Blood Runs Thicker by Sarah Hawkswood (best english books to read for beginners txt) 📕

‘But that is not quite proof, surely?’ Walkelin had been listening intently.

‘Not of why, but since we had no doubt she did it, and none other had cause or way of doing it, it was good enough. The manor went to the elder son, Osbern, the man now dead. He must have been no older than sixteen, I reckon. The younger son, Roger, was given the manor that came from his mother at marriage, and somewhere not in the shire. Osbern was always “Osbern of Lench”, not “Osbern Herce”, presumably because he felt it was unlucky. Did not mean he avoided a sudden death though, after all.’ Catchpoll gave a grim chuckle, as though he felt a man trying to avoid his wyrd was foolishness.

Despite the sheriff’s men making best speed to Lench, it was early evening when the trio arrived in the village, and they slowed to a walk to follow a cart through the gateway into the bailey. A lad was leading the oxen, and a gathering of villagers followed it, the oldest and youngest to the rear. They all had stooped shoulders and lagging steps.

‘The harvest waits for none,’ murmured Catchpoll.

‘True enough, and I wish I was at home for my own, but there.’ Bradecote knew there was no point in worrying about it, for Alcuin the Steward was as trustworthy as they came, and his lady would, whatever he said, be taking an interest in how much progress was made each day. It was the better part done as he left. It struck him that this scene was so ordinary that it was hard to imagine they were about to seek the killer, or killers, of the manor’s lord.

A man emerged from the hall, a man looking worried and even more tired than the harvesters. He nodded at Catchpoll in recognition and made obeisance to Bradecote.

‘My lord Undersheriff, I am glad you are here. The lord Baldwin is within and the lady de Lench.’

‘And no hangings yet.’ Bradecote did not make it a question, merely a seeking confirmation.

‘No, my lord, not that it has been easy … Glad I am that you are here. Messire Hamo is in the priest’s house, away from the eye of the lord Baldwin. Kenelm,’ the steward jerked his head at one of the younger men, ‘take the lord Undersheriff’s horse and the others thereafter. I will take you in to the lord Baldwin, my lord.’ He bowed again to Bradecote, and did as he said.

The hall was as all halls, rather dark and pleasantly cool after a warm ride. Upon the lord’s seat at the end of it sat a man perhaps ten years younger than himself, judged Bradecote, and a man unused to the position. He gripped the oaken arms rather firmly, and half rose before thinking it better to assert his own authority by remaining seated. It did not bother Bradecote, though he heard Catchpoll’s hissing intake of breath. Serjeant Catchpoll was very jealous of the importance of the office of undersheriff.

‘I am Hugh Bradecote, the lord William de Beauchamp’s undersheriff, with Catchpoll, the lord Sheriff’s serjeant, and Walkelin, trusted man.’ Bradecote thought it showed Walkelin was not just a horse-holder but would not mark him as someone the servants had to treat with caution and in whose presence hold their tongues. He felt, rather than saw or heard, Catchpoll’s approbation.

‘Baldwin de Lench, lord of Lench,’ responded the seated man, and totally ignored the lady sat a little to the side of him.

She was fair, rather pale, and had a look that was half fearful and half proud. Not used to being lady of the manor either, thought Bradecote, assuming she was Baldwin’s wife, for she looked younger than her years.

‘I would have word with your hus …’ Bradecote halted as her eyes widened in shocked surprise, and Baldwin de Lench interrupted.

‘I am not wed. That is my sire’s grieving widow.’ His voice dripped with sarcasm.

‘My apologies, lady, for the error. I would not distress you with hearing details you might otherwise prefer to remain unknown to you, so perhaps you would care to withdraw to your solar.’

‘My solar, not hers,’ muttered Baldwin.

‘What details might upset me when I have washed the body, seen the wounds, my lord Bradecote?’ Her voice was soft but did not waver.

Catchpoll sighed. He far preferred corpses untouched by respectful tending, for he could learn more from them, but it was a natural thing to have done.

‘If you wish to remain, then—’

‘I do not want her present.’ Baldwin stood up. ‘She will interrupt to keep telling you her son is nigh on a saint.’

‘No saint, but not so great a sinner, and not one who would kill his sire,’ she riposted.

‘Then I will speak with you both, one after the other, and to your son, my lady, after that.’ There was such animosity between the pair that Bradecote thought nothing would be achieved with them together. ‘But first we must see the body of Osbern de Lench.’

‘He lies before the altar, my lord,’ said the widow.

‘Thank you. We will not be long.’

‘I shall come with you.’ Baldwin looked suspicious.

‘No. A corpse is treated with respect, but it is not fitting for kin to have to observe.’ It had been a hot day, but Bradecote thought the stiffening after death must be setting in by now. ‘We will not be long.’ He nodded, as though dismissing them, and turned upon his heel. He had asserted authority, and only the low mutter from Baldwin showed that the new lord of Lench had realised too late that it had been imposed.

The church was silent except for the sound of a lone voice chanting in Latin, which faltered as they opened the door and stepped within. A priest with greying tonsure turned his face to them and gave a respectful nod, then finished the prayer and crossed himself before rising from his knees. He noted Bradecote’s garb and demeanour.

‘You