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

‘You may be more comfortable in your solar, lady,’ said Bradecote, gently.

‘Yes, I … I thank you, my lord.’ She led the way into the solar and Bradecote followed, indicating that Catchpoll keep a little back by the open door between it and the hall. It felt less intimidating with the sheriff’s men apart, yet he would be able to hear all that was said and speak also. She sat upon a seat, with a low back and arms which she gripped as if they gave her strength.

‘I am not here to frighten you, my lady, but to find out truth.’ Bradecote looked squarely at her. ‘Your lord was killed by someone who knew his habits, and who had cause to wish him ill. It was someone he recognised.’

‘It was not my son. Hamo would not kill his father.’

‘I did not say that it was. But we have no idea of who liked or loathed the lord Osbern.’ It gave her the chance to advance alternatives to it being her child.

‘Osbern was not liked, my lord Bradecote, by anyone, when truth is spoken. He was a difficult man to like. He was respected, and by some he was feared, but he was not liked. Yet many people are not liked and still they are not cut down in blood. He was pious, for all his anger. The new church you see is proof of his generosity to the Church, and he prayed, every night he prayed, silently, before he retired, sometimes with tears upon his cheeks. I never saw him humble before any man, but I would give him his due and say he was humble before God.’

‘Was there any man whose dislike might have given rise to hate? One may spring from the other.’ Bradecote was watching her face and realised that she was already struggling to keep the image and impression of the man who had been her husband until yesterday. He was becoming some dream, lost upon waking.

‘Raoul Parler, who holds Flavel from William de Beauchamp, the lord Sheriff, has been in discord with him these three years over something that Osbern would never discuss, and Walter Pipard, who has the one half of Bishampton from Roger Pichard, long ago declared that he would not permit Osbern to set foot on his land upon pain of death. Mind you, those two are at odds themselves, neighbours but not neighbourly. There were bad words between Osbern and Corbin FitzPayne, over at Cookhill, but he is dead now, so …’

‘Do you know the cause?’ Bradecote felt a knot form in his stomach. He had not known Corbin FitzPayne, only of him, but it touched home, and Christina. He knew that Christina prayed for the soul of her late husband and had thought him a good man, but she had barely mentioned him since their marriage. Christina was a beautiful woman. Had Osbern de Lench given offence to her lord by word or deed concerning her?

‘A silly thing. Osbern bought a horse from him, and a week later it took and died of a colic in its belly. Such things happen, but Osbern kept saying he had been cheated and sold a sick horse.’ She shrugged. ‘It could be so with him. Anger need not have roots of truth.’

Hugh Bradecote relaxed. Christina had said nothing when Osbern de Lench’s death had been mentioned, but her heart was in the present and her dreams of the future, and the past she had consigned to the past. She may indeed never have known of the horse or its demise.

‘I see what you mean about not liked, my lady.’ Bradecote paused for a moment. ‘How was he with his son, your son? Harsh? Cold?’

‘No.’ There was vehemence in her tone, too much.

That was a lie, or at least half a lie, thought Bradecote, and he sensed Catchpoll on the alert.

‘My lady de Lench, your son Hamo was not here when your husband was killed, and none can vouch for where he was. The lord Baldwin seems very convinced it was, if not Hamo’s hand, then Hamo’s silver, that was responsible for the death.’

‘That is just jealousy, hatred. Baldwin was the one Osbern shouted at the most. Always yelling at each other they were, and it was Baldwin that Osbern had sent to his manor at Tredington, over by Shipston. He said it was to see that the steward did not panic and cut the harvest far too early, but I know it was to let his blood cool. He was refusing to accept the match that my lord thought fitting for him.’

‘But Baldwin was here, came from the harvest here, when the grey came home riderless.’ The undersheriff was patient.

‘I was nearly as surprised seeing him as I was the horse, my lord, for I had no warning he was returning.’

‘He did not sleep here the night before?’

‘Oh no. He was at Tredington, as I said, and had been for over a week.’

Catchpoll was thinking, going over exactly what he had been told, and his face screwed up in concentration.

‘My lord, we was not told a lie over this, just nobody was asked. The lord Baldwin said he came from the harvesting, that is all.’

‘Yes.’ Bradecote did not want distracting from learning the relationship between Osbern and his younger son. He kept his eyes on the lady. ‘If father and elder son scrapped like dogs, how was it between Hamo and his sire? Did they argue also?’

‘Hamo does not argue with people. When he is angered it is frustration. He is a quiet boy, solitary. He has spoken of entering the church at Evesham, and I think it would suit him.’

‘He is pious, like his father, lady?’ enquired Catchpoll.

‘He … he would like the order, the calm of each day following the same pattern, the absence of chatter and small things. He likes to know.’

‘Know? Know what?’

‘Everything.’ It was her turn to frown, her smooth white brow furrowing. ‘Our son