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

‘Fair enough.’

The pair went to the church. Father Matthias was not present, and there was a stillness in the very air itself, as though not one mote of dust had moved since sunset. The priest had brought in bunches of lavender and wild garlic, clearly as a precaution. Mortality was not a good smell, and one best avoided, since it lingered almost as a foul taste in the mouth. They genuflected before the altar and then turned to unwrap part of the shroud from the now-coffined corpse of Osbern de Lench. It made things more difficult, but Catchpoll seemed to be able to reveal the face and upper torso without making it obvious that the body had been disturbed. Bradecote thought, not for the first time, that the dead soon looked as though they had never drawn breath at all. Catchpoll touched the fatal knife wound, pale lips of parted flesh where no lips should be.

‘The death wound is simple enough, but one meant to kill, not injure so that the man might be robbed and left to die. The killer wanted the life from him, and got it. We must hold that in mind, my lord. They truly wanted him dead, which means a strong reason to kill him. Then they struck twice to make it seem less planned, but without a killing madness, no vengeful strike.’ He sighed. ‘Reminds us that talk of robbers is just talk, or a trick to keep us from the real reason for the death.’

‘Yes, the theft of the clothing was indeed a false trail laid for us, but does it make the question of the hat more interesting?’ Bradecote rubbed his hand about his chin. ‘Of course it might just be the colour was thought to draw the eye too much.’

‘We cannot be certain of whether it was thrown away on its own until Walkelin returns, my lord, and only then if he comes with a smile upon his face.’ Catchpoll rearranged the cloth with such care that even the priest would not have seen that they had been there, and then looked directly at Bradecote. ‘So after the burial we speaks to the villagers. Do you come the high and mighty and let me act the willing vessel into which they pours their rememberings?’

‘Well, that way the easily overawed will speak with me, and the others you catch when they are less wary. I want to come into church when all are assembled, and we watch from the rear. I doubt Father Matthias would welcome us stood like acolytes at his shoulders, and though we cannot see faces for the service, we shall see them as they depart.’

‘Fair enough, my lord. Where would you have us go till then?’

‘Back to where the body was found, I think, though it will gain us nothing but thinking time.’ Bradecote sighed. ‘I hope we glean something from a villager.’

‘Well, I will leave Winflaed the Healer to you, my lord. You have a way with older women. The way she looked at you last night you would think she was about to get more ’n a smile off you.’ Catchpoll chortled at his superior’s horrified expression. ‘No?’

‘No.’

With the harvest in, there was a sense of relief in Lench that even the presence of their lord’s corpse in the church could not diminish. In the end, who had power over them was of less interest to the villagers than knowing they would not starve next summer. They would pray dutifully for the man’s soul, but none would have their heart in it. The lord Baldwin, wanting things to be done properly, but with an eye to keeping the villagers at work, wanted the funeral rite administered without them all standing dusty and coughing from threshing in the barn, so the service and burial were early. As undersheriff and serjeant came back onto the Evesham track the church bell began to toll, slowly, though it was a small bell and its note was bright. They arrived in time to follow Fulk the Steward and be before the family. Baldwin de Lench looked solemn, almost haunted, and walked first. Behind him by several paces came the widow and her son. The lady was veiled, and Bradecote thought it must be concealing not grief but a mixture of relief and uncertainty. Hamo de Lench looked as unconcerned as he would simply attending Mass.

The sheriff’s men stood at the back, observing rather than taking part beyond the required responses. Speaking with the villagers was for afterwards, but watching them, even without seeing their faces, gave an overview. There was quite a lot of shuffling of feet, and women looking sidelong at other women. Father Matthias made much of the lord Osbern’s piety and ignored the less appealing aspects of his character, as funeral orations were wont to do. He did mention, briefly, that whilst man was mortal and death a part of the cycle of life, this death had been the result of an act of evil, and God would punish the offenders whether they faced earthly justice or not.

‘So is he hinting we will fail, or saying it does not matter if we do?’ whispered Catchpoll, out of the side of his mouth.

‘Could be either, or both.’

‘Well, my prayers are we succeed, my lord.’

‘Amen.’

Walkelin was enjoying his ride back to Lench, and not only because for once he felt he was doing less work than the horse beneath him. Serjeant Catchpoll had said that if he wanted to be greeted with favour he should return with good news, and he therefore hoped to be met with commendations.

He had gone first to Abbot Reginald, thinking it polite to seek permission for his questions, though as he opened his mouth he realised that should he be denied he would find himself in a difficult position. Returning to Lench to tell the lord Bradecote and, far worse, Serjeant Catchpoll, that ‘the lord Abbot would not see me’ would earn