Blood Runs Thicker by Sarah Hawkswood (best electronic book reader txt) 📗

‘Right by the body, but no doubt the hoof prints are mostly my father’s mare’s. Fulk and the two men arrived, out of breath and some time after me, of course. You may see where the hurdle was laid upon the ground to place the body upon it.’ Baldwin de Lench seemed suddenly to have sloughed off the anger that filled him in the hall, and it was noticeable. Well, thought Bradecote, the very first shock was ebbing, there were others to take up the burden of discovering the killer, and he might just have reached the strange numb stage of grief, if grief was strong in him. Most likely it was that he was away from the lady and the young half-brother whom he must loathe. Here, in the warm onset of a late summer night, the mantle of lordship had truly fallen upon him, and those two did not exist. There was only the hooting of an owl and the final rustlings in a rookery as the birds settled to rest – sounds which went beyond the generations of men, their births and deaths.

‘You say he was facing skywards, on his back. Was there anything about him, beyond the wounds, that you recall? Anything particular?’ Bradecote saw Baldwin de Lench’s frown, one more of irritation than perplexity.

‘I did not think beyond his death. He was my father, and he died by a man’s intent.’

‘Must have been bad, my lord, with all that blood.’ Walkelin did not look up, but shook his head, sadly. Catchpoll hid a smile. The lad really was learning the craft.

‘Blood is blood, and I have seen it, but the undershirt was very wet with it, and I do not know about his leather tunic, for it was one open down the front, and besides, it is gone.’

‘A good cloak for winter, a fine leather coat, such would I be glad to have if not too stained.’ Walkelin knew his path and kept to it, but Catchpoll, on his hands and knees, raised one finger in covert warning. Go no further.

‘Who is to say why they near stripped him?’ Baldwin de Lench sounded annoyed now. Men-at-arms were to be spoken to, not there to offer views. ‘Does he always bleat so much?’ He looked at Bradecote.

‘Not if he doesn’t want a boot up his arse.’ Bradecote kicked Walkelin, casually, though the blow was more a push to the buttock with the sole of his boot. Walkelin obligingly fell over, muttering. De Lench looked more approving. It was clearly the way he treated his inferiors if they displeased him. ‘Mind you, the question is valid.’

‘Robbery was just a way of covering up what happened, my lord Undersheriff. Mayhap they took more than what might be of use just to make it all the clearer. Had they but stolen his boots it would seem wrong.’

It was not an unreasonable suggestion, and Bradecote nodded, as if he agreed. ‘It fits.’

‘Of course it does. That miserable stick of a youth that I am assured is my half-brother by blood is crafty, not bold of hand. He would watch, yes, but prefer that to striking the blow.’

‘Why do you say it was him?’ Bradecote sounded interested, not sceptical. It encouraged the giving of information.

‘Because he was not in the Great Field with the harvest, nor in the hall. He was out hawking, and alone. He came home after the body was brought in and was all agitation, but that was an act. He is sly, and he cares for nobody, not even his own mother much. I have seen him look at her, look as if she was some mystery he could not unravel. He watches always, speaks but little and is as poisonous as an adder. He killed my father, had him killed.’ The man sounded sure.

‘But why?’ Serjeant Catchpoll did not fear a boot, not only being patently more senior than a man-at-arms who might get his arse kicked, but also being further away, and looked up. ‘My lord, paying others to kill is not hot blood. It is a plan, with a reason. So why?’ He sounded respectful, which Bradecote knew was not something he did by nature. This was as much an act as the kicking of Walkelin.

‘I am not the lord Sheriff’s man. It is your task to discover that. I am just saying it was him. I know it.’

The tetchiness, thought Bradecote, might actually be natural to the man.

‘Seen enough, Serjeant?’ He sounded commanding.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Then we return to the manor. The light is going anyway.’

The quartet walked back in silence. In the hall the candles had been lit, and Fulk the Steward was talking to a maidservant bearing the clear remains of a meal. It reminded the sheriff’s men that they had empty stomachs. There was no sign of the lady de Lench.

‘Where is she?’ growled the lord Baldwin.

‘My lady was tired and had the headache, my lord. She begs your forgiveness, my lord Undersheriff, and has retired for the night.’

‘The bitch! She just wanted to keep the lord’s bed. Serve her right if I pull back the curtain and—’

‘She is your mother, my lord.’ Fulk sounded horrified.

‘She did not bear me. There is no blood between us.’ Baldwin sneered.

‘Holy Church’s words,’ the steward chided.

‘Do you obey all of Holy Church’s words, Fulk?’ The sneer lengthened.

Fulk blushed, and lowered his gaze.

‘Well, I will not make her share my bed, but nor will I share my solar with her and sleep in the other bed. Not tonight. My hall is at your disposal, my lord Bradecote. We sleep here when we have eaten.’

Sleep did sound a good idea, and food even better. Bradecote doubted Catchpoll or Walkelin had taken more than the odd beaker of small beer and perhaps a crust since first light, and he had certainly not done so. He had no intention of waking the lady, but hearing about her son from her might give another view before they spoke with