Blood Runs Thicker

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Hmmm, might work, ’cepting I would think he would announce the news to his father and suggest that it would be better to have a wife who could definitely bear a child than one who was unknown, and hope he agreed.’

  ‘Wait.’ Bradecote held up a hand. ‘Take that further. If she is with child, and he is not happy with her as his leman, he could wed her in Evesham. His sire would not be able to prevent it, and as Baldwin said, the alternative, even if Osbern wanted to disinherit him, was Hamo. We have seen Hamo de Lench. No man who cared for his land as passionately as Osbern would seek to have him hold Lench. So Baldwin would be taking a reasonable chance.’

  ‘But then why did the lord Osbern die, my lord?’ Walkelin sounded uncertain.

  ‘Because we have seen what Baldwin is like when the anger takes him, and Hamo also. So however much sense says he would accept, grudgingly, this woman in his hall, he lets temper rule him, and in the argument, son kills father.’ Bradecote sounded relieved as much as pleased.

  ‘Far be it from me to say you are wrong, my lord,’ declared Catchpoll, lying through his uneven teeth, ‘but what the corpse told us from looking at it don’t agree with that. There were no marks that said there had been blows other than the knife wounds.’

  ‘I grant you that had they met in the hall, that would be a problem, Catchpoll, but they met on horseback, and so it grew from shouting to a stab wound in one, not flinging blows at one another.’

  ‘And all that shouting, my lord, it did not upset the horses one little bit? The horses that stood one by the other, facing up the hill and down, did just that; they stood. If there had been an argument they would have sidled and disturbed the dust and earth more, but their feet was planted firm. Like so much in this, what sounds as though it must be so, ends up as dust.’

  Bradecote swore. Reluctantly, he thought the serjeant was right.

  ‘Yet still it surely has to be Baldwin, and there must be a cause.’ He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he brightened. ‘Tredington. The answer has to lie there. What it could be I cannot say, nor even guess, but he came back from there and straight away killed. Walkelin, at first light you … no, this time you go, Catchpoll. I would ride with you, but I get the feeling that keeping Baldwin under control will take a lot of shrieval authority, and besides, you have the greatest experience of drawing forth information. I am trusting to that. Return as soon as you can, and then, at last, we will be able to confront Baldwin de Lench with his guilt, and enough to put before sheriff and justices both.’ He smiled. ‘You go and have the cook bring the meal, Walkelin, and we will eat and rest, ready for the morrow, when this all ends.’

  ‘Pray God you are right, my lord,’ murmured Catchpoll, thinking of riding to Tredington and back in a day.

  ‘I am. I have to be.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Serjeant Catchpoll woke in the dark of the hall, and opened one eye. Thin slivers of pale light showed between the closed shutters on the narrow windows. It was the dawning hour, though he doubted the sun was over the horizon as yet. He ran his tongue round his teeth, stretched, groaned and sat up. He had actually stood up before Hugh Bradecote surfaced, though he was not trying to be quiet.

  ‘Catchpoll?’ The voice was sleep-laden.

  ‘Nearly dawn, my lord. If I am away as soon as it is light, I can be there afore the sun is too high.’

  ‘Yes, and if fortunate you can be back in time for us to end everything today. If I never enter Lench again I will be a happy man.’ Bradecote threw back his blanket and got up. ‘I will come with you to the stable.’ He rubbed his stubbled jaw and yawned. ‘I would rather be with you, but I think keeping Baldwin de Lench on a short leash would be beyond Walkelin, unless he knocked him cold. He simply would not obey the instructions of one he considers inferior. I am a little surprised he obeys me, not being his overlord in person.’

  ‘I would say as you have made a good act of being a man who does not expect to be ignored, my lord,’ conceded Catchpoll.

  ‘Aided by you and Walkelin all the while. You think I have not noticed how obedient you are when he is present?’

  ‘Does no harm, my lord.’ Catchpoll smiled, slowly.

  ‘No, and I am well aware of the truth beneath, you insubordinate old bastard.’

  Catchpoll chuckled, and the smile lengthened to a grin.

  ‘I tries, my lord, I tries.’

  With which the pair of them left the hall into the cool dawn, which had the faintest of chills to remind them that September was fast approaching.

  The stable was warmer, and Bradecote’s big grey greeted his master with a soft, low whicker of recognition and pricked ears.

  ‘No, not you, my friend,’ whispered Bradecote, rubbing his soft muzzle, and passing on to bridle Catchpoll’s mount as the serjeant saddled it.

  ‘I’ve not been out of the shire far eastward very often,’ remarked Catchpoll. ‘I can find my way across from Stratford though, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘I know Shipston lies on the road that runs south-west from Warwick, so keep heading south-east until you hit that road and then follow it southwards.’

  ‘I’m too old to go galloping about like young Walkelin,’ the serjeant sighed.

  ‘But young Walkelin has not the skills to be sure of finding out what we need, not this time.’

  ‘No, but he is learning well, my lord, I will say that for him.’

  ‘He is, and a good choice he was, red hair notwithstanding.’

  ‘Aye, ’tis a pity about that, but at least he has the brains beneath it.’

  Catchpoll led his horse out into the yard and heaved himself up into the saddle. It was then they noticed Edmund, husband of Gytha, sat slumped against the wall of their cott. He was always easy to recognise, being, like Walkelin, red-haired, though his was more chestnut than flame. He scrambled to his feet as he saw the undersheriff, but his obeisance was perfunctory.

  ‘How goes it within?’ enquired Bradecote, cautiously, lest there be bad news.

  ‘Slow. They’s sent me out for bein’ no use to ’em, and I think I would’ve slept better had I stayed out all night and risked the dew wetness.’ The man looked haggard and Bradecote wondered how much worse his wife must look. ‘But it must be close now, surely, and horrible to hear.’ As if to prove this, a groaning, anguished cry came from within. ‘Like a soul in torment it is.’

  ‘Ah well, women are stronger than you think,’ offered Catchpoll, and then looked down at Bradecote. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, my lord. Just hope I doesn’t get lost and ends up in Warwick.’

  ‘You’ll find your way. Off with you.’ Bradecote slapped the horse on the rump, and it trotted a few paces and was then urged into an easy loping canter. Another deep, howling groan came from inside the cott and Edmund covered his ears. He therefore missed the sound of a higher pitched voice, urging, commanding. Bradecote did not catch the words but knew it was the voice of the girl Hild, and it was not nervous or supplicating. In this, her own form of trial, it sounded as though she was winning. Bradecote gave up a silent prayer for her victory.

  The road that led from Worcester to Stratford was good king’s highway, not some half-overgrown track. From Alcester onwards there were still signs of the road the Romans had laid, the straightness and even some good cobbles, though now there were many parts where cart, horseman and even the fluctuations of British weather had worn it down, and earth had covered it, with weed and grasses giving it disguise. At such an early hour there was little sign of humanity upon it and Catchpoll saw more deer and fox and weasel than man until the last mile or so into Stratford. Once he had forded the Avon he asked a maid with a chicken under her arm if he was heading still upon the right road to Shipston, and followed her pointing finger with a word of thanks. He found it as straight as before and made good time, halting only to confirm he was upon the road from Warwick when he came to a junction. The carter he spoke with even gave him the good news that Tredington lay direct upon the road and before S
hipston itself. Nevertheless, he reckoned he had been riding for three or four hours, when he finally dismounted, and his stiff legs made a good case for it feeling more.

  The manor of Tredington was clearly not the caput of any honour. The hall was simple as had been at Bishampton, a longish building in stone to the height of a man’s thigh but no more, and above that a timber structure with infill of daub and wattle and a thatched roof. Catchpoll announced himself as the serjeant to the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire, seeking the steward. He was come not to trespass upon the jurisdiction of the lord Sheriff of Warwickshire, but to seek information that would help the discovery of the killer of their lord, Osbern of Lench. If his first words had meant little, this stopped all who heard it. They stared at him.

  ‘He’s dead?’ a young man asked, and it sounded as if he wanted to hear an affirmative.

  ‘And buried yesterday. The steward now, I—’

  ‘I am the steward.’

  Catchpoll turned, and beheld a thin, care-worn-looking man, with stooping shoulders and rheumy eyes.

  ‘Then I would ask my questions first of you, steward, and privily.’

  ‘Will, take the serjeant’s horse.’ The steward addressed the young man who had spoken.

  ‘But should I not—?’

  ‘You can join us when you have seen to its care.’ The youth scowled, but nodded, and came to take the horse from Catchpoll, and the steward resumed with the serjeant. ‘We can speak within the lord’s hall.’

  He led the way into the hall, where the rushes had been swept away and left the hard earth bare. It looked a lifeless place, though wall and roof were both in good condition. It was simply wood and daub and stone. At one end was a table and a lord’s seat, and to one side two long benches against the length of wall. The steward invited Catchpoll to sit.

  ‘I am Guthlac, steward of Tredington. How can I help in anything to do with the death of the lord Osbern?’ The man was not challenging, but curious. ‘He has not been here since, let me see, a week after Easter that would be.’

  ‘Did he bring his lady?’

  ‘No. Haven’t seen her in nigh on three years. He came as usual with the messire Baldwin, though I must gets used to calling him lord now.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘The lord Osbern was not an easy man to please, and the son—’

  ‘Aye, we have met the son.’ Catchpoll did not need to say more. ‘It was the son who has been here though, in this last week.’

  ‘He came to see the harvest was brought in but I had it in hand before he arrived. Cuthwin, who is the weather-feeler, he swore the weather would break within a week, as it did, and so I had everyone out early. Our neighbours might scoff and say every extra day improves the grain, but I would rather it was a little less plump but not ruined by the wet. We was all gathered in two days before the storm broke, and there’s no smile on the faces of those who mocked but have wheat all flattened and wet to rotting.’ Guthlac gave a small, grim smile. ‘Messire Baldwin berated me for starting too early, but better safe than sorry. I only wish my son Will was as cautious as I am, but it will come with years, no doubt.’

  ‘So he is not as like unto his father as the messire to the lord Baldwin then,’ observed Catchpoll, with a wry smile, indicative of age looking upon youth and finding it rash.

  ‘No, not like me.’ There was something, one note in that voice, that made Catchpoll wonder.

  ‘Takes after his mother then.’ The tone was cheerful, but the serjeant’s eyes missed nothing.

  ‘Aye, that would be it.’ Guthlac did not seem the least cheered, nor believing, but resigned. It was the same look Catchpoll had seen on other faces before, faces like Edmund’s in Lench.

  ‘And think on that, friend, for a mother who sees a son in her image is proud as a cock at dawn, and a happier woman for it. We all likes happy wives; they chide the less.’ Catchpoll thus set himself beside Guthlac in the unity of husbands.

  ‘Mine will neither chide nor comfort for long.’ Guthlac closed his eyes for a moment, then raised them. ‘Not a mite of fat on ’er, and can scarce take a breath. She says as she feels she is drowning to death, poor soul.’

  ‘Sorry I am then to make light,’ Catchpoll looked serious once more, ‘and I come at a bad time, but I has questions as needs answers, Master Steward, and only here can I find them.’

  ‘Then ask, Serjeant.’

  ‘The messire Baldwin came to the manor a bit over a week ago, he says. Was he here all the time?’ It was a thought that had been growing in Catchpoll’s mind as he rode.

  ‘No, that he was not. He came, and in a foul mood, but that was common. If he came alone, and that was most of the time, he came scowling and finding fault. The lord Osbern, God rest him,’ and Guthlac crossed himself, but it was perfunctory and a show only, ‘would rant and rave at him, and he do the same back, and then father would send son here to calm down. We was the ones who suffered his lashing tongue, and not just tongue neither.’

  ‘That also we have seen in Lench.’ Catchpoll nodded.

  ‘He has the Devil in him, that one. The Devil was in his mother, if ever she got stormy, which was often, but then she had a sort of life-fire about her when happy that was so bright, like sun at noon, that her temper was forgiven. I always thought as she died young because she lived all her life in few years.’ Guthlac gave a sigh.

  Catchpoll noted the adoration, the same that they had heard from Walter Pipard. The lady had cast a spell, on men at least.

  ‘So the messire came, grumbled and did what?’

  ‘He sat upon his horse and watched the harvesting for a day, and then grumbled that sitting in the saddle so long made his arse ache.’ The steward gave a little snort. ‘Ask us all if we would exchange that for our aching backs and blistered palms, eh?’

  ‘You should not speak like that about the lord Baldwin.’ The young man, the son Will, stood in the doorway, giving his new lord his title straight away.

  ‘It is true, nonetheless, and to the sheriff’s man one speaks true, son.’

  ‘He will be a good lord,’ declared Will, firmly.

  ‘We hopes and prays so, but he does before he thinks and you need to be the voice that urges waiting.’

  ‘Old men wait, and all they find is cold earth.’ Will was clearly in the same mould as his new master.

  ‘But the messire did not wait about here in Tredington after seeing the harvest was being brought in.’

  ‘Not once he had complained and complained at me cutting early, no.’ Guthlac sounded not just downtrodden but actually a little resentful, since he clearly thought his actions had been right.

  ‘Did he go out riding in the day, or mayhap brought a hawk?’ Catchpoll was pretty sure that the answer would be negative but would bring forth the one he expected.

  ‘No, no. He left, and returned three days after, grim of face, which was unusual when he went off.’

  ‘So he did this when he came to the manor; went off for a few days.’

  ‘Since Candlemas I would say. Been here four times on his own, and never stayed more ’n two days. In truth I had not expected him back this time but he said he wanted to know the number of sheaves to report to his sire.’

  ‘Do you know where he went?’

  ‘No, serjeant, not know, but from the slightly better mood when he did return, my guess would be a woman.’

  ‘And what do you say, Will? Young men like to boast to any who will attend.’ Catchpoll looked at the young man, who still had some growing yet to do, and must be about seventeen or eighteen. It was an age when women figured a lot in the mind. Will blushed a little, so he was not as experienced as he might wish to be thought.

  ‘He … he has a love in Evesham.’

  ‘A love, boy?’ Guthlac snorted. ‘You mean he keeps a whore for his pleasure.’

  ‘No, Father. He said it. He said she was his love and one day I would make my obeisance to her as his lady.’

  Catchpoll kept his face expressionless. No wonder Baldwin
liked the idea of the son rather than the father as steward. Here was a young man who would not just obey but be the faithful hound to the master. Baldwin would confuse that with respect.

  ‘But you say this time he returned unhappy?’ Catchpoll pressed on.

  ‘A mixture of angry and thoughtful. Ha, never did I think to use that word for him. He got very drunk the night he came back, slept long and was sick as a dog all next morn. When that passed he was … unpleasant.’ Guthlac pulled a face.

  ‘In what way, specially?’

  ‘Said as I was too old and when he was lord he would hand all to Will, here. Didn’t seem that urgent, o’ course, but … I took up stewardship when my father died, as he had his. I never did aught but right by this manor and …’ Guthlac shook his head, ‘I was fair upset, I grant you.’

  ‘But no need to get Mother off her sickbed.’ Will scowled at his father.

  ‘Nor did I. It was her as was determined, and short o’ tying her down I was not goin’ to stop the woman.’

  ‘She went to speak with the messire? What did she say?’

  ‘That I know not, for she said as it was her and her alone would say what was to be said, for she would not be about long enough for him to make life hard, and how much harder could it be? All I know is he went off next day early, and silent.’ The steward covered his face with his hands and spoke between his fingers in a whisper. ‘My poor wife. She has been a good one, and a loyal one.’

  ‘Master Steward, you will not like it, but I have to speak with your wife, however ailing, if she is still in senses.’

  ‘She is too weak, and—’

  ‘I am sorry, but it must be. Who killed the lord Osbern must be known, and whoever it was killed again: the village healing woman. There’s deaths, and there is the Law.’ Catchpoll rose, and the steward did also, as if to stop him, and then sat back down again.

  ‘The priest is with her. He is there much of the day, in case …’

  Catchpoll nodded and walked out.

  Catchpoll had seen plenty of deaths, and plenty of dead. In the steward’s home there was no doubt that the woman was dying and not far from the end. The priest was knelt at her side, holding her hand, speaking softly of the joys of Heaven to come for those that passed into its glories. The breathing was laboured but still regular, though her eyes were closed. The priest looked up, his eyes questioning.