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

Bradecote laughed then, and was still laughing as they entered the dimly lit hall, but the laughter died instantly as he saw Baldwin de Lench standing next to the sick man. His back was towards them, but his fists were clenched.

‘De Lench.’ The undersheriff’s voice was very calm, though he wondered if he might have to spring forward. The lord of Lench turned, showing them a grim visage.

‘I do not see why you want to hear his lies,’ he growled through gritted teeth.

‘Your trouble, de Lench, is that you make a decision based on thin air, and then hold to it as if a holy vow. You decided this man was guilty of your sire’s killing because he wore his hat and refused to believe what he told you about paying for it. Do you think only you are able to speak true? Are you so wondrous in your own eyes?’ Bradecote could not keep the sarcasm from his voice.

‘And are you?’ returned Baldwin de Lench, in no way abashed. ‘You want things to be some sort of tangle that you have to be so clever to work to its end, when plain truth stares you in the face.’

‘What’s staring my lord Bradecote in the face this moment is a man who does not know when to hold his tongue.’ Catchpoll felt the slur was upon the whole process of discovering truth, and it flicked him on the raw. Baldwin de Lench’s eyes turned to the serjeant, and his lip curled.

‘Are you his bark?’

‘No, but I can bite,’ snarled Catchpoll, stiffening, though Bradecote raised his hand slightly to keep him from any escalation in the antipathy. How well it might have succeeded was debatable, but at that moment Winflaed the Healer entered, with her youthful aide behind her.

‘Heaven be praised, my lord, if the man stirs, yes?’ She bustled forward without waiting for an answer, and almost barged past Baldwin de Lench to place her hand against the man’s cheek. She patted it gently, and he moaned. His eyes remained closed, but the undersheriff came close and spoke to him anyway.

‘Can you give us your name, friend? Your name?’

There was silence, but just as Bradecote stepped back, thinking nothing would be said, the man’s lips parted, and he breathed a word. It was half groan, but discernible.

‘Edgar.’

‘And where do you live?’

‘F’avel.’ This came more upon a sigh. ‘Where … is … this?’

‘Lench.’ Bradecote wondered if the man might have no recall of the previous day’s events. It would be a blow if he had no memory of any of it at all.

Edgar, the man from Flavel, ran his tongue slowly over his lips. Old Winflaed the Healer watched him closely.

‘Let be a while, my lord. You has his name and the poor soul will be better for a draught of warmed ale and herbs, and mayhap then can answer more to you. God be thanked he has his wits and breath in his body.’ She crossed herself, but Baldwin de Lench made a derisive snorting sound. She glanced sideways at him and shook her head. ‘There now, my lord, you’ll be getting yourself into a fever if you let that anger boil away inside of you. I dare swear you have not slept well these last nights. ’Twas ever thus, and no fault of yours, of course, with sire and dam both of so hot a temper, and neither ever happy to let a thought, once in the head, creep away if ’twas wrong, though it cost them dear. Let me brew you a calming draught and weave a cross of lavender you can take to your bed this night and thus sleep sound. It will soothe your mind.’

‘My mind does not need soothing, and I am not an infant to be dosed with whatever witches’ brew you stir up.’ He stared at her malevolently and turned on his heel, stamping his way to the door. ‘I will be atop the hill,’ he threw back over his shoulder, as if daring the undersheriff to forbid him. The woman stood very still, and then turned to Bradecote.

‘He speaks in heat, my lord, for he is a man of heat. He has never understood the laececraeft, though he has been grateful at times for the treatments. I learnt it from my mother, and she was the fifth generation in this place, healing the folk beneath the hill and in the manors about. Good Father Matthias would surely shun my salve that he rubs in to ease his hipbone ache if it came of evilness.’ The woman was clearly aggrieved. ‘God sees all, right enough, and is pleased that we who are able to ease the pains and ills of this life do so, and give Him thanks for the plants and our knowledge. Never have I harmed a soul, nor a beast neither, and if some has stepped beyond life then it was their time and the Will of God. I can but do my best.’

‘And it is appreciated.’ Bradecote let his face relax into the hint of a smile but paused before he spoke again. ‘Your salves for broken skin and bruises, have you often had cause to use them within this hall?’ He waited, for the old woman was staring at him intently, gauging what she might say and what he might do with the knowledge. Eventually she nodded.

‘My lady is one who bruises easy, mind. There’s some as does and some as has thick skin. The lord Baldwin, like his sire, has thick skin in so many ways, excepting where it comes to taking offence. The lady is the opposite. Long-suffering she is.’ There was something in the way she said it that intimated at more than just her character. ‘There now, my tongue outruns my wits.’ She turned to the girl, who was frowning, not quite understanding the undercurrents but aware they existed. ‘Be a good girl and go and set a pot of ale over