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

Dismissed, the girl went upon her errand, and Winflaed the Healer sighed. ‘Not for young ears. The lord Osbern had always a heavy hand. Now, as a husband he had his rights, and I deny them not, but from almost the dawn of the marriage he lashed her with his tongue, and with hand and rod also, like he felt he was breaking a horse. Or mayhap it was that he was used to shouting but that his first lady wife had given as good as she got. In my view he wanted obedience but despised those who gave it with a whimper. My lady has never made complaint against him, nor said anything but that she had been clumsy, but I can tell a knock bump from a hard blow or a tight grip. Course I can.’

‘You sees things. A trained eye.’ Catchpoll gave her her due. ‘Which makes me think you a good soul to ask if any who ought to have been labouring in the field were not there, at the hour the lord Osbern met his death?’

‘You think one of us could have killed our lord? Would have dared to try?’ She shook her head. ‘No, though I was with the older folk gathering the sheaves to be placed on the cart, and my back was bent and aching, I tell you that. It had been a long day already, for we was out at dawn and feeling the tiredness in our bodies by noon. However, ’tis that or risk knowing hunger next summer.’

‘The lord Baldwin, when did he come?’ Bradecote did not want her straying into the effects of famine.

‘Not so very long before young Gytha came, all breathless, with the news of the riderless horse. He was making sure everyone put their backs into the work. He tied his horse’s rein to a low bough so it could crop a little grass and then he strutted about.’ It was evident that the woman did not think that this meant son could have killed father, but Bradecote sensed more than heard the small grunt that Catchpoll gave.

‘Fulk the Steward was not there.’ The undersheriff did not make this a question.

‘No, he was not, my lord, not then.’ The healing woman’s lips compressed slightly, and Bradecote thought he detected a hint of disapproval.

‘Not a time to be idle,’ commented Catchpoll, innocently.

‘I doubt he was idle,’ responded Winflaed, cryptically, but then said that she ought to go and tell Hild, her apprentice, not to heat the ale too much and destroy the goodness of the herbs. She was eager to be gone, and the sheriff’s men did not press her. In the doorway, she nearly collided with Fulk, who looked agitated.

‘Messire Hamo, my lord Undersheriff, he has ridden off with his hawk, say what I would to stop him.’

Catchpoll swore under his breath, but Bradecote remained impassive.

‘He rode out, though he knew he was meant to remain?’ The undersheriff was not going to show any emotion.

‘I told him again, my lord, but he said he was not leaving, just going hawking, and you had not said he might not do that.’ Fulk looked perplexed. ‘I suppose that might be so but … what could I do, short of pull him from his horse? And he is the lord’s brother.’ The steward ended on a pleading note.

‘Then we are going to have to wait for him to return. If he had meant to go to Evesham and remain with the monks, which is where he has declared he would like to be, he would not have taken his hawk.’

Fulk heaved a sigh of what might have been relief, and the comatose Edgar stirred again, perhaps being aware of the raised and worried voice.

‘E’gar … F’avel,’ he mumbled, moving his head in agitation.

‘Why did you not come to us when he asked for his horse?’ grumbled Catchpoll. He did not think the youth had saddled the animal himself. He was too much aware of what was for him to do and what was ‘for others’, though the serjeant would be hard-pressed to call it arrogance.

‘I … I did not think to it. He just upped and said, “I shall go hawking now,” and it fair left me witless.’

‘Doesn’t take much then.’ Catchpoll was not in forgiving mood. Fulk looked both shamefaced and aggrieved at the same time.

‘If my son says that he will do something, it is pointless to gainsay him.’ The lady de Lench stood in the solar doorway, one hand upon the oak frame. She looked calm, in command of herself and the situation, and Bradecote had not seen that before. ‘He does not see reasoning, not our sort. You would only have kept him here by force.’

‘That could be achieved.’ Catchpoll folded his arms across his chest.

‘But you have not seen how he is when thwarted. He loses himself to the frustration, the anger. I have never seen anyone like that not even my hu—’ She halted. Was it because she would not speak ill of the dead, or feared incriminating the living? It might even be both.

Footfalls sounded in the passage, and Walkelin, slightly pink of cheek where he had spurred his mount to a fair turn of speed for the last few miles, entered like a hound with two tails, as Catchpoll remarked afterwards.

‘My lord, I have news, news that aids us,’ he announced, with relish, and looked likely to launch into it forthwith, except that the serjeant interrupted him.

‘Oh good,’ said Catchpoll, but without any enthusiasm whatsoever. ‘You can tell us outside.’

Chapter Nine

Bradecote had the forethought to request that the lady remain in the hall to report if any words were spoken by the sick man, though he was aware that what he might say ought only to corroborate what Walkelin was about to tell them. He was also not quite easy about leaving lady and steward together,