went on to celebrate in Evesham with beakers of ale and an armful of woman.’
‘Even if he did not, Catchpoll, Parler needs to know he is marked. If ever anything untoward happens to the Widow Brook, or we hear of a lordly man in connection with a Worcester woman’s death, I will be upon his threshold, and he will have to do much to prove his innocence.’ Bradecote was beyond shouting anger, and spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘Let us go to Flavel and hear what he has to say about his actions and his lies.’
Chapter Fourteen
It was an unsmiling trio that rode into the manor of Flavel, and a scene in marked contrast to their last visit, when it had been near deserted. It was a hive of activity, and a man who was directing other men beginning a rick of straw, turned at their arrival. He was short and stocky of build, but had authority. Bradecote guessed him to be the steward.
‘I am the lord Undersheriff of Worcestershire, come to speak with your lord. He is within his hall?’ Bradecote’s voice was cold.
‘Aye, my lord, he is.’ The steward sounded guarded. ‘I will take you to him.’
‘No need. Your duties are many at this season. Just see that our horses are tethered.’
The man looked almost relieved, and gave a nod that was both agreement and obeisance in one. He called to a youth to follow the lord undersheriff and his men into the bailey and see to their mounts. Bradecote trotted the grey into the enclosure and dismounted, Catchpoll and Walkelin right behind him. The lad ran to keep up.
Bradecote nodded to Catchpoll, and the serjeant opened the hall door, stepping inside and holding it open for his superior. It lacked a cross passage and Bradecote could see Raoul Parler, leaning back in the lord’s seat, his booted feet upon a bench, and a pitcher and beaker resting there also. He did not move as the sheriff’s men approached.
‘Forgive me if I do not offer you hospitality,’ muttered Parler, with just the merest hint of a slur to his speech. ‘This,’ he kicked the pitcher so that it fell upon the floor and cracked into three pieces, ‘is empty.’
Bradecote said nothing, but crossed the floor in a few long strides and kicked the bench from beneath Parler’s feet so that it landed with a heavy crash, and the man had to hold hard onto the arms of his chair to prevent himself sliding onto the floor in a heap. The noise brought an opening of the solar door, and the lady Parler stood in the doorway, hand to breast, and wide-eyed.
‘No need to fear, my lady. There is no threat to you or your children. Just shut the door.’ The undersheriff spoke with calm deliberation and did not take his gaze from Parler. She did shut it, but behind her, and leant back against it, breathing a little fast, and at that he did spare her a swift glance before returning his cold gaze to her husband.
‘So be it.’ He paused for a moment, and then gave a sharp command. ‘Stand up!’ It was so unexpected that Walkelin actually jumped.
‘You do not yell at me in mine own hall,’ growled Parler. ‘I am the lord of Flavel and—’
‘You have seisin of it, yes, but lord? You shame the title, and you shame the name of a man also. What sort of lord, what sort of man, beats a woman half to death?’ Bradecote regretted saying it before the man’s wife, but realistically, if the lady Parler did not know of her husband’s tendency to violence by now it would be as well she heard and was warned.
‘I do not share whores,’ Parler sneered. ‘Do you? What is mine is mine alone. I do not share, and I will not be betrayed.’ His lip curled. ‘You would cry shame upon me for a woman like her?’
‘Women like her exist because of men like you, Parler; lechers, bullies, and liars.’ He spat the insult, goading the man to stand, which was just what Bradecote wanted him to do, for it meant the undersheriff could simply lean a little forward and grab him by the throat so that the man choked and flailed ineffectually at him. ‘None so pleasant, being on the receiving end, is it? And be thankful there is not a wall so close I could bang your head into it as you did, no doubt, with hers.’
Catchpoll watched, his face seemingly impassive, but his eyes held a smile. The lord undersheriff was not a man who approved of heavy-handedness in the pursuit of justice, but just occasionally he stepped across that line himself. The serjeant did not think he was changing his view, which would have been better, but he would he hard-pushed to repeat his original instruction that violence was never to be used. In fairness also, this was more a show of control and power than harming the man, but the threat was there, and a believable one at that.
‘So,’ Bradecote let Parler struggle for another moment, then thrust him back down into the seat, ‘having lied to us once about where you were when Osbern de Lench was killed, you had better not try it a second time.’ His voice was measured again. ‘You left the woman in Worcester, beaten and bloodied, and departed in the early morning of the day de Lench died. You were not yet here when we came the next day. Where were you all that time?’
There was silence. Raoul Parler stared at the undersheriff with a mixture of insolence and wariness.
‘He was here.’ The lady spoke up, suddenly, and all three sheriff’s men stared at her.
‘He was not when we came, lady. Your servant said so and—’
‘Siward is blind. He does not know all, and if I had asked, he would have lied anyway. He is loyal. No, my lord was here, in the solar.’
‘But you fainted when I asked after him.’ Bradecote was certain that her unconsciousness had been real.
‘I … I knew about the woman in Worcester. My lord said she had … had tried to kill him as he slept and he had lashed out. When you came asking after him I thought … I thought he must have killed her and …’ The woman was desperately trying to make up reasons. ‘I did faint, but because I thought you would take him away, and I did not want you to find him.’
‘So he was in the solar, was he?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I see. And remained there until he came to us in Lench that morning?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘You are a loyal wife, my lady, and a weak liar. Your lord was seen and recognised in Evesham, the day of the killing.’
‘It is impossible.’
‘No, he was seen, and the perso
n who saw him had no cause to lie to us.’ Bradecote turned his attention back to Raoul Parler. ‘You did not come here at all. You left Worcester with spilt blood on your hands and the spilling of blood in your mind. You and Osbern de Lench loathed each other, and then you found out he was bedding your leman, whether by accident or gaining pleasure from knowing he usurped you. Do not lie to me again and say you did not seek him out.’
‘All right, so I did, but I did not kill him.’
‘And why would you not?’
‘Because I did not see him.’ Parler sounded both relieved and yet still annoyed at this, and it held the ring of truth because of it.
‘What do you mean?’ Bradecote regarded the man suspiciously.
‘Just what I say. I rode to Lench, or leastways near to it. I did not seek him out in his hall, for if he had his men there I could have been overpowered. I knew, as all knew, that he sat upon that little hill as though he were God Almighty, every noontide, so I kept on the Alcester road instead of cutting south on the Evesham road to the village and went up the hill from the north-east, thinking to confront him there.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. He did not come. I assumed I must have been too late, or for some reason not gone there that day. I waited, but in the end it was stupid to remain. So I went to Evesham.’
‘And did you or did you not come down the hill and join the Evesham road where the track joins it?’
There was a silence. Parler stared stonily at the undersheriff.
‘Answer the question, my lord.’ It was the first time Catchpoll had spoken, and he did so quietly but firmly.
‘I did.’
‘And did you see the corpse of Osbern de Lench?’
‘I did, and spat upon it.’ A slow smile grew on Raoul Parler’s face. ‘It was something worth celebrating in Evesham, I can tell you.’
‘And what exactly did you see?’
‘I saw him lying there, on his back, eyes shut as if sleeping, and had he been fully clothed I would have thought him but unconscious after a fall.’
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