Against the Tide Imperial: The Struggle for Ceylon (The Usurper's War: An Alternative World War II B by James Young (story reading txt) 📕

few feet. A man stood before them, built well enough to be labouring, but he stared at them with opaque white eyes and saw nothing. Bradecote repeated himself.

‘I am come to speak with the lord Raoul Parler.’

‘He is not here, my lord.’ The man heard the command in the voice, the expectation of obedience.

‘He is with the harvesting?’

‘No, he is not here. Would you speak with the lady?’

‘Yes.’

The blind man let them in, and walked, with a stout stick sweeping before him, to the hall. He entered and called for his lady. A female voice came from the solar, and a woman then emerged, a woman easing her back as she came, for she was some way advanced in pregnancy. From the solar came the noise of squabbling children, several from the voices. Some women, thought Bradecote, flourished with childbearing. In others it drained them as though each life that emerged left less in the mother. This was such a woman. Her whole being looked worn, aged before the years, and though her belly was rounded, her limbs were thin and her face gaunt. She also looked worried.

‘I am Hugh Bradecote, Undersheriff of Worcestershire,’ began Bradecote, and she turned white and collapsed in a dead faint before them.

‘Well, I have never seen that happen before, just because you gave your title,’ remarked Catchpoll, as the undersheriff went swiftly to kneel at her side and rub her hands, speaking her name.

‘What has happened?’ asked the blind man.

‘Your lady has fainted. Women carrying can do that,’ Catchpoll explained.

‘Aye, especially if given a shock. She will have thought you are come to say he is dead, the lord Raoul.’ The blind man sighed.

‘Why think that?’ Bradecote was watching the first trace of colour return to the pale cheeks.

‘Because he left without warning, morn of two days since, after hot words, and she does not know where he went or why. She pleaded with him not to go, but he left and at speed.’

‘Had he been sent some message?’ Bradecote enquired as the lady stirred.

‘That I do not know, my lord.’

‘Do not be distressed, lady, I bear no ill news, at least not of your husband, I swear it.’ Bradecote’s voice was all sincerity.

For a moment she stared up at him, uncomprehending, and then she took a deep breath which was exhaled as a sob. Bradecote felt guilty, though he could not have guessed his words would be met with such a reaction. Her eyes, focusing upon him, still held a fear. He tried to help her sit up, but she actually pushed him away as anger took the place of her trepidation.

‘Leave me alone.’ One hand slid to cradle her swollen form as she sat, paused, and then called to the blind man. ‘Come to me, Siward.’

The man crossed the chamber as her voice guided him, and he felt her hand reach up to touch his.

‘Help me rise, slowly.’

He bent, his arm strong. She got carefully to her feet, ignoring the sheriff’s men, thanked Siward with a soft word and took her seat upon the slight dais that stood proud of the rush-strewn floor.

‘If you come not to cast me into despair, why are you here, my lord Undersheriff?’ She was mistress of herself now, and guarded.

‘I come because Osbern de Lench lies in his church awaiting burial, and he died by the hand of another.’

She crossed herself, though her hand trembled very slightly.

‘God have mercy on his soul.’

‘Your lord and he have not been good neighbours these last few years. I wanted to ask him why that was so. I find he is not here, and not seen since the day before yesterday. Osbern de Lench was dead about yesterday noontide. You can see why I find that of interest.’

‘Then your interest will be short-lived, my lord. My husband can have nothing to do with the death of the lord of Lench, though it will not be sad news to him …’ her voice wavered for a fraction of a moment, ‘when he returns.’

‘But if you do not know where he has gone, you cannot know he is not involved, lady. Why were they at odds? Do you know?’

‘I know that Osbern de Lench was a betrayer of trust.’

‘In what way?’ Bradecote watched her face. She was reluctant. ‘In what way, lady Parler?’ A hint of steel entered his tone. She wavered, crumbled.

‘He had sworn to support King Stephen, but after Lincoln he went back on his oath.’

‘After Lincoln many did so, thinking all lost.’

‘It is true, but …’

He could almost read her thoughts. Parler held the manor from William de Beauchamp, whom the Empress Maud had shown favour after Lincoln. Would his undersheriff report back and place her lord at risk?

‘Lady, I doubt not that the lord Sheriff knows his tenants and their allegiances. In these times I think he would ask only that they do not plot against him. After all, he is still the lord Sheriff, and King Stephen still holds the throne.’

‘My lord would not waver. He stays true.’

‘But there is more.’

‘Yes, but I am not privy to it. Truly, my lord.’

‘Were they both at the battle, at Lincoln?’ There was brave combat that day, lord upon lord and on foot as in the old days of the shield wall, sword and axe. King Stephen himself had wielded a great axe, and cloven helms and flesh with it. Yet there had likely been betrayals also, personal betrayals. When the man at your side steps back to let an enemy strike you, or worse, strikes foul himself, then that is treachery beyond changing allegiance to a king or an empress. That would not be forgiven.

‘Yes. My lord was wounded, lost two fingers of his left hand when an axe went through his shield. I do not know anything of the lord of Lench.’

It was only a possibility then, but more likely than simple disloyalty. After all, King Stephen’s own brother had changed sides when the King was captured and