‘Fair enough, my lord, but not quite as clear as it seems. There is always the chance that someone else put the badge in the box, and …’ Catchpoll still frowned.
‘But only the priest and the healing woman knew of it, and you do not suspect either of them, do you, Serjeant?’ Walkelin sounded incredulous.
‘No, that I do not, but I am never totally sure that those who claim to have spoken nary a word about somethin’ are speaking true. They might think they have been silent, but it is very easy to let slip a detail and not know of it. It is just possible there was someone who knew. We have to bear it in mind, even though just that.’
‘You are right, Catchpoll. We must consider, but nothing more, and now we speak with young Hamo, who appears to have calmed as quickly as he rose to fury.’ He strode to the solar door with Catchpoll right behind him and Walkelin several paces to the rear, not totally sure if he was included or not.
Within the solar, Hamo de Lench was sat upon a stool, leaning forward and with his hands clasped together loosely, his shoulders hunched. His mother fussed over him, and the youth’s expression was one of put-upon adolescence, resentful and yet still obedient.
‘So you have never possessed the badge from your sire’s hat, messire?’ Bradecote saw being direct as the best, if not only, way of dealing with Hamo.
‘Oh, I have, but that was years past. My father pinned it to my cap once, when I was a small child. It made holes in the cap, for it was too heavy.’ Hamo sounded as though he felt his father ought to have foreseen that eventuality.
‘But not since.’
‘No, my lord. It was his badge, for his hat.’ This was a conclusive reason to the youth.
‘And your box?’
‘That is mine, and none see within it. None, not my father, nor mother, nor Baldwin, nor—’
‘Yes, we understand. Nobody looks in your box.’ Bradecote interrupted, lest every member of the community should be named. ‘How came you to be in the lodging of Father Matthias? You had gone hawking, so I was told, against my instructions.’
‘You did not say I might not go hawking.’
‘Not specifically.’ Bradecote sighed. This was becoming tiresome. ‘But I said that you should not leave the manor.’
‘And I did not. I had nothing to do, so I went hawking. Superba was restless also.’ Hamo looked a little confused. Why was he being asked this? Bradecote wondered why he was bothering also.
‘So it was to exercise yourself and the hawk. Yet you did not say that you were going.’
‘I did not see you. If I had seen you I would have said.’ Hamo sighed.
‘But you did not enjoy your sport for long, did you.’ It was not put as a question. ‘You returned to find your box and contents strewn about.’
‘My hawk was unwilling, and there was nothing to be gained, so I came back. Then I found out what Baldwin had done.’
‘And had we not come in when you and your brother were fighting, would you have killed him, if you could?’
‘Baldwin is stronger than I am, but … we do not get on.’
‘Yes, we gathered that. But you do not answer me, messire.’
‘Killing is wrong, murder killing.’
‘But you were blood-angry in the hall.’
‘Was I? I did lose my temper I think.’ Hamo shrugged, and looked to his mother. ‘Was I very angry?’
‘Yes, my son, you were.’ She sounded exhausted by the altercation.
‘Baldwin should not have opened my box, and indeed he damaged the lid.’ Hamo’s sense of injustice was strong, but the sheriff’s men were not looking into the damage of a box, and Bradecote picked up on something else the lordling had said.
‘The last time you saw the badge it was upon your father’s hat, on his head, the morning he was killed.’
‘No.’
‘But you said—’
‘It was on his hat, but his hat was in his hand, in his fist, all crumpled.’
‘Ah.’ Bradecote gave a half sigh of relief. ‘You saw him here in the hall, and he was shouting at your lady mother. Do you know why?’ Having heard Hamo’s brief but straightforward answers to other questions Bradecote did not think that he would lie over such a thing.
‘I … he often shouted. He shouted at me, at Baldwin, at … but I think he was angry because …’ Hamo frowned.
‘My son does not understand the relationship betwixt a husband and wife,’ murmured the lady and coloured a little. ‘Osbern treated any refusal of … even when I could not help … it made him angry. His rights were not to be denied.’ The blush now turned her pale cheeks crimson. ‘My lord, I would not care to discuss the matter here, this moment.’ Her eyes moved to her son, softened, but her mouth formed a twisted smile. ‘You will permit—’
She got no further, for a boy of about eleven burst in without even knocking. His chest was heaving, his ears, which stuck out from the side of his head and parted a tangle of sandy hair, were red, as were his eyes, which were round with horror.
‘She’s dead!’ he cried, in anguish, his voice tear-heavy.
‘Who is, lad?’ Catchpoll’s was the voice that calmed.
‘Mother Winflaed. I found ’er in the Far Coppice. The pigs was rooting there today.’
‘Fair enough. Now, you take us to see where she lies.’
‘It was not me.’ The boy seemed to feel that the weight of the law would fall upon him.
‘We knows that. Now, lead us.’
‘I will speak with you, alone, later, my lady.’ Bradecote, grim-faced, nodded to the lady de Lench, whose mouth was agape, and the trio
