Bradecote grabbed at the wrist with his free hand, though the strength in his arm was already sapped by the bleeding wound. It could not hold off the stronger arm for long, and Baldwin laughed again, but the laugh turned into a grunt of pain as Bradecote brought his knee up sharply into the man’s groin. It was not a perfect contact but Baldwin’s grip upon his weapons tightened convulsively, and the impulsion was lost. The inexorable advance of the blade to Bradecote’s throat was halted, and the two men swayed for a moment, joined in a dance to the death. The pain in Bradecote’s arm was an insistent thump now, but he overcame it just enough to push the knife away. Baldwin dropped the staff entirely, and grabbed the hilt of the knife so that he had a two hand advantage as the weight of the staff pulled Bradecote’s sword arm instantly downward. Bradecote dropped his weapon and half stepped and half fell backwards, pushing up with his injured arm so that the knife, instead of entering his flesh, passed over his head. There was a flailing of limbs, the two men rolled over several times, and then there was a deep grunting noise and Bradecote lay very still. All he was aware of was the pounding of the blood in his ears and the pain in his arm, until Catchpoll, mumbling, pulled the corpse of Baldwin de Lench from across his body.
Chapter Eighteen
Bradecote stared up at the serjeant’s grim face that slowly eased into his death’s head smile.
‘Mighty glad I am you arrived, my lord,’ Catchpoll muttered, and took his superior by the good arm and dragged him to his feet. He swayed, still a little unsteady, and Bradecote swayed also, clamping his right hand to his left arm, and looked down at the crumpled heap that had been Baldwin de Lench.
‘Bastard,’ he growled, with feeling. Whether he was addressing the body or swearing at the pain in his arm was not clear.
‘What you needs to remember, my lord,’ sighed Catchpoll, sounding tired and rubbing the side of his head, ‘is that lord or not, no man fights fair when his life depends upon it. A bit of you tries to do that. Thankful I am that it is not much, but it takes the edge.’
‘But I did not want to have to kill him.’
‘Ah, that is where the trouble lies. He,’ and Catchpoll kicked the corpse, ‘wanted to kill you or be killed by you, not go bound to Worcester and dangle at a rope’s end. You needs to treat it like a true battle-fight, for sure as the sun sets the man you face will want your death. If you aims to take him just wounded you risk being the next one dead. Good job you got to fighting dirty and he landed on his own blade. Now, show me that arm.’
The undersheriff, feeling a little light-headed, obediently presented the arm to his serjeant. The slash ran down the arm from near the elbow to the wrist, and at the bottom end a tendon showed white amidst the scarlet.
‘Ah, lucky you are that the knife did not cut through that,’ remarked Catchpoll, and bent down, slowly, lifted the limp arm of the fallen man, and cut the sleeve from the tunic. ‘Here, that will bind it till we gets back to Lench. The girl Hild ought to know enough to deal with a simple wound to the arm.’ He wound the cloth about the forearm, and pushed a hand into the small of Bradecote’s back to guide him to his horse. He stood by as the undersheriff leant across the animal’s withers and with an ungainly hop and some colourful language, managed to get astride its back. He then went and lugged the body of Baldwin de Lench, with much swearing of his own, and contrived, with difficulty, to heave it over the withers of the man’s horse before clambering onto his own.
They descended into Lench at walking pace. Of the two men living it was debatable who was the more focused upon what to do next. Catchpoll still felt dizzy and a bit sick, and the undersheriff was more than a little distracted by the pain in his left arm. His right hand was sticky with blood from staunching the wound that had soaked through parts of the binding, and he wiped it in his grey’s mane. As they entered Lench, a woman came out of her home, rubbing her hands upon her skirts, and raised one to her mouth, then called out to her neighbours. It seemed to Bradecote that everyone appeared as from nowhere and very quickly, parting as Catchpoll’s horse walked towards the bailey gate, crossing themselves, and then whispering in hushed, mumbling voices.
‘Where’s the girl Hild?’ called Catchpoll.
‘Here, but the lord be clear dead.’ Hild pushed forward, a slightly more confident Hild in the wake of the last twenty-four hours.
‘We knows that, but you get your salves and mosses or whatever, and come into the hall to tend the lord Undersheriff. Quick now.’
She paled a little, but since the undersheriff was patently conscious and able to sit upon his horse, she consoled herself with the fact that his wound could not be such as to tax her knowledge. She nodded, sighed with relief as she noted how he held his arm and darted away.
Catchpoll dismounted and went to assist Bradecote from the big grey, though the undersheriff muttered he needed no aid, and walked perfectly upright towards the hall. Walkelin, still a little concussed, stood at the doorway, relief upon his face as he stood to one side to let his superiors in. ‘Bring the body into the hall also,’ commanded Catchpoll, in charge of the situation, and looked to Edmund the new father, and Kenelm the Groom. He did not need to maintain the look to know they would obey. He entered the hall’s dimness and found the lady de Lench fluttering about the lord Bradecote, not quite sure whether to offer wine, sympathy or a fresh binding for the wound. When the body of her unlamented stepson was brought in this distracted her enough to leave the undersheriff in peace. She was now uncertain as to whether she should rejoice openly or assume an appearance of distress. Father Matthias came in, crossed himself and knelt beside the body. The lady joined him, as out of habit.
Hild entered, followed by Fulk, bobbed a general obeisance and came before the undersheriff, requesting him to lay the arm and hand, palm up, upon a trestle table. He did as he was bid, and watched in a remarkably disengaged manner as she unwound the wrapped sleeve from about it and looked pensively at the long wound, now oozing sluggishly.
‘Mother Winflaed, God rest her soul,’ Hild crossed herself devoutly, ‘did not like to shut up a wound with a needle and thread of any sort. She said as wounds went bad more, so unless really big she liked to bind ’em tight with a mash of garlic and leek upon the wound and moss over that for the first days, then honey once there was sign of it joining. And always used strips of yellow cloth cos it is dyed with onion skins and has the charm of ’em. The wound is not deep at the top, my lord, and that will heal fast, but near the hand will take longer. It is there I am not sure about stitching. Mother Winflaed,’ she crossed herself again, and Bradecote wondered if it would become some form of totem to the girl to make her think the treatment would be more effective, ‘loved to use the leek and garlic over all else with wounds, even cleavers. There is some as uses it but for the stye in the eye, but all in Lench would say the leek and garlic has worked well over the years, and,’ she added, ‘there is plenty of both hereabouts. Stings a lot o’ course.’ This was said in a casual way as she pounded both in a bowl which gave off a strong vapour that made her eyes water. ’Tis good, that is. When it brings tears to the mashing it is stronger in healing.’ She sniffed, pounded some more, and then took a scoop of it with her fingers and laid it upon the wound. He winced but did not exclaim. She repeated the action until there was a pale greenish mulch all down the inside of the forearm, and then laid moss upon it and bound the arm as tightly as she dare, pushing the wound edges together with one hand as she bound it round and round with the efficacious yellow cloth.
Catchpoll, meantime, was sat upon a bench, and given a draught of ale and a cold compress for his sore head.
As the girl finished her ministrations Hamo de Lench burst in. He looked at the corpse.
‘He is dead.’ It was simply an observation.
‘Yes, my son.’ The priest was perhaps the only person who would sound regretful, and that because the man had died unshriven of the acts which had brought him to this end.
‘Then I am lord of Lench.’ Hamo sou
nded neither pleased nor sorrowful, but then frowned. ‘I would still rather go to the monks. I do not want to be the lord. I do not want to have to marry and beget sons. Small children are strange. They make lots of noise and do odd things, and women are worse.’ He looked at the undersheriff. ‘Would the lord Sheriff let me pass the manor to my uncle? He has a son, a healthy son, nearly my age already. His name is Randulf. I need but enough to gift the abbey for my admittance.’
‘My lord Hamo, it is your decision, but I doubt the lord Sheriff would object.’ Bradecote intentionally gave him his title and saw him wince at it. No, William de Beauchamp would not mind at all. What use to him was this strange young man who did not understand people, who looked at everything through unemotional eyes?
‘Then that is what I will do. I will go and write to the lord Sheriff. It seems fitting, and I will delay my journey to Evesham until my uncle takes seisin.’ With which he walked out, not glancing again at the body nor his mother.
‘And what of you, lady?’ Bradecote addressed the lady of Lench. He realised he had never heard her name.
‘I have already said that I will leave. I might return to my family, but then … I will not bear another child and lords want sons, as Hamo says. I have a cousin who was at Wherwell and escaped the burning. She is at Romsey now. It might be a better life.’ She did not seem to have very great expectations, but then it was one where she was not going to be bruised and beaten upon the anger of a violent man. Yes, it would be a better life, though what was uppermost in Hugh Bradecote’s mind was the image of the Sacrist of Romsey, and for the very first time since Ela died, he felt no twinge of guilt. What remained was a gratitude that he had met her and a prayerful thought that she prospered. His penance was complete.
‘Lay Baldwin in the solar. He can have it as his now, and the lord’s bed.’ The lady smiled gently, but her eyes held a victory in this, if in nothing else.
Fulk went silently to the priest and between them they carried the body to the solar. The lady nodded at the undersheriff.
‘I shall go to the church and pray … perhaps even for him. Come with me, Hild.’
The girl looked to her lady, and dipped in obedience and in obeisance to Bradecote, who thanked her and commended her for her skills. She blushed.
Thus within a few minutes the sheriff’s men were alone. Walkelin permitted himself a small groan.
‘Good. Now you have let that from you, no more complaining.’ Catchpoll did not look sympathetic. ‘At least it is all ended, and tidily so, all in all, my lord.’
‘Yes, but … the healing woman did not deserve her fate.’
‘Many a soul taken by a killer is not deserving of such an end, but God sees all, my lord, and I doubt not He looks kindly upon those who go to Him thus. And before you says it, no, we could not have foreseen it, not unless we had taken the lord Baldwin straight off, and without cause. I have been a-thinking it through whilst the maid tended you and though my head kept spinnin’.’
‘Are you sure, Catchpoll?’ Bradecote looked doubtful.
‘Aye, my lord, as sure as I can be. When we came here we got it wrong, and thought the lord Osbern was killed on his way down the hill, not on his way up, but even had we guessed so, and I cannot see how, it would not have helped us with his killer. We knew a bit after that his son, Baldwin, came to the harvesting not long afore the grey horse trotted home and was reported. Every action he took thereafter looked sound, and when we found out where he had been away, well, he would most like have come down from Alcester way and not ridden up over the top of that there hill to be in time to kill his sire. Nor did we have any reason for it, ’cepting they were tempersome bastards the both of ’em, and it was a cold-blooded killing, remember. No, we may not have liked him, but he was not our killer, not then. I grant that after finding the amber-bossed badge he looked likely, but Fulk was the more so, and it was then the healing woman met a sudden end. Fulk, well, he betrayed his lord, and betraying even a hard lord is a grievous thing. He had good cause to kill to save his skin. Meanwhile the lord Baldwin’s lies were not wild, nor easy to see as falsehood.’
‘And then there was the lord Parler, and not knowing all about him. That did not help. It all made the thing hard to untangle.’ Walkelin had no regrets about how they had dealt with the killing of Osbern de Lench.
‘We are finding excuses,’ bemoaned Bradecote, ever one for self-blame.
‘No, my lord, we are not. We are finding reasons, and I will put it down, charitable-like, that your paining wound makes you think wrong on it.’ Catchpoll gave his superior a not unkind look, which from the sergeant was nigh on a benediction. ‘It seems simple now, after it is over, to see it all, like a map laid out clear. Baldwin de Lench feared he would be declared a bastard by his father unless he married the woman chosen for him, and just when his Evesham lover was with child. He was angry and he was afraid, and when he met Osbern heading up the hill to his favourite spot, that anger led to a killing. Baldwin is the rash sort, so to imagine he had the clear head to take his father’s place on the hilltop, and then arrive in Lench from the north, would not leap into our heads, but we got there in the end. When we are in the midst of it, we are in a forest and all looks the same. That we finds our way through it is down to hard work, thought, cunning, and a little luck also. Any fool could say “Yes this was easy, how it was done,” when all is finished, but any fool would not have reached that end.’
‘Just us fools, Serjeant.’ Walkelin was rash enough to make the jest.
‘Don’t you be including me and the lord Undersheriff, young Walkelin,’ Catchpoll chided, but then he smiled, and it lengthened across his face.
‘Well, I have no wish to take Baldwin’s corpse with us to Worcester when all was to do with this place. Let him have his six feet of Lench earth. We need not see the dead buried, and so there is no reason to remain. If we leave now, I can relieve my lady of worry, reach Worcester so we can report to the lord Sheriff and be home to eat in my own hall.’ Bradecote stood, moved the fingers of his left hand and pulled a face. ‘I do not want to ride at the gallop all the way either.’
‘If we did, Walkelin here would most like fall off, or just get lost behind when his beast would not keep up. Yes, my lord, we will ride back at a gentle pace, and be glad of our own beds this night.’
It was late in the afternoon hour when Hugh Bradecote and his companions entered the bailey of his own manor. A child ran swiftly into the hall, and the undersheriff had no doubt his wife had given instruction that she was to be alerted the moment he returned. She emerged even as he dismounted, with a grimace and catch of breath. The smile froze upon her lips as she took in the binding about his forearm.
‘My lord! You are hurt!’
‘It is nothing serious, just a cut.’
‘Yet the binding runs from elbow to near wrist.’ She was a little pale.
‘A slight wound, no more. The healing girl saw to it before we departed Lench.’
‘A mere girl? But—’
‘Their healing woman died.’ Bradecote did not elaborate. ‘The girl knew her craft well enough to salve and bind.’
Catchpoll and Walkelin dismounted, and stood a little to one side of their superior.
‘It is none so deep as to weaken the sword grip, my lady, not when it is healed,’ offered Catchpoll.
‘Oh good.’ The lady now had colour returning to her cheeks, but it was an anger pink, and her tone was sarcastic. ‘My mind is now eased.’
‘I swear it is nothing that need upset you, my lady.’ Bradecote smiled at his wife. ‘You need not fret upon it. It was just what happens in matters like this.’
‘But look at Serjeant Catchpoll. He has been involved in such matters for what, a score years or more, and he is still standing and looks to be hale and whole.’ She ignored Walkelin’s muttered comment on the serjeant’s knees and continued with barely a pause for breath. ‘You have been appointed barely more than a year, have a scar across your chest, nearly dr
owned in the Severn and now have this. Stop being some foolishly brave warrior … some haeled who throws himself thoughtlessly into danger.’
Catchpoll could not quite hide his grin, but Christina rounded upon him, pointing her finger accusingly.
‘And what were you about, Serjeant, allowing him to get into that danger?’
‘Well, on this occasion, my lady, I was in a fair way to being dead had not my lord arrived most timely and taken up the fight. I was stunned, and besides, I cannot be for ever holding him back for fear of a little scratch and …’ Catchpoll realised his mistake as the words left his lips.
‘You call that a little scratch?’
‘Could be a lot worse, my lady.’ This was also not the right response, for the lady took a sharp breath but then spoke very deliberately.
‘Yes. It could. So know that I hold you responsible for my lord’s safety, since he will not have a care to it himself.’
‘I do not need a nursemaid,’ objected Hugh Bradecote, half amused and half irritated.
‘Be quiet. This has nothing to do with you.’ She was trembling a little, filled with anger, and an even greater fear of what might have been.
For a moment all three men looked stunned, then their eyes met, questioned, and finally answered.
‘I will do as you command, my lady,’ replied Catchpoll at last, in the colourless voice Bradecote was used to hearing when Catchpoll had no intention of obeying.
‘It would be nice to be met by a solicitous wife,’ opined Bradecote, softly, and then she turned back to him, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Might I enter my hall and take a little wine?’
His regretful tone and plea did what remonstration could not.
‘Oh, my poor lord. Yes, yes. Lean upon me and …’ Suddenly the termagant was the epitome of the caring spouse, though in the event it was more that she leant upon him. Catchpoll and Walkelin did not follow. Catchpoll had a fair idea he and Walkelin would be offered good ale by Alcuin the Steward, and besides, this was a time for lord and lady to be alone.
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