‘It does all fit, my lord,’ exclaimed the eager Walkelin.
‘Oh, it does. My sole problem is still why he did it. We could take him to Worcester on what we have, but the justices would come and ask why it was that this man was before them. What cause had he to kill the father from whom he would inherit anyway, especially if he thought him growing tired and morbid, rebuilding the church and such? Everything he has done since has been proving he is in his sire’s mould, being the son of Osbern, and his defence of the man’s honour today is one with that. He has admitted they were often angered with each other, as men of the same temper might well be, but if it was because of the refusal to accept the mercer’s daughter as the future lady of Lench, then why did Baldwin not act earlier?’
‘What if the woman is with child, my lord? If he is determined, as he says, that she is the only woman for him, and has reason to say she is carrying, he would want that child to inherit.’ Walkelin proffered the thought, but Catchpoll sucked his teeth.
‘Hmmm, might work, ’cepting I would think he would announce the news to his father and suggest that it would be better to have a wife who could definitely bear a child than one who was unknown, and hope he agreed.’
‘Wait.’ Bradecote held up a hand. ‘Take that further. If she is with child, and he is not happy with her as his leman, he could wed her in Evesham. His sire would not be able to prevent it, and as Baldwin said, the alternative, even if Osbern wanted to disinherit him, was Hamo. We have seen Hamo de Lench. No man who cared for his land as passionately as Osbern would seek to have him hold Lench. So Baldwin would be taking a reasonable chance.’
‘But then why did the lord Osbern die, my lord?’ Walkelin sounded uncertain.
‘Because we have seen what Baldwin is like when the anger takes him, and Hamo also. So however much sense says he would accept, grudgingly, this woman in his hall, he lets temper rule him, and in the argument, son kills father.’ Bradecote sounded relieved as much as pleased.
‘Far be it from me to say you are wrong, my lord,’ declared Catchpoll, lying through his uneven teeth, ‘but what the corpse told us from looking at it don’t agree with that. There were no marks that said there had been blows other than the knife wounds.’
‘I grant you that had they met in the hall, that would be a problem, Catchpoll, but they met on horseback, and so it grew from shouting to a stab wound in one, not flinging blows at one another.’
‘And all that shouting, my lord, it did not upset the horses one little bit? The horses that stood one by the other, facing up the hill and down, did just that; they stood. If there had been an argument they would have sidled and disturbed the dust and earth more, but their feet was planted firm. Like so much in this, what sounds as though it must be so, ends up as dust.’
Bradecote swore. Reluctantly, he thought the serjeant was right.
‘Yet still it surely has to be Baldwin, and there must be a cause.’ He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he brightened. ‘Tredington. The answer has to lie there. What it could be I cannot say, nor even guess, but he came back from there and straight away killed. Walkelin, at first light you … no, this time you go, Catchpoll. I would ride with you, but I get the feeling that keeping Baldwin under control will take a lot of shrieval authority, and besides, you have the greatest experience of drawing forth information. I am trusting to that. Return as soon as you can, and then, at last, we will be able to confront Baldwin de Lench with his guilt, and enough to put before sheriff and justices both.’ He smiled. ‘You go and have the cook bring the meal, Walkelin, and we will eat and rest, ready for the morrow, when this all ends.’
‘Pray God you are right, my lord,’ murmured Catchpoll, thinking of riding to Tredington and back in a day.
‘I am. I have to be.’
Chapter Sixteen
Serjeant Catchpoll woke in the dark of the hall, and opened one eye. Thin slivers of pale light showed between the closed shutters on the narrow windows. It was the dawning hour, though he doubted the sun was over the horizon as yet. He ran his tongue round his teeth, stretched, groaned and sat up. He had actually stood up before Hugh Bradecote surfaced, though he was not trying to be quiet.
‘Catchpoll?’ The voice was sleep-laden.
‘Nearly dawn, my lord. If I am away as soon as it is light, I can be there afore the sun is too high.’
‘Yes, and if fortunate you can be back in time for us to end everything today. If I never enter Lench again I will be a happy man.’ Bradecote threw back his blanket and got up. ‘I will come with you to the stable.’ He rubbed his stubbled jaw and yawned. ‘I would rather be with you, but I think keeping Baldwin de Lench on a short leash would be beyond Walkelin, unless he knocked him cold. He simply
