‘You too must need rest. It was a long night.’
‘Once Winflaed has hers, I will do as Hild and lay down my head then, my lord. You know, wyrd is strange. When we were girls, little ones, it was me as thought to follow as the Healer, but first time I went with my mother’s sister, who was Healer then, I saw a man die horrible from the arching spasms, his back all bowed so only his heels and head touched the ground. Nothing could be done o’ course, but it gave me such dreams I knew the laececraeft was not for me, and Winflaed began the learning of it instead. Could have been her here, and me lying in the church, but for wyrd.’ She shook her head. ‘Now I will go and speak with Father Matthias, and if he says all is ready, I will gather all from the barn.’
Bradecote nodded. A belief in fate gave reassurance that nothing could have been done to alter what had happened. Yet he felt that to accept it too much would mean that whatever he, Catchpoll and Walkelin might do, those who met a violent end were doomed, and by the same token, however inept they might be, they would save those who were destined to live longer. If he believed in wyrd too much he might as well not bother being undersheriff at all. He pulled a face at his own twisting thoughts. It came of having nothing to do but wait.
He went to the church.
Bradecote wondered if Baldwin de Lench was thick-skinned enough not to notice the almost palpable difference between the obsequies for Winflaed the Healer and his sire. This time there were sniffing women and sighing men, and a genuine sense of deep regret and sorrow. As the manor lord, Baldwin stood to the front, with Walkelin to one side and Bradecote on the other, and with the villagers at his back, but if Bradecote could feel it, how could he not do so? At least it meant he was not looking at the steward, or the lady de Lench, who had chosen to stand next to Hild and Winflaed’s sister. Hamo stood upon Bradecote’s other side, and Bradecote thought he was thinking about Evesham, not the healing woman.
The lord of Lench looked morose, but then he often looked that way. He mumbled about hoping it would not take long as he wanted everyone back to work, and got no answer from the undersheriff. When all was at an end, the villagers filed out and gathered about the second new grave in Lench, though Winflaed’s was outside and Osbern had been laid beneath the earth in front of the altar, having been the man who had just paid for the church’s rebuilding, and no tiles having yet been laid upon the chancel floor. Hugh Bradecote thought that Winflaed would have thought herself the more fortunate, with the sound of birdsong above her remains and the seasons passing overhead.
He sent Walkelin, with a nod, to dog the steps of Baldwin de Lench, who was still looking ill-tempered. Hild’s oldmother, who felt that her previous conversation with such an elevated person as the lord undersheriff would raise her standing in the eyes of her neighbours, could not resist passing by close enough to comment.
‘We will just have to make the best of things, I s’pose. We always knew, o’ course, what with him being the lord Osbern’s son and his mother as she was, and the lord Osbern was not a lord to be liked, just avoided as much as possible.’
‘How was the mother?’ Bradecote thought about what Raoul Parler and Walter Pipard had said of her.
‘Ah, there was a beautiful lady, but with a fire, and that foolish way of seeing but one thing, true or not. Made for some fine arguments in the hall in those days, and ’twas sad how she paid so dear for it too.’
‘What do you mean, oldmother?’ Bradecote’s brows drew together in curiosity, and he stood still.
‘It don’t matter now, them all bein’ dead and buried,’ murmured the old woman, half to herself, and then looked Bradecote in the eye. ‘Winflaed knew, but the lord Osbern knew she would not tell, and nor did she, not for years, but … I am kin, and old, and what secrets she told me were not like to spread. I would keep ’em still if it mattered.’
‘What secrets?’
‘Tragic ones, my lord, and all such a twisting and turning. The lord Osbern and the lady Judith loved one another, howsoever many pots were thrown and hot words shouted. There was a heat to them. She was unafraid, leastways not afraid of any man, but then when fear came, it ate her like a wolf devouring a lamb.’ The woman shook her head. ‘She began to have a loss of feeling in her fingers, two of her right hand. Winflaed told her not to worry but she was convinced it was the signs of leprosy. She had once seen a man cast from her home village, dead to the world and all those he loved, yet in it still. Now Winflaed had not seen the cruel disease, not up close, since a hreófla must keep at a distance with their clapper, but she had seen a lad who had the same tingles in his two fingers after he broke an arm. Her reasonin’ was that it was somethin’ in the arm, not a foulness like leprosy, but would the lady listen? No, not to Winflaed nor to the priest neither, so she fretted, and kept herself from her lord with excuses till he could scarce bear it more, and then she died. Well, it was a fall as was said. Years later Winflaed told me it could have been by her own intent, but that she had seen the poor lady’s body when the lord Osbern brought her home. He begged her to find life, but what hope when it has already gone? What Winflaed saw, and swore to me as true years later, was marks upon her neck as told it never snapped in no fall. It was him what killed her, but she could not think why.’ The old woman permitted herself a small smile, mostly because she could see she had the lord undersheriff hanging upon her every word.
‘Go on. I can see there is more.’
‘Well, I already had reason to know he had done for her. After the lady died, the lord Osbern did not wed for a year or so, but he was not a man to lie alone. He took one of the girls, old enough to wed mind, and she had told me he raved in his dreams, raved about his faithless whore-wife, raved of his love for her still though he snapped her neck. Well, that was words that would have got her an’ me both dead, and so I told her. When the poor girl found herself with child she did not want to stay, and he would not keep her, so he sent her to his manor at Tredington and she wed the widower steward. I heard as it has been a happy union, and she deserved it. When I told Winflaed, she said as he had never cause and his lady was pure, and so she went and told him, she did, about the poor woman’s fears. I thought her mad to do it, for he might have killed her on the spot, but she would have the lady’s name restored. Near broke him, I think, knowing he had killed her innocent, not guilty, and that is why I think the church is new, and why that poor lady in the hall now could never please him. I think he made confession when he knew, mind you, because our young priest, Father Theodosius, he left us shortly after and went back to the monks in Evesham. The sort who is burdened by great confessing, he was.’
‘And the steward of Tredington’s wife knew only what the lord Osbern had said, that his wife betrayed him and he killed her.’
‘She could not have known what Winflaed knew, and I was only told after the girl went to Tredington. I have told none, none but you, my lord, and that is because you are who you are.’ She sighed.
‘Go and rest, oldmother.’ Bradecote did not tell her she had given him the answer he needed, or so near that he must guess what Catchpoll would bring back with him as knowledge. He smiled at the thought of how annoyed Catchpoll would feel having ridden to Tredington and back in a day, only to bring a tidying of ends, and went to ask the lady de Lench how she fared.
Walkelin did not follow Baldwin de Lench too closely, for that would be merely lighting the tinder of his wrath and inviting a boot, and Walkelin had a strong feeling Serjeant Catchpoll would tell him that a sheriff’s man ought never to put himself in the position of making much of his rank whilst sprawled upon the ground chewing dust. He simply kept the man in view and within about ten paces, ignoring the occasional glare, as Baldwin prowled about his bailey and finally went into the barn, where the noise of the threshing flails declared the labour of the villagers. Fulk stood to one side, arms folded, and not stood as straight and tall as he would normally. When he saw the lord Baldwin enter his cheek paled a little, but he stood his ground.
&nbs
p; Edmund the new father, secure in the knowledge that he was indeed a father, handed his flail to a lad and approached his lord to tell him, proudly, of the birth of his son. Walkelin watched but could not hear the words over the sound of the flails. The lord Baldwin merely grunted, which was all the congratulation Edmund would receive. Baldwin had things upon his mind and uppermost was the realisation that he had not seen that miserable bastard the lord sheriff’s serjeant all day. The question was posed to Edmund and the answer given freely.
‘Why he left before the sun was up proper, my lord, being off to Tredington and wanting to get back today, doubtless.’
Baldwin de Lench stared at the man, who lowered his eyes, gazed at the earth and then requested permission to return to the threshing. The lord of Lench remained staring, now into space, even after he had done so. Then he turned and left the barn, walked, without any sense of purpose, to the stable, whence the dutiful Walkelin followed him, entering not the darkness of a stable but of unconsciousness, as he was hit upon the head with a piece of wood.
Bradecote felt a huge sense of relief. What they had missed was not something they had failed to ask about, or see, but a tangle so old and deep it might well have remained hidden. At least they were right in thinking that the immediate cause lay in Tredington, though why the steward’s wife would reveal her knowledge, that just happened to be wrong, Bradecote could not comprehend. Nor could he work out why it had made Baldwin ride off and avenge his mother, since he would not have faulted his sire’s actions against a faithless wife, as he had since proved with a lash.
He went to the hall and found the lady in the solar, looking pensive and watching her son laying out his possessions upon his bed in neat order. He was telling her what he would take to Evesham for the Almoner to give to the poor, and what he would give to Kenelm the Groom, who had cared for his hawks.
‘… and the blanket will go to the girl Hild, so that she can use it when the sick need to be kept very warm. That is a good act of charity. I will take my box with me, and show Abbot Reginald my writing. I would like to work in the scriptorium.’
‘You are making your preparations straight away, messire?’ Bradecote was a little surprised.
‘You said that I could leave tomorrow, my lord.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Then I want to be ready. I will ride, not walk, for although humility is good, I am still Hamo de Lench until I enter the noviciate, and my father would not want me to arrive upon foot. Also, my horse is part of my gift to the Church.’ Hamo had it all worked out, as neat as the piles of possessions on the bed.
Bradecote looked at the lady, who shrugged and gave a sad sigh.
‘Tomorrow or the next day, does it matter, except to me, his mother?’ She sounded defeated, as beaten in spirit as in her body.
‘I came to ask how you did, lady.’
‘As you see, my lord. Pain is transitory, shame lingers. Even if I could have remained here before, I cannot now. After my son departs, I will also.’
‘I do not think you will be judged, not as you think.’
‘But God will judge,’ added Hamo, unhelpfully, and as a matter of fact.
‘God judges everything we do, messire, and our charity as well as our sins.’ It sounded a little priestly in the undersheriff’s own ears, but the youth was irritating him.
‘I give generously, my lord.’
‘Of things, but what of thought?’
‘Of thought?’ For a moment Hamo looked puzzled. ‘Ah, you mean not thinking badly of people. Well, I do not think that I do. I see what is, that is all.’
It was a lost cause. Hamo de Lench did indeed see, but never understood how ordinary folk thought. Bradecote gave up. What did occur to him was that if everything came together as looked likely, Hamo de Lench would not be able to depart on the morrow for Evesham, since the manor would be passing to him if his brother was destined for a noose. It was not something that could be declared beforehand, however, so Bradecote just shook his head and rather lamely instructed the lady to get as much rest as she could. Then he left and went out into the sunshine once more. The sparrows were chirruping and taking up trampled and shaken grain from the days of harvesting, making their own store of strength for the cold months that today seemed so far distant, and above them the martins and swallows added their high pitched voices. Just for a few minutes Hugh Bradecote let himself be enveloped by an English summer; then Walkelin emerged, staggering, from the stable. His face was sickly pale, in marked contrast to the scarlet trickle of blood that coursed down from his forehead and ran down the side of his nose. He tried to stand upright but simply collapsed into the dust, as the sparrows flew up in alarm. Bradecote rushed forward.
‘Walkelin!’ Bradecote went down on one knee, hauling the inert form into a sitting position. Walkelin screwed up his eyes.
‘Hit me. Gone.’ No more explanation was needed at that moment. Bradecote yelled for aid, and after several shouts Fulk emerged from the barn.
‘Look after him,’ commanded Bradecote, loosening his hold upon Walkelin, who slumped a little forward, hands braced now upon his knees. The undersheriff rushed into the stable, bridled his grey and did not even bother to saddle it, trusting to his horsemanship for the sake of speed. It was only as he left the bailey that he realised that he had no certain knowledge of where, or indeed why, Baldwin de Lench had suddenly fled. Had he planned to do so and simply bided his time for the best opportunity? Why might he have thought he stood in any greater danger of being taken now than yesterday? Bradecote tried to think calmly, even as his heart raced. Baldwin could not have overheard what the oldmother had said, for he had not stayed for the burial. That might have sent him to Evesham and his lady-love, and then on in some mad flight but to what end? Lench, and lordship, would be lost to him, a man who for whom that meant so much. And there had been none who saw Catchpoll depart except … Edmund. Bradecote focused his thoughts. Yes, a sort of logic would work if that was the case. He threw himself off the horse and ran back towards the barn, leading it and calling for Edmund. The man came out looking frightened.
‘Did the lord Baldwin speak with you today?’
‘Yes, my lord. I told him of my son.’
‘And did he ask any question of you?’
‘Only if I had seen the serjeant, and I said as he had gone to Tredi—’
‘Thank you.’ Bradecote interrupted him. ‘Give me a leg up.’ The grey was on the fret and sidling at all the shouting. Edmund threw the undersheriff onto the horse’s back, and this time Bradecote left the bailey already leaning forward over the animal’s withers and urging it to speed up the trackway to where the hill path left the Evesham road. As he rode, gripping tightly with his knees, he prayed. All morning his prayers had been for Serjeant Catchpoll to be swift, but now he implored Heaven that he might have been delayed. It took but a few minutes to reach the hilltop, though there was no sign of a horse or rider there, and he slowed to a trot as he took the descending track to the north, very aware that an ambush for Catchpoll could as easily be launched upon himself. At the first bend, however, he heard a cry and a thud, and kicked his horse to charge forward. Ahead of him Baldwin de Lench stood over a prostrate form and he had a large stick raised in one hand.
‘Halt there!’ screamed Bradecote, hoping the words alone might buy him a few precious moments. De Lench did halt and swing round, in time to be thrown back as Bradecote launched himself from his horse on top of him. The pair were equally winded, and Catchpoll was in no condition to move, so for a brief time there was a tableau of three men lying sprawled in various attitudes upon the twig-strewn earth. De Lench seemed first to recover, and rolled the undersheriff, who was half on top of him, to the side and scrambled to his feet, spitting dust. He leant to grab his staff but Bradecote, his senses as regained as his breath, took hold of the nearer end, and there followed a tussle as between two dogs with a bone. Neither had an advantage and so Bradecote suddenly let go, sending Baldwin de Lench stumbling
backwards. Bradecote got up on one knee, just far enough to drag his sword from its scabbard.
‘Put the staff down. It is over, de Lench, all over.’
‘And have you put a rope about my neck? No thank you. It is not over, not yet.’ Baldwin’s eyes were wild with a furious desire to survive at any cost, and he was breathing through his mouth to get air into his lungs. He had the advantage of height, and swung the staff to drive the sword from the undersheriff’s grasp, but although sword and arm were flung to the side, the hold was not lost. Bradecote felt the reverberation all the way up to his shoulder but yet managed to get fully to his feet, and as he did so Baldwin drew his knife from its hanger in a sweeping, outward stroke, and caught Bradecote’s left arm even as the undersheriff pulled back, his arms bowed like a bull’s horns. Bradecote took a hissing intake of breath, but his eyes remained locked to those of Baldwin.
‘I think the fight fair enough,’ growled Baldwin, his eyes narrowing to slits as he tried to second guess his opponent. ‘You may have a sword, but the staff has longer reach and I am good with a knife.’
‘As your father discovered.’
‘But this I will enjoy. That …’ for one moment Baldwin looked heartbroken, ‘was dire need.’
‘Why?’
‘Because my woman carries my child and I would have a son born to inherit, and though my sire might have ignored the bitter truth about me because I was ever more a lord than the stripling Hamo, he would declare me bastard if I disobeyed him and wed her.’
‘Yet he could have told you are indeed fully his own son. Did you not give him time to speak?’ Bradecote’s voice chided almost softly, and Baldwin’s eyes widened in a sudden horror. ‘The tale you had in Tredington was but the half-known there. Too late he discovered it and lived thereafter with the guilt of killing an innocent wife.’
‘No.’ It was a cry of denial, but to himself. Baldwin shook his head. ‘You say it to unman me.’ He lunged, using the staff as he would a sword, and Bradecote’s blade parried and bit into the wood, where it stuck. Baldwin laughed, stepped suddenly close and thrust the knife towards Bradecote’s throat.
Blood Runs Thicker Page 21
