‘My lord, I think what the lord Raoul said may be true enough, for among the things Alnoth told me was that he, the lord of Flavel, keeps a widow in Worcester.’
‘Oh aye, and who would that be?’ enquired Catchpoll, with interest.
‘The widow of Will Brook, the coppersmith.’
‘Well now, I suppose that would fit. Will’s son by his first wife has no love of the second, who is but a handful of years his senior. Comely woman she is, and no doubt had hopes of another craftsman taking her to wife, but her luck was out, for the son cast her off before it was seemly to wed again. Without kinfolk it is not easy and I thought she must be taking in more than washing, but whoever it is, he is not from within the walls of Worcester.’
‘Which all means it is very unlikely that Raoul Parler had anything to do with the death of Osbern de Lench. You stay here, Walkelin, after all.’ Bradecote rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. ‘The best thing to do now is to speak with Fulk the Steward, and away from the lady.’
‘You think he would say anything to protect her, my lord?’ Walkelin asked. ‘But it was a man as left the—’
‘We have heard that Fulk was not only in the hall when the body was brought back but has been known to be there at other times, times when his lord was upon the hill.’
‘But … he wouldn’t dare … I mean …’ Walkelin was shocked, not so much by the thought of the sin, for he was learning to see the world through a serjeant’s eyes, but at the risk.
‘Oh aye, Osbern would have flayed him alive no doubt, if had known of it,’ Catchpoll folded his arms, ‘but sometimes folk take risks that go against sense. The lady is the sort of woman many men feel protective over. Mayhap it began like that, and him seeing her treated harsh like, well he might get ideas if she showed him kindness. From there it would be but human nature.’ He sniffed, as if he was not too admiring of the idea.
Bradecote kept silent. To betray one’s lord was akin to a mortal sin before one even added the obvious sin of adultery. He could understand why even a lord less bellicose than Osbern de Lench would show no mercy to one of his men who betrayed him in such a way. Since they had already been given the hearsay that Osbern had killed his first wife for a perceived betrayal, it must mean there was no thought of that in Lench itself, for Fulk would not have risked not only his own neck but the lady’s also if the man had shown such violence before, would he?
‘If we do get Fulk to tell us the truth, it will come out slowly, if at all, and if the lady was involved, he may deny it to the end.’
‘We can only find out by asking him, my lord. I will fetch him from the hall.’ Catchpoll saw no need to dither.
‘Not here. I think admitting adultery, murder or both would be hard in the church, unless to a priest. We will go to his dwelling and await you there. With young Hamo absent it will be empty enough.’
The trio left the church as Father Matthias came to say the Office. The priest gave a slight smile and an acknowledgement to the sheriff’s men.
‘Let us hope that all will be peaceful now,’ he said, with a strong overtone of hope over expectation in his voice. As if to prove he was to be sorely disappointed there came yelling from the hall. Ignoring the priest, the three men ran to see what was happening within.
Chapter Ten
Hamo de Lench was sprawled upon the floor of the hall, his mother leaning over him, both solicitous and protective at the same time. Baldwin was staring at him, breathing hard. Even as Bradecote entered the chamber, the youth scrambled to his feet again, shouting incoherently, pushing his mother away, and launched himself at his brother, who sidestepped and kicked him hard in the backside as he stumbled past him.
‘What is—?’ The undersheriff got no further, for Hamo, wild-eyed, whipped round, drawing his knife from its hanger at his belt. There was a madness in the eyes that was a battle-rage, a determination to spill blood and a recklessness about his own. ‘Put it down, messire.’ Bradecote spoke firmly but without heat. Hamo ignored him, his eyes upon his half-brother.
‘You had no right. Nobody touches it, nobody,’ Hamo panted.
‘Hardly relics, were they. Just useless scribbles,’ Baldwin goaded, fanning flames of anger that were already a conflagration.
Serjeant Catchpoll did what was best in cases of fire; he threw water on it. There was a shallow dish set upon a trestle, with a damp cloth hanging over the rim. It had been used to bathe the brow of the injured Edgar. He picked it up and dashed the contents over Hamo de Lench. It did not calm him, but it did stop him in his tracks. Catchpoll then stepped smartly forward and, grabbing the spluttering lordling by the scruff of the neck, pulled him backwards and off balance. Baldwin, seeing his chance, advanced, but found his way blocked by Bradecote.
‘No.’ The single word of command was as curt as if to a hound. The undersheriff stared him down, and Baldwin reluctantly lowered fists and gaze. He was at least silent. Hamo was, by contrast, voluble in the extreme.
‘You had no right. It was my box, my treasure!’ he cried.
‘Treasure.’ Baldwin spat the word derisively. ‘I never heard of bits of old skin with marks upon them being treasure. They held no value.’
‘They are God’s words,’ the youth cried, piously. ‘God’s word is to be treasured.’
Whilst not
