‘I would say as you have made a good act of being a man who does not expect to be ignored, my lord,’ conceded Catchpoll.
‘Aided by you and Walkelin all the while. You think I have not noticed how obedient you are when he is present?’
‘Does no harm, my lord.’ Catchpoll smiled, slowly.
‘No, and I am well aware of the truth beneath, you insubordinate old bastard.’
Catchpoll chuckled, and the smile lengthened to a grin.
‘I tries, my lord, I tries.’
With which the pair of them left the hall into the cool dawn, which had the faintest of chills to remind them that September was fast approaching.
The stable was warmer, and Bradecote’s big grey greeted his master with a soft, low whicker of recognition and pricked ears.
‘No, not you, my friend,’ whispered Bradecote, rubbing his soft muzzle, and passing on to bridle Catchpoll’s mount as the serjeant saddled it.
‘I’ve not been out of the shire far eastward very often,’ remarked Catchpoll. ‘I can find my way across from Stratford though, I’ll be bound.’
‘I know Shipston lies on the road that runs south-west from Warwick, so keep heading south-east until you hit that road and then follow it southwards.’
‘I’m too old to go galloping about like young Walkelin,’ the serjeant sighed.
‘But young Walkelin has not the skills to be sure of finding out what we need, not this time.’
‘No, but he is learning well, my lord, I will say that for him.’
‘He is, and a good choice he was, red hair notwithstanding.’
‘Aye, ’tis a pity about that, but at least he has the brains beneath it.’
Catchpoll led his horse out into the yard and heaved himself up into the saddle. It was then they noticed Edmund, husband of Gytha, sat slumped against the wall of their cott. He was always easy to recognise, being, like Walkelin, red-haired, though his was more chestnut than flame. He scrambled to his feet as he saw the undersheriff, but his obeisance was perfunctory.
‘How goes it within?’ enquired Bradecote, cautiously, lest there be bad news.
‘Slow. They’s sent me out for bein’ no use to ’em, and I think I would’ve slept better had I stayed out all night and risked the dew wetness.’ The man looked haggard and Bradecote wondered how much worse his wife must look. ‘But it must be close now, surely, and horrible to hear.’ As if to prove this, a groaning, anguished cry came from within. ‘Like a soul in torment it is.’
‘Ah well, women are stronger than you think,’ offered Catchpoll, and then looked down at Bradecote. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, my lord. Just hope I doesn’t get lost and ends up in Warwick.’
‘You’ll find your way. Off with you.’ Bradecote slapped the horse on the rump, and it trotted a few paces and was then urged into an easy loping canter. Another deep, howling groan came from inside the cott and Edmund covered his ears. He therefore missed the sound of a higher pitched voice, urging, commanding. Bradecote did not catch the words but knew it was the voice of the girl Hild, and it was not nervous or supplicating. In this, her own form of trial, it sounded as though she was winning. Bradecote gave up a silent prayer for her victory.
The road that led from Worcester to Stratford was good king’s highway, not some half-overgrown track. From Alcester onwards there were still signs of the road the Romans had laid, the straightness and even some good cobbles, though now there were many parts where cart, horseman and even the fluctuations of British weather had worn it down, and earth had covered it, with weed and grasses giving it disguise. At such an early hour there was little sign of humanity upon it and Catchpoll saw more deer and fox and weasel than man until the last mile or so into Stratford. Once he had forded the Avon he asked a maid with a chicken under her arm if he was heading still upon the right road to Shipston, and followed her pointing finger with a word of thanks. He found it as straight as before and made good time, halting only to confirm he was upon the road from Warwick when he came to a junction. The carter he spoke with even gave him the good news that Tredington lay direct upon the road and before Shipston itself. Nevertheless, he reckoned he had been riding for three or four hours, when he finally dismounted, and his stiff legs made a good case for it feeling more.
The manor of Tredington was clearly not the caput of any honour. The hall was simple as had been at Bishampton, a longish building in stone to the height of a man’s thigh but no more, and above that a timber structure with infill of daub and wattle and a thatched roof. Catchpoll announced himself as the serjeant to the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire, seeking the steward. He was come not to trespass upon the jurisdiction of the lord Sheriff of Warwickshire, but to seek information that would help the discovery of the killer of their lord, Osbern of Lench. If his first words had meant little, this stopped all who heard it. They stared at him.
‘He’s dead?’ a young man asked, and it sounded as if he wanted to hear an affirmative.
‘And buried yesterday. The steward now, I—’
‘I am the steward.’
Catchpoll turned, and beheld a thin, care-worn-looking man, with stooping shoulders and rheumy eyes.
‘Then I would ask my questions first of you, steward, and privily.’
‘Will, take the serjeant’s horse.’ The steward addressed the young man who had spoken.
‘But should I not—?’
‘You can join us when you have seen to its care.’ The youth scowled, but nodded, and came to take the horse from Catchpoll, and the steward resumed with the serjeant. ‘We can speak within the lord’s
