Catchpoll hid a smile at that, for from what he had seen of lords they would get away with whatever lawbreaking they could and claim it as some right of their rank.
‘Also,’ continued Bradecote, ‘if ever a hand is laid upon the widow in Worcester I will come first knocking upon your door, and will need very good proofs it was not you, or if any man of your description is ever declared where a woman has suffered injury, there or … here. Your name and reputation will be remembered, by me, by the lord Sheriff and by Serjeant Catchpoll here. We have long memories.’ The undersheriff turned to the lady Parler, who did not look, he thought, entirely shocked or surprised by her husband or his attitudes. He wondered, yet again, why she had been so desperate to see him return safely, why she had been prepared to lie for him today. He stepped towards her and saw her press herself a little more against the oak. He made her a small obeisance.
‘I have disturbed your hall, lady, and am sorry for that. Few men have such loyal wives or are as undeserving of them.’ He could not help but voice the question, ‘Why would you—?’
‘Some women are strong. I am not. There has to be a man, and they seem little different, one from another.’ It was barely even a whisper and sounded resigned, tired. It occurred to Hugh Bradecote that in some ways she was little better off than the Widow Brook in Worcester.
‘I wish you well for the babe to be born. Perhaps, with so many sons, you will be blessed with another daughter for company.’ He smiled, but she gave no echo of it.
‘Why would I wish that? Daughters are not valued.’ He had the idea that she was assuredly not valued now, but nor had she been before she was wed to Parler. There was nothing else to say, but he vowed to make it quite clear to his Christina that a daughter would be a blessing if a daughter it was, and that she would be as loved as Gilbert, or any other son. He bowed again, and turned to Catchpoll and Walkelin with a small nod. Walkelin opened the door and they passed out into the sunlight, their eyes narrowing in its glare. None of them said a word until they had ridden from the village.
‘I said he was a nasty bastard,’ commented Walkelin. ‘Why did you not say we would bring him before the justices for what he did to the Widow Brook, my lord?’
‘No right o’yours to know,’ chastised the serjeant.
‘Tell him, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote felt suddenly tired of Parler and beaten and defeated women.
‘Well then, young Walkelin. If we was to take him up before the justices, two things would happen.’
‘Yes, Serjeant?’
‘Yes. The first is that the Widow Brook would deny anything ever happened, and the second is that the justices would say they were very sorry to that nasty bastard and make our lives a misery, through the lord Sheriff, for upsetting him.’
‘I knows that, sort of.’ He did, but he wanted to believe someone more senior might be able to change things. ‘But I saw her face, Serjeant.’
‘And what has that to say to anything?’
‘It’s not … fair.’
‘Fair? Life’s not fair. If it was, the godly and innocent would live long and happy lives and those like him would die young and badly. You may have noticed that it is not the way things happen. So we makes the most of what we can. The lord Bradecote did the best we could for Widow Brook, aye, and for the lady also. They threaten, men like that one, but we out-threatens ’em. He won’t get within a mile of Worcester for months and will for sure never get within speaking distance of the widow.’
‘You know, Serjeant. I am glad I am not a woman,’ remarked Walkelin, thoughtfully.
‘So are we. You would never run fast enough in skirts.’ Catchpoll grinned, but Bradecote merely gave a small smile.
‘It seems very unlikely that Raoul Parler stuck a knife in the lord Osbern, not least because he did not meet him, and since a man had been seen on the hilltop, he had obviously already been and gone. So the answer lies in what I thought back in Lench, before we set out here, and that is that we have the thing back to front.’
‘My lord?’ Walkelin look puzzled, but Catchpoll groaned.
‘Should’ve thought of that.’ The serjeant swore.
Walkelin looked from one to the other.
‘But does it fit for Parler, my lord?’ asked Catchpoll.
‘Not sure it does. We need to work this through very, very carefully, and if truth be known, my head is too full of today. We have had Parler, the box and the badge, the man Edgar and the death of Winflaed the Healer, and now all this. I am sure it is important, and it will get us to the end, but … I do not want to make any mistake, and it would be too easy.’
‘Ah.’ Walkelin had come, he thought, to the right conclusion. ‘I suppose it works, but does it not make it more strange that the Healer was killed?’
‘Yes, a little, which is why we sleep upon it, and why we will keep a very good eye upon Baldwin de Lench, just in case we are right.’
Any hopes Hugh Bradecote
