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

it was the one up under the ribs into the heart as did for him in moments.’ Catchpoll spoke quietly.

On the cleaned and cold body the wounds looked rather unimportant, just a few places where the pale skin was split for the width of a knife blade, one low in the belly, one upper right and one a little wider just below the ribs and slightly to the side on the left. There was something wrong about them as a group. The undersheriff opened his mouth to speak but Catchpoll jumped in first.

‘No other marks upon the body, my lord.’ Catchpoll’s voice was devoid of any emotion. If this was all that the serjeant had gathered from the body, Bradecote felt he would sound far less unconcerned. There was more, but Catchpoll was not going to discuss it now.

‘Thank you, Serjeant.’ It was his turn to sound wooden. He turned to address the priest. ‘We can leave you and the mortal remains of Osbern de Lench in peace, Father.’

‘I could have told you as much as you have learnt, my lord. I was with the lady when she washed the body.’ The priest sounded mildly peeved, as though a deceit had been wrought upon him and he could not work out what it was. ‘There was much blood in the undershirt, and both dust and dirt all over him from where he must have been dragged to the ground by whoever set upon him, and the three wounds.’

Catchpoll coughed. As signals went it was hardly subtle, but the priest was thinking of his dead lord and not attending.

‘The law needs to see, not just hear, reports,’ said Bradecote, by way of reason and dismissal, and sounding as official as possible. ‘Sometimes we notice things others miss.’

‘Ah yes, I see.’ This seemed to cheer the priest a little. It was just the way things were done. He understood ritual. ‘God aid your discovery of the wicked.’

‘Amen to that, Father.’ Bradecote gave him a tight smile and walked out into the evening warmth. Catchpoll and Walkelin followed. The trio did not head straight back to the hall, but walked to the stable and went within, where only the horses’ ears twitched to listen to them.

‘Well, Catchpoll, why were those wounds all wrong, and what else did you learn from the lord Osbern de Lench?’

‘Not enough, but then it is rarely enough and more questions than answers, though it gives us a start, my lord. It gives us a start.’ The serjeant pulled one of his ruminating faces. ‘I sort of need to start at the end. The priest assumed the body was dusty because some lawless men dragged the lord Osbern from his horse and did for him on the ground. Nice idea if lawless men were ever there, but I doubt that, a lot. We will see well enough when we gets to see the place he died.’ He paused for effect, but Bradecote only raised an eyebrow. Walkelin did not hold back.

‘But there were three wounds. A planned killing you would think would have one clean one, but robbers are hasty.’

‘There is something not right about the wounds though, Walkelin.’ Bradecote frowned. ‘Three different places and the knife held with the blade horizontal for all three. Random yet no haste.’ He shook his head, and Catchpoll sighed.

‘You have it that far but no further, my lord, eh? Those wounds alone show us there were no robbers. If a man is brought down, heavy and sudden, from a horse, you would think there would be some mark, a scuff of skin, just somewhere, though I grant that is not most important. What is important is those wounds. For a start, the two into the belly went in straight, stabbed down into his innards, blows to a man lying on his back. But the thrust that killed him was delivered upwards, not straight as if down into the chest of a man on the ground, Besides, most robbers would more likely slit a belly or throat, or drive the knife straight down through the windpipe, from what I have seen of their ways.’

‘So the wound that killed him was the first, and when he was mounted.’ Bradecote frowned. ‘The other two were after death and just for show. That was it. They made no sense because they were with intent but no passion, no anger. I had expected several close, repeated blows, slashes, battle wounds. He was not ambushed, and he let his killer in close, so he knew them. Were they on horseback too?’

‘The wound was a little towards the side, and none of the horses in this stable other than yours, my lord, is a tall beast, nor was the lord Osbern a lanky-bodied man. I reckon as the knife was thrust in at about five and a half feet from the ground. Walkelin, get on that horse there, the grey.’

‘You are more his height, Serjeant,’ mumbled Walkelin.

‘But I am stiffer of limb, so up with you.’

Walkelin did a little bounce to lean over the horse’s withers and scrambled onto its back. It turned its head to stare at him but did nothing more than stamp a foot.

‘There, my lord. There would be a saddle, true enough, but since Walkelin is taller than the dead man he accounts for a bit of that. Also if I pulls him a bit towards me like so,’ he reached and grabbed Walkelin by the front of his cotte and pulled, ‘the distance shortens a little. The knife entered about here,’ he poked Walkelin hard enough with a finger for him to grumble, ‘and even though striking upwards would have far less force from a man on the ground, what it went through was soft flesh into the heart, not breaking bones. Not saying it is more likely, but any man of reasonable height could do it.’

‘So we still only have that he was killed by someone on a horse or on foot. Doesn’t