‘You mean …?’ Bradecote turned in horror to look at his serjeant.
‘We leaves this to women,’ declared Catchpoll, evenly, and turned to leave, the sound of Gytha’s groan following them.
In the open air the undersheriff took a deep breath.
‘I’ll get the girl Hild and whoever else would be with her.’ Catchpoll did not look in the least perturbed, though Bradecote had paled a little. Having lost a wife to travail almost exactly a year past, and with the prospect of his new lady passing through that particular ordeal in but a few months to come, well, he might just be forgiven a pale cheek.
Catchpoll did as he said, and Hugh Bradecote leant back against the warm daub of the wall of the cott. Another cry of pain came from within, louder now the woman felt able to express her agony. He offered up a prayer, heartfelt, for this woman in her time and for his Christina, when hers came.
Hild appeared, as pale as he was himself, and with her oldmother, who looked a little like her sister in shape but not in features. Hild carried a basket covered with a cloth and did not acknowledge his presence in any way but moved on past him. He was not affronted. The girl had far more urgent things in her head than politeness. Behind them came Catchpoll.
‘Right, my lord, I do not see more can be learnt from Gytha, and I saw her husband. He looked confused, to be honest. Did not know whether to be eager, worried or miserable. As of now I suppose the middle one. I never saw him as dangerous and he was in full view with the harvesters. It does mean she could have heard the lord Raoul’s horse, not the lord Baldwin’s, but that is not much use to us either way.’
The oldmother emerged from the cott and did remember to dip in obeisance to the undersheriff.
‘Sorry, my lord, she forgot the vinegar. My sister swore by it.’
Bradecote was wondering if the labouring woman had to drink vinegar, and why. His curiosity made him ask the question, and the old woman laughed.
‘Bless me, no, my lord. It is to rub the end of the cord when the babe be born. Winflaed, God rest her,’ she crossed herself and sighed, ‘said it helped it shrivel clean.’
‘I pray it all goes well.’
‘Aye, as do I, my lord. Poor girl, she will have a hard time of it.’
‘It is likely to be a difficult travail?’
‘Ah no, my lord, I meant my Hild. It is her first.’
‘And the woman Gytha’s also.’
‘Yes, but … she has good broad hips and is strong. I just hopes as her size does not mean there is two. For the both of ’em.’ The oldmother tutted and went to find the missing vinegar. Another tortured cry came from within, and the undersheriff moved away. It was a distraction he did not want.
Chapter Thirteen
Riding back to Worcester, and being depended upon yet again to make discoveries and decisions on his own, filled Walkelin with a bubbling excitement. He would go directly to the castle stables and return the horse, and give orders that the animal belonging to the lord of Lench be ready for him upon his return. He smiled to himself. Yes, this was Walkelin, erstwhile just a man-at-arms, going to give orders to others. He felt he had somehow achieved a rank, not that of serjeant of course, but above his previous station. It was also good that the information which gave the name and location of the lord Raoul Parler’s woman had come through him. This was his part of the tangle to unravel and make plain. He did not gallop as if the Devil were on his tail, but he made a good pace, and the horse, which he silently blessed, was willing and fleet of foot.
As he approached the castle from the Sutheberi gate he could see the gates were open, and could not resist urging his mount back into a canter and entering with a degree of speed and purpose. He dismounted with urgency, and called to a man engaged in no more than picking his nose to have the horse rubbed down and stabled, and to have the animal from Lench held ready.
‘I am on my lord Bradecote’s orders, and to be swift,’ he announced, in a confident voice. It was, he felt, the spirit of truth even if the lord undersheriff had not actually spoken the words. He was pleasantly surprised by the man’s obeying without a word. This was command, and he must now look like a man who commanded. Alnoth the Handless called him Master Walkelin, and although being looked up to by a beggar was not much, it was a start. As he turned to go out into the streets, he glimpsed a shapely figure emerging from the kitchens. It was not, he decided, wasting the lord Bradecote’s time if he smiled and raised his hand at his own favoured maid. Eluned gave him a saucy look, and, having checked nobody else was watching, Walkelin blew her a kiss and winked.
Serjeant Catchpoll had told him where Leofeva, the Widow Brook, was living, and it was not long before he was knocking upon the door. It was not much of a place, and
