Blood Runs Thicker

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Father, I am Serjeant Catchpoll, the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire’s man, and it is very important that I speak with Mistress Steward, if she can understand me. I would not do this without great cause.’

  ‘Speak, but if she has strength to answer I do not know.’

  ‘I understand, Father. I would have it just her and me, for all that your lips will not breathe of what is said.’

  Catchpoll knelt at the other side of the pallid figure and squeezed her hand with his rough one. The priest got up from his knees and went out into the light, and life, and breathed it deeply for a few minutes.

  ‘Mistress, I am Catchpoll, the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire’s serjeant. I come because the lord Osbern de Lench is dead, by violence, these few days past. Squeeze my hand if you understand me.’ There came a faint gripping of his hand. ‘Good. Now, the killing took place right about the time messire Baldwin returned to Lench. He came from here, and you had hot words with him. Next morning he left, not a happy man. I have to ask what passed between you, mistress.’

  It should not have been possible for one so pale to become more so, and yet he thought the cheeks lost even the vestige of colour remaining. The dying woman took a breath, which would normally have been a deep one, but was but a sipping of the air. Her words came in gasps.

  ‘What he did … my Guthlac is a good steward. He was so … proud … so I told him … how would he like his brother … as steward?’

  ‘Your Will?’ She squeezed his hand in affirmation.

  ‘Guthlac knew … from the first. The lord Osbern … no choice … some stayed … I could not face shame … he sent me here, told Guthlac … who had lost a wife, to wed me … and blessed I’ve been.’ The woman paused, trying to get her breath enough to continue.

  ‘Take it steadily, mistress. No need for haste now.’

  ‘Yes, for there is … little time. I told him … about Will … and he laughed. Said a bastard was nothing. So I told him … told him what Osbern said in his troubled … sleep … that he killed Baldwin’s … mother because she … had betrayed him.’

  ‘But Baldwin was born some years before her death.’ Catchpoll was surprised.

  ‘Let him think … he found out late.’ A slight smile touched lips that had a blue tinge. ‘Osbern said once … I could do nothing.’ She coughed. ‘He was wrong … in the end.’ She took several rapid, shallow breaths. ‘I did not know … he would … after all … ’twas the mother as strayed then. I did not set him … to kill. ’Tis wyrd.’

  ‘Aye, mistress, it is just wyrd and none of us can avoid that.’

  ‘Should I confess …? I …’

  ‘I cannot say. If it gives your mind and soul ease, the priest will be a good listener. Thank you.’ Catchpoll squeezed the hand, and let it go, getting up with a grimace at his creaking knees. He went to the doorway, and spoke quickly and low to the priest, who nodded and went back to his watch.

  Will was standing in the yard. He had seemed confident when Catchpoll arrived, but now looked younger and less sure of himself. His face was clouded.

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘She gave good honest truth and breathes still. Why not go to her?’

  ‘I … I am not brave enough.’ Suddenly the mask of maturity slipped. Catchpoll clapped him on the shoulder in the manner of an oldfather.

  ‘Yes, you are, lad, because you are a man, and it is the act of a man to face what he fears, and because it is the last gift you can give her, your presence, your hand. You run from that now and you will regret it always. Your father,’ Catchpoll did not pause for even a breath, ‘has duties as well as this, and one of you should be there now. She is giving a confession, but stand you by and close, and when you hear the absolution, you go in to her.’

  ‘Yes. I shall.’ Will took a gulp of air that was part sob, and then blurted out, ‘His love is carrying his child.’

  Catchpoll did not need to ask who ‘he’ might be.

  ‘Is she now? Well, that is betwixt him and her, I say, so you just keep it nice and quiet, and look to your father in the days to come, for he will need a good son in his days of grief, as you will need a good father.’ Catchpoll patted the shoulder once more, and went to the hall where Guthlac sat as he had been left.

  ‘All is well, Master Steward, and the priest is with her again. I have said to your lad to go to her, and forgive me, I would say as you ought to be there soon. It won’t be long now, by my guess.’

  The steward just nodded, and Catchpoll went to fetch his horse, not relishing the long ride back, but confident he had all that the lord undersheriff would need.

  He rode at a decent pace but was sensible enough to realise that forcing his horse to speed early on would leave it exhausted for the last miles, and curbed any urge to ride headlong. The steady canter also gave him the chance to go over and over the import of what he had learnt, making sure every last part of it fitted together like the shards of a broken jug. The steward’s wife would be long-buried before she could give her oath on what she said, but she had no cause to lie, and he would vouch she then confessed all to her priest, which was as good as oath if one was dying and needed full absolution. What was more, the boy-man that was her son had the final reason why such a revelation might just tip a man to killing a father he feared, hated and admired all in one.

  Stratford seemed closer on the return ride, and certainly more lively. There was a woman wringing out her washing at the water’s edge on one side of the ford, and a group of noisy children, stripped bare, splashing water at each other on the other side. The blacksmith was shoeing a horse, while the owner leant against the wall under the shade of the thatched overhang, and a girl was trying to shoo a goose from pecking at her skirts. It was peaceably normal, the way a serjeant liked things to be, even if it was not in his own jurisdiction.

  He ran a finger along the inside of the neck of his tunic, feeling it sweat-wet, and let his horse halt and drink in the river’s flow before urging it onward.

  The sun was a little past its zenith when he passed through Alcester but he knew he would soon be in his own shire and that eased his saddle-weariness. He headed south-west to pass through Abbot’s Morton and then kicked his now-sweating horse to take the shorter route and go up the top of the lord Osbern’s hill to drop down into Lench. There was no reason to assume anyone would be there among the trees as he neared the top, and when suddenly a horse came at him from the side and rear he had no time to more than turn at the hoofbeats before he was shoved sideways to land, dazed, in the dust. For a moment he was dizzy and disorientated, and then he looked up and saw the face of Baldwin de Lench, and the stout branch gripped in his hand.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hugh Bradecote sat upon a bench in the hall, tying up his blanket roll and with his thoughts elsewhere. Until Catchpoll’s return there was little he could do, except keep the lord of Lench from committing acts of violence. What concerned him was the thought that the serjeant might return with nothing that would turn possibilities, opportunities and instincts into something solid that would remove any doubt and make any claim of innocence patently false. What would they do then? Returning to William de Beauchamp with a tale of ‘we are reasonably sure he did this, but …’ would bring down justifiably harsh words from the lord sheriff, not least because he would not want vassal service from a man who had almost certainly killed his own father and could not be trusted. The undersheriff therefore sat for some time, desperately seeking solutions and finding none. He sighed.

  Hamo de Lench emerged from the solar, looking perfectly at ease and rested.

  ‘How does your lady mother?’ asked Bradecote.

  ‘I think she sleeps, for there was no sound from behind the curtain.’ The answer was given as though the enquiry had been a mere morning pleasantry, rather than about a woman with a torn back and distressed mind. ‘Am I confined to the hall, or may I ride this morning? Now Baldwin is lord properly, and our father laid in the earth, he will be wedding that woman i
n Evesham and bringing her here. He will be glad to see me gone and so I can go to Abbot Reginald and seek admittance. I will miss riding and I will miss my hawks, but God asks us to make sacrifices and I will do so.’ He paused. ‘Do you think it would be kinder if I wrung their necks? Baldwin is a brutal man and would not treat them as I do.’ He frowned.

  ‘But you do not see to their daily care.’

  ‘Of course not. Kenelm the Groom does that.’

  ‘And he will continue to do so. Unless you think your brother would harm them when out hunting, if they miss the prey, there is no cause at all.’

  ‘No, you are right. That is a good answer. I shall let them live. I cannot pray for them for they do not possess souls but I will think about them with kindness. So, may I go out today?’

  ‘Messire, it would be better that you do not, for many reasons which I will not say, but tomorrow you may do as you wish.’

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘You could go to the church and prepare yourself for your admission to the abbey.’

  ‘Yes.’ Hamo walked out.

  Bradecote shook his head. He had never met anyone quite like Hamo de Lench, and was thankful for it. Everything he said made perfect sense, except it had nothing to do with how things really were, for it did not include feelings, the natural emotions that pervaded life. With him it was either midnight or noon, no gloaming, no dawn, no sunset.

  The undersheriff went back outside, and to the cook upon whom he lavished praise for the woodcock and from whom he obtained a beaker of small beer. He then went to stand with his back to the barn and feel the warmth of the morning sun on his face. From within the barn came the sound of voices and the threshing, and he relaxed, his eyes half closed for a moment. He drained his beaker and wished he were at home. He opened his eyes fully once more at the sound of footsteps. Walkelin was approaching to make his report of a peaceful night, if, he said, you could discount the groans from Fulk the Steward which had prevented the serjeanting apprentice from drifting into the slumber he deserved.

  ‘But I had the door braced shut, my lord, so we could not have been surprised in the night.’ Walkelin wanted to assure his superior that he had not been lax.

  ‘I did not expect you to remain wakeful throughout, Walkelin. Ah,’ the undersheriff looked past his junior, ‘and here comes the lord Baldwin, and still not at peace with the world by the look of things.’

  Baldwin de Lench was a man whose temper was not made the better by sleep, not as far as Bradecote could see. He had just emerged from the priest’s humble dwelling with a scowling countenance, and was followed by the worthy Father Matthias who looked harassed. The priest cut away swiftly to the church like one seeking sanctuary, where Bradecote had little doubt he would not only say the Office but offer up heartfelt prayers to be delivered from Baldwin de Lench. Well, if Catchpoll returned with information that gave a reason for what they thought, then those prayers might indeed be answered, though not in a way the priest would find comforting.

  ‘Did you sleep well in my hall?’ growled Baldwin, showing just how much it rankled.

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ It might be a lie but it was one that was worth it to see the expression darken even more.

  ‘And what happens now? Am I to live in exile upon mine own manor until you tire of all this and leave us in peace?’

  ‘Until the matter of two killings is resolved, yes, though if you think I prefer being here to my own manor and with my wife, you are very much mistaken. But the way is now clear for you to wed your lady from Evesham, so I am surprised you are not in excellent spirits.’

  ‘I saw my sire buried but yesterday. To leap into the marriage bed straight after looks unseemly.’

  ‘I would not have thought you cared that much how things look, de Lench.’

  ‘I care that much. You will not see grieving from his widow,’ he spat the word, ‘or her mad whelp.’

  ‘Odd, yes, mad, no. He is keen to be away to the Benedictines in Evesham.’

  ‘They are welcome to him,’ Baldwin sneered. ‘So are you going to tell me where I may and may not go today, my lord Undersheriff?’

  ‘Yes. You will not enter the hall, nor the dwelling of the steward, nor the church, whilst your brother Hamo is in it.’

  ‘The steward ought to be overseeing the threshing.’

  ‘That is true. But you will not enter the barn once he is there, unless a sheriff’s man is with you.’

  ‘But this is madness. How long do you expect to keep everyone apart? You have to leave at some point.’

  ‘That point is when we have the killer of Osbern de Lench and Mother Winflaed.’

  ‘Which could be sometime never.’ Baldwin sounded disgusted. ‘What do I do all day?’

  ‘You sound like your brother.’

  ‘For the first time in our lives then.’

  ‘Well, as lord you have a duty to attend the funeral rites for your village healer. You can be in the church with the lady, and everyone else present, because I will be at your side and my man Walkelin will be upon the other.’

  ‘Do not tell me my duty.’

  ‘I certainly should not need to do so. I expect the priest will wait until young Hild and her oldmother are finished with the birth, since they are closest in kinship to the dead, but the grave was dug yesterday afternoon and is ready, as I heard.’

  ‘You do not mind me going to the kitchen and finding something to break my fast, then?’

  ‘Not at all. By all means go.’ Bradecote gave the permission airily, knowing it would irritate the more, and smiled as the man stalked away.

  ‘You enjoyed that, my lord, don’t say as you didn’t,’ remarked Walkelin, entirely forgetting his place, and grinning. Bradecote turned to look at him, coolly, and Walkelin gulped. ‘Not that I, er, I mean …’

  The undersheriff’s lips twitched, and then he gave in.

  ‘You are quite right, Walkelin, and I want you to be outside the kitchen and follow him about for a while. I do not see him attacking Fulk the Steward in the barn in front of the whole village, and I will see if the lady has risen, or indeed is in a condition to leave her bed this day. I think if she is able, she would like to attend church. He needs to know he is watched, however.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Walkelin dutifully went to stand before the kitchen, and Bradecote went back into the hall and knocked upon the solar door. A maidservant came and opened it, rather to his relief.

  ‘My lord?’ she bobbed in obeisance.

  ‘Will you tell your lady that the Mother Winflaed is likely to be buried this morning, if she feels she could rise and attend.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. The lady is awake but …’ the maid’s voice dropped to a whisper, ‘I think she is afeard of what everyone will say.’

  ‘What they will say is that the lord Baldwin gets ideas in his head and will not let them go, whether right or wrong, and has the Devil’s temper.’

  ‘True, my lord. Would you have me say that too?’

  ‘Yes.’ He turned away, since he was not sure the maid would close the door in his face, and went out of both hall and bailey. As he did so he saw the girl Hild emerge from Gytha’s cott, and her oldmother followed and put an arm about her sagging shoulders. His heart sank. Had it gone badly? He went towards them and then saw Hild smile, wearily.

  ‘Mornin’, my lord. I was wrong. This babe came later than the sunrise after all. Mind you it came not only slow but earsling, and them as comes out wrong way round will spend their lives looking behind ’em, so said Mother Winflaed,’ at which Hild crossed herself.

  ‘And the mother, she is recovering?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. Most women does from the moment the babe is laid to the breast. They forgets the half of what passed. Mind you, Gytha is eased of more than the birthing pangs, for her son has a fine scalp of red hair.’

  Bradecote smiled. Edmund need not go through life wondering, or worse, knowing, his son was not his own.

  ‘You
look worn,’ he noted. ‘When Mother Winflaed has been laid in the earth, you get some sleep for Lench cannot have you ill.’

  ‘For I am Hild the Healer,’ beamed the girl with a little more confidence than a day before. There would be failures and setbacks but her reputation would be founded upon this first, and not easy, birthing.

  ‘For you are indeed Hild the Healer.’ Whilst there was no need for it, none at all, Bradecote reached into his scrip, took out a silver penny and presented it to her. Coin was not something used much unless folk went into Evesham, and he did not suppose she had held many pennies of her own, if any.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘That is a mark of respect from me, the lord Undersheriff, for your aid when I called upon you here, and because this was your first challenge and you did well.’

  The girl blushed pink and turned the penny over in her hand.

  ‘My lord, I would not spend this. I would have it strung so as I can wear it about my neck. That ways I can touch it and remember what you said. Thank you, my lord.’ She stifled a yawn, and her oldmother told her to go and change her shift, which was soiled, and the girl nodded, bobbed her obeisance to Bradecote and went to do as bidden. The old woman smiled after her.

  ‘She did well, my lord, and I am right proud of her. O’ course others have experience with women in their hours of trial, but my sister was the best, and if things did not run smoothly, ah, then she came into her own. My girl kept her head when the babe showed wrong way about, and it does her credit. What you said, and did also, will stay with her and help her, for there will be days when folk see the girl’s years and not her skills.’ She sighed. ‘Winflaed would be proud too. She said as she would see Hild take her place and be even better. Pity it is she did not, and the day came so swift.’