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

a servant to carry it. As it was, he dismounted in an odd mix of scramble and care. He was frowning.

‘What has happened? Mother, how comes my father is dead?’ He looked to the lady de Lench, now wringing her hands again, but before she could give answer, his half-brother took two strides to him and hit him across the face. He staggered back, and the hawk flapped in alarm and to regain its balance.

‘You know what happened. Sweet Jesu, there is even blood upon your sleeve. Did you actually watch? Did you get so close you could be sure he was dead?’

The youth blinked, and when he spoke his voice had risen an octave in fear.

‘The … the blood must be from a pigeon that Superba took. I let her enjoy one and kept a brace for the pot. If I had seen our sire in danger I would have come to his aid. It is my duty.’

‘Aid? What aid could you be?’ spat Baldwin, derisively. ‘You can barely wield a sword without whining that it makes your wrists ache. Would you spout Latin at an attacker, or plead with them to be gentle? You could use a dagger, though, if only you could bear the sight of wounds, or mayhap this shows you are not so blood-shy as you have pretended. Was the blow that killed him yours?’

‘He could not do so. He loved his father, and his father loved him’ The lady de Lench rose in defence of her son.

‘Giving in to your pleadings for generosity and gifts was not love.’ Baldwin leant forward, his eyes narrowing. ‘You will not get away with it, stripling. You hear me?’

‘My lord, think straight, I beg you.’ Fulk the Steward, still holding the sagging body of Osbern de Lench by the shoulders, spoke up. ‘There could be no cause for Young Messire to do such a thing. What gain would there be?’

‘He speaks true. What gain is there to me in our father’s death? None. It is you who gain.’ Hamo pointed a wavering finger at his half-brother.

‘I have been the heir of Osbern de Lench from the moment I was born. I have no more reason to wish his end today than yesterday or ten years past. I do have greater reason to grieve than all others, though we raised our voices at each other sometimes.’

‘My lord, this death must be reported to the lord Sheriff, William de Beauchamp, and to the lord Bishop also. He will not permit thieves and cut-throats to go unpunished in the shire. He will find out the truth of all.’ Father Matthias spread his hands, placatingly.

‘I know who did it,’ growled Baldwin, ‘and if William de Beauchamp wants to take his corpse—’

‘No!’ cried the lady de Lench, stepping to stand in front of her son. ‘It is because you hate him, hate me, nothing else. Hamo, get you to the church. Pray for your father’s soul, and you, Baldwin, I defy you to drag any from their prayers and kill out of malice only. Shame upon you. Your sire lies cooling, barely an hour dead, and you are thinking only of yourself. Think of him. Let us all think of him. You ride to Worcester, Fulk, to the lord Bishop and lord Sheriff, and ensure the lord Sheriff or his deputy comes back here. We ought to set about a hue and cry, for at the least some sign may be found of which way the killers departed, and if strangers are seen from Evesham way, they can answer if they have seen anyone who looked lawless or not.’

‘It is my manor, not yours, lady. I give the commands.’ Baldwin clenched his fists.

‘Then act the lord, not the jealous brother,’ she flung at him. ‘If I give commands it is because you have failed to do so.’ Her bosom heaved, and her eyes, eyes that had spent years being downcast and submissive, outstared the new lord of Lench. It was he who coloured the most, and he who looked down. She felt guilty but elated, and it showed. When Baldwin raised his eyes again, he saw that look.

‘When my father is buried, think where you will live, lady, for it will not be here, I swear it. Your dower is a miserable hole my sire never saw but once and pissed upon when he did. So I make you welcome of it and expect to see you crawling back to your own sire, and oh, how little he will want you. A nunnery might be best, then you can pray for my father and for your son’s soul.’

‘You cannot harm … Fulk, ride swiftly to Worcester.’ Her brief confidence evaporated in an instant, and Fulk looked to Baldwin. After all, he was the lord, and his master now.

‘Yes, go away and tell all. But if you are not swift there will be no need of sheriff or men. You can tell William de Beauchamp that, from me.’

‘And what about the harvest, my lord?’ An aged man, rather bent and lacking his front upper teeth, asked a pertinent question. Deaths or no deaths, the harvest was vital and the weather not likely to hold fair.

‘We bring it in. That is what my father would have said, and I say it also. Leaving it so we starve next summer does neither his soul nor our bellies any good. Back to the Great Field, all of you, and no time for whisperings and gossiping.’

A few minutes later and Baldwin was alone at the oaken door of his manor house. He ran his hand through his hair and closed his eyes, just for a few moments.

Chapter Two

‘I do not see it as sensible at all, my lord.’

Hugh Bradecote stood with folded arms and a look which could best be described as obdurate. His wife’s cheeks reddened with anger and she was ready for an argument.

‘I will not see you put yourself at risk, Christina.’

‘What possible risk could