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

‘No, nor do I, despite the depth of that loathing. If none saw him when he was sick in his hall then we cannot be beyond doubt, but no. Not least because there could be no sense in killing the man so many years after the cause.’ Bradecote paused. ‘What do you think about the accusation though? Might Osbern de Lench have killed his first wife?’

‘He might, my lord, but as the man said, that is down to the judgement of God, who knows all.’ Catchpoll crossed himself reverently.

‘But your gut instinct?’

‘It would help if I had ever met the man alive, but from report and from looking at the son,’ Catchpoll screwed up his face, ‘I think he probably could have done for her. I am not one to say couples that shout at each other, even throw things, end up one killing the other, not at all, but the word of the woman who saw the horse with the loose shoe means a lot.’

‘And mayhap that is why the lord Osbern built his new church, in penance.’ Walkelin spoke up, loudly. He felt left out as well as a bit left behind. ‘As he got older he might think upon what is to come and seek to make up for his sin.’ He paused. ‘And to save up the silver, of course.’

‘Personally, I cannot see building a church atones for killing one’s wife, but …’ Bradecote shrugged. ‘It is a cost in silver, just stone and mortar, not a living being. For killing in battle, as my sire said was imposed upon those before him who fought at the Battle when the Conqueror claimed the crown, yes, perhaps, but not a murder killing.’

The other two men were silent at that, not because they disagreed, but because the mere thought of atoning for a sin in more than prayers and penitence was beyond the imagination of those who would never count their silver wealth in more than could be cupped in their two hands. The sky was growing dark, and Bradecote glanced towards the west. The cavalry of cloud was galloping towards them from the Malvern Hills, which were now lost in a blue-black greyness. A rumble of thunder made his horse twitch its ears.

‘The dead man’s distant past is not important now.’ Catchpoll grimaced. He was going to get wet.

‘Unless it is like with poor Ricolde the Whore, and the killer has only recently returned and seen he still lived.’ Walkelin was thorough in thought and learnt from his experiences.

‘Not easy in the countryside where any newcomer is talked of for a week until all is mulled over like an ox chewing the cud.’ Bradecote understood village life as no town dweller could.

‘So the man is not of the countryside, my lord. He is, say, in Evesham. He heard that Osbern de Lench lived, and his old hate burned anew.’

‘And all these years later he recalls that the man rode up his hill every noontide?’ Catchpoll shook his head. ‘No, that has to be one leap too far. All we have is a reason to think better men than the lord Osbern de Lench have met a violent death, and that Raoul Parler might be responsible, but Walter Pipard is not.’ He urged his horse into a canter, following Bradecote’s example, and Walkelin gave up speech to kick his horse.

They would have had to have galloped hard to reach Lench before the rain, and their horses were spooked by the storm breaking close enough for the thunder to have a crack in it that gave it more than just menace. Forked lightning streaked across the heavens, and as they approached the village, heavy gouts of rain pocked the dry earth at their feet. In the couple of minutes it took to reach the bailey their hair was plastered to their heads and rain was running down their necks. They had expected to find it empty, for sense said everyone would have sought cover, but a scene as violent as the weather met them. Half the village seemed gathered in a semicircle. In the middle of the bailey a man was cowering, trying to curl himself into a ball as he was whipped, his cotte already split and showing scarlet where the lash had slashed his skin like a bear’s claws. Baldwin de Lench, yelling as if vying with the thunderclaps, raised his arm and struck again, and then began kicking the prostrate form. A flash of lightning came to earth close enough for a woman to scream, and the thunder followed hard upon it. Baldwin looked up as Bradecote himself cried out for him to halt, raising a face white with anger and something strangely akin to fear.

‘Sweet Jesu, you’ll kill the man,’ cried Bradecote, leaping from the saddle to stand in front of the now-twitching heap of humanity.

‘He has his hat!’ screamed Baldwin. ‘And he gives me nought but lies as to how he got it. He killed my father.’

Catchpoll dismounted also, a little more slowly than his superior. He doubted Baldwin de Lench was in any mood to listen to reason, so he did not bother. The man was focused on the undersheriff and the victim of his wrath, not the serjeant, who came close from one side and punched him very hard in the solar plexus. Baldwin doubled up.

‘He might listen now, my lord,’ suggested Catchpoll, calmly.

‘Get him into the hall, and the poor bastard he is trying to kill. Everyone else go home. Now!’ Bradecote had no doubt of being obeyed. They went. Walkelin and Bradecote lifted the injured man between them, as Catchpoll prodded the lord of Lench with his sword’s point to follow, still bent and gasping for breath.

‘Give us more light here!’ cried Bradecote, entering the gloom. The lady de Lench emerged with a branch of candles from the solar, her hand trembling, her face pale and her free hand rather pointlessly covering one ear.

‘What