‘I have brought you wine, with herbs, for I am told you suffer with a headache, my lady.’ His words were solicitous, but he was not thinking of her comfort. ‘It is said, of the weaker sex, that foul humours arise if certain needs are not attended to. One dare not imagine how the cloistered manage. But I can offer you “comfort”, my lady.’
He set the wine upon a stool by the bed, as she lay, frozen by an old but familiar dread. She wondered, hopelessly, why she should be so beset. He leant forward, his breath heavy with stale drink. As his smile became a grin, he spread his fingers and clasped her breast. She took a sharp intake of breath, which made him laugh, but suddenly it broke the evil spell. This was not something she had to put up with out of duty; he had no right. No man had the right any more. Indeed, it was an assault. Her right hand slid under the pillow, and withdrew a small but serviceable knife, which she had decided to place there the first night Jocelyn had got drunk. With her eyes upon his face she stabbed down hard through the back of the violating hand, so hard she felt it prick her bosom as it came out through the palm. She let go with a gasp. Jocelyn emitted a scream of pain, staring at the haft, then drew it out with his left hand as the blood flowed freely, and the grip changed and tightened. She saw the pain written upon his face, but more so the blind anger. He raised the knife. He was going to kill her, she could see it, and there was nothing she could do. She just stared, waiting for the icy bite of the steel, but then Jocelyn turned, unthinkingly, to the sound of a shout, and the next thing he knew he had been sent sprawling, and the knife clattering across the floor.
Hugh Bradecote had a face so grim Christina thought he might kill Jocelyn then and there, with his bare hands. He saw the blood upon her gown and his eyes narrowed.
‘Did he try to kill you as you slept?’
There was incredulity in his voice, for it made no sense.
‘Not as I slept, but he was about to do so when you—’
There was an angry growling noise from the floor.
‘The bitch put a knife through my hand, look.’
Jocelyn got up unsteadily, moving his aching jaw, and trying to staunch the blood running down his arm as he held up the injured limb. He sounded affronted. How dare she have resisted him?
‘And why, my lord,’ Bradecote’s voice was soft but chill, ‘did she feel the need to do that?’
‘I brought her wine, for her headache.’
‘Indeed, and she repaid this act of charity with violence, did she? How strange.’
‘My lord, he thought to—’ Christina interrupted.
He silenced her with a raised finger, still gazing at Jocelyn of Shelsley.
‘Tell me why, my lord.’
There was menace in the tone and Jocelyn faltered.
‘It was but light-hearted. After all, she is no blushing maid, and what would a little pleasure matter to one such as her.’
Christina made a strangled noise in her throat.
‘I see, so you would say that a widow is “fair game”?’
‘Well,’ Jocelyn avoided his eye and gave a tentative laugh, ‘she should be game enough. After two husbands, and one of those Arnulf de Malfleur? What sort of woman can she—’
Bradecote knocked him down again.
‘“What sort of woman”, you say?’ The undersheriff was not thinking as an officer of the law. In that moment the law meant nothing to him. He loomed over the cringing man, taking him by the throat and lifting him almost off his feet. ‘If the lady had put the knife through your black heart, I would have applauded her act, you apology for a man. A woman cannot be safe in her own bed with a cur like you sniffing about her skirts.’
He drew his own knife and put it to Jocelyn’s throat.
‘No, my lord, please. No more death, even him.’ Christina half crawled across the bed, her hand outstretched. ‘Please, I beg of you.’
There was a pause, a held breath. Jocelyn looked up into eyes so hard he thought their very glance would draw blood. Then Bradecote exhaled.
‘Get out, out of this chamber, out of this manor, and if I hear that you have as much as crossed her path, I will come, and I will kill you.’
‘You can’t, you wouldn’t …’
‘Oh, I would, never doubt me. Out!’
With which he dragged Jocelyn to the solar door, through the hall and actually launched him half falling down the steps.
‘Walkelin!’ he yelled. ‘Make sure the lord of Shelsley leaves immediately.’
Walkelin grinned, thinking this the end to the lord Bradecote’s ‘harsh words’ to the lord of Shelsley.
‘But it is near dark,’ complained the cowed and bruised Jocelyn, crumpled ignominiously in the dirt.
‘You have men-at-arms. If you are afraid, then ride fast.’ Bradecote looked down at the man in total contempt. ‘And if you are fortunate, you may find hospitality with the monks at Alcester, which is nearest, and has no women to tempt you.’
Bradecote turned upon his heel, and was about to go back into the hall, but stopped suddenly. There was still the matter of Jocelyn’s attempt to set them upon false trails, and he was not entirely removed from their list of suspects.
‘Shelsley, one thing more.’
The man looked at him with fear now, as well as loathing.
‘You can be sure that I shall report your conduct in Wich, as well as here, to the lord de Beauchamp.’
‘My conduct in Wich?’
‘Do not play the innocent,’ snarled Bradecote. ‘You tried to delay the proper execution of the sheriff’s business and the restoring of the King’s peace.’
‘I protest.’
‘Shut up and listen well. You were seen, not just vaguely, but well enough to be recognised.’ Here the undersheriff permitted himself a sneering smile. ‘We had the description of “an old man with a white-flecked beard, and portly” pretending to string a bow, the same man who described a chestnut horse in good detail. Where did you see that horse for real, Shelsley?’
‘I never …’ Jocelyn began, and then swallowed convulsively, and shut up.
‘Walkelin, take the lord of Shelsley into the stables and let Serjeant Catchpoll have words with him … in private.’
Walkelin grabbed the man, still scrabbling to his feet, far from gently.
‘No! I will tell true.’ Jocelyn of Shelsley was not a courageous man in the best of circumstances, and having had a woman drive a knife through his hand, for no good reason other than she was not prepared to let him have his way with her, then be knocked down twice and threatened with death, and pushed down a flight of steps, he was in no way able to contemplate being ‘mistreated’ by the sadistic-looking bastard that was Serjeant Catchpoll. ‘The horse was simply one I saw at the stables in Wich, just a chestnut horse being led out by a nobody.’
‘Invisible, was he?’ Bradecote did not look at all appeased.
‘I mean he was just a man leading a horse, neither young nor very old, thinner than me.’
‘Doesn’t say much,’ murmured Walkelin, rather enjoying the chance to revile a member of the lordly class without fear of penalty. He shook his ‘prisoner’ a little and achieved a sneer that Serjeant Catchpoll, emerging to see the cause of the disruption, considered almost as good as one of his own.
‘Well, you had better hope that meagre information helps us find him, and that he has no knowledge of you, because this case will end in hangings, and if the stretched necks are lordly, so be it.’
‘Me? Why should he know me?’ The lord of Shelsley, quivering in Walkelin’s grasp, opened his eyes wider. ‘You want to implicate me in these crimes? But you seek an archer.’
‘We let’s folk implicate themselves, much tidier,’ growled Catchpoll, folding his arms and looking as if assisting them to do that was one of his pleasures in life.
‘An archer has brought down the victims, but we think someone else has planned the crimes, and just at this moment a lord who has been keen to throw us off the scent, and one who has the potential to p
rofit from the death of Corbin FitzPayne looks a good option.’ Bradecote was still too angry to enjoy the deflating of the puffed-up Jocelyn of Shelsley.
‘But his death was not intended,’ wailed the panicking lord.
‘How do you know that?’ interjected Walkelin.
‘I mean it cannot have been. There are all these thefts of salt, after Corbin’s death.’
In truth, Bradecote still thought the death of Corbin FitzPayne a simple case of a man being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it served his purpose not to admit this.
‘That is to be proved when we bring this to conclusion. I suggest you pray hard at Alcester, and then return to your own manor and remain there. If we hear of you “wandering” it will be a good sign of guilt. Now, go.’
Jocelyn needed no encouragement, but Hugh Bradecote did not wait to watch him ride away. He turned, and went tight-lipped back into the hall, and fought to step back from the white-hot killing anger that had consumed him as he did so.
He did not knock upon the solar door but entered without hesitation. Christina sat upon the edge of the bed, her feet still bare, pressing a kerchief to the oozing cut staining the fabric of her gown at her breast. She looked up as he came in, and tried to smile, but it wavered and died on her lips.
‘Is that what men will think of me?’ she whispered. ‘Any woman who has been Arnulf de Malfleur’s is fit only to be used like a …’ Her voice caught on a sob.
‘It is not what I think of you,’ he said, kneeling before her and taking her hand, and adding, ‘nor any decent man.’ Unconsciously he took the cloth from her grip and gently pulled down the edge of the gown just enough to reveal the wound on the soft fullness of her flesh. ‘It is not deep, just a small cut, but you must have used a fair amount of force to go right through his hand.’ He wiped the welling scarlet from her flesh.
She laughed unsteadily, very conscious of his touch.
‘I did. I thought I did not have to suffer this, not this time.’
‘You don’t, not again.’ He looked into her eyes, not smiling, but reassuring.
‘I warned you, didn’t I, that if you found Jocelyn dead it would be my fault. Well, he isn’t dead, but I stabbed him. Do you want to put me in chains and present me before the Justices?’
‘Self-defence was never a crime, and when I came in he was clearly on the point of …’ Bradecote did not want to think of having arrived a minute later.
‘Yes, I know. Thank you.’
‘I did nothing.’ They both knew that was a lie, but saying ‘I saved you from death’ sounded as if demanding thanks.
‘You stopped him. You knocked him down, twice. I hope your knuckles are not sore, my lord.’
She smiled and touched his hand. It was the most tremulous of smiles, the most delicate of touches. He felt the intimacy, the wave of desire, and then there was an awkwardness that settled upon them. Of all times, this was not the time, when she had just defended her honour to the point of risking death; to take advantage would be wrong, even if part of him felt she wanted him to do so. He gave a twisted smile which was half grimace, and got up from his knees, brushing them down, embarrassed, avoiding her eyes.
‘I should go and … do something.’
She blushed. She had felt it too, the wanting him to lie with her and yet being so proud of him for resisting.
‘Yes, I understand. I will make myself presentable.’
He simply nodded, and turned to go.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ she whispered, and he felt the ‘my’ was suddenly personal.
The undersheriff found excuses not to go back to the hall until the time to eat. In part he needed to calm himself after a most tumultuous hour. Hugh Bradecote was not a man whose temper ruled him, but he had been killing mad for a few minutes. Had Christina not prevented him, he would almost certainly have put an end to Jocelyn, and without compunction. Even had his own feelings not been involved, the cur had thought to use a woman for his pleasure against her will, and prepared to commit murder because she had tried to defend her honour. Rape and murder were capital crimes, and it was only by the grace of God that she had been spared. Had he arrived a couple of minutes later … His stomach churned at the thought, which recurred in his head. And then there was that near embrace, and more. Christina FitzPayne was important to him – it sounded easier in his mind to admit only that, for how could it truly be what his gut feeling said, love, after only knowing the woman for a week? Kneeling before her, it had been so tempting to reveal his feelings, as it had been to press her back onto that bed, but the voice of sanity said it was too soon, that it was a madness upon him like a fever, and like a fever it would break. His heart told him otherwise. These two elements were in conflict, and the heart was in the ascendency. It argued with cold, unemotional sanity, in terms sanity could understand, listing those things that contributed to his feelings. He admired her spirit, though it meant she had a temper to her. He had experience of meekness in Ela, and for all there had not been arguments, she had frustrated and annoyed him almost the more for her subservience. He also pitied Christina, though she would be appalled to hear it. There was no such thing as ‘fair’ in life, he had been taught that early, but she had suffered through no fault of her own, and to a degree few had to face. He wanted to show her that life could have pleasure and laughter and, yes, that word, love.
At which point sanity told him he simply missed the comfort of a woman in his bed, and release to his body, and was merely attracted to an appealing face and comely figure. Desire, it said, was not love, but a mere physical thing like thirst, to which heart responded by saying that he had not felt ‘desire’ for any other woman in the period since Ela’s death. Sanity grinned, and declared the world was full of ugly women.
When widow and undersheriff next met, it was over the evening meat, and there was a new constraint between them. It was almost as if they had parted in anger, though it was entirely the opposite that was true. They kept within themselves, cautious of showing too much, caught between fear of somehow having misread the other and a heart-lurching belief that the inner turmoil was mutual. They avoided eye contact, Christina decorously studying the trencher before her, and Bradecote covertly watching her pale hands. Their awareness of each other, of every breath, was acute, and diminished the appetite. Conversation, what little there was, ignored what had passed that afternoon in the solar, and centred upon the character of Rannulf de Lasson, and the mystery thin man. Bradecote only remembered the return of Corbin FitzPayne’s horse when he broached the topic. Her first thought was to go instantly to see the beast, but he persuaded her to finish her meal. Since Christina only knew of de Lasson by distant repute, there was not much that she could contribute, beyond agreeing with Bradecote that the evidence had seemed damning, but the man on the chestnut almost certainly proved his innocence.
As she finished eating, and rose from her seat, Christina cast Hugh Bradecote one swift, sidelong glance. How was it, she wondered, that she could feel uneasy, actually because he set her at ease? Did she trust her own instincts so little? She felt that she saw right into the depths of the man, and there was nothing lurking to frighten her within, nor was it because he was in any way a shallow character. She sighed, which he interpreted as weariness.
‘I understand you must be tired, my lady. It has been a … stressful day. If you wish to retire …’
‘No. Please, I wish to see the horse. I am sure it is my lord’s, but I would be certain.’
‘As you wish, my lady.’
It all sounded so formal; it was unreal.
He offered his arm, unnecessarily but with gallantry, and she laid her hand upon it as he walked her out to the stables, the simple contact making her heart race, as it did his. The stable was in darkness, and he was loth to bring a rush light within for fear of fire, but with the door open the small amount of moonlight in the cloudless sky gave just enough to see the horse’s white markings reflecting the light. She advanced, speaking softly
to the animal so as not to frighten it, and it twitched its ears and nuzzled her hand.
‘This is Corbin’s horse. I know even in this dimness.’
She sighed and shuddered, leaning back against the solid warmth of Hugh Bradecote. He wanted to hold her, kiss her while none would disturb them, yet somehow, with the long face of her dead husband’s horse watching them, it seemed wrong. He contented himself with sliding his hand on her arm and taking her hand as she leant back, and resting his cheek against her coif. There was silence, but for the scurry of a rat and the stamping of a horse’s hoof. After what seemed an age, she sighed.
‘We should go in.’
‘Yes.’ He did not move an inch.
‘It should be wrong. I am in mourning,’ she whispered. ‘I should not feel … this. I have never felt this, Holy Mary, never.’
‘And I should? My son is not yet ten weeks old.’ He did not phrase it as his wife not ten weeks buried, ‘and my mind ought to be entirely upon my duty.’
‘It is not?’ She could not resist the question, though their pose gave his answer already.
‘No, you know it is not. God forgive me, but I must make it so, for lives depend upon it. Until this is over … Christina …’
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