‘But Baldwin was born some years before her death.’ Catchpoll was surprised.
‘Let him think … he found out late.’ A slight smile touched lips that had a blue tinge. ‘Osbern said once … I could do nothing.’ She coughed. ‘He was wrong … in the end.’ She took several rapid, shallow breaths. ‘I did not know … he would … after all … ’twas the mother as strayed then. I did not set him … to kill. ’Tis wyrd.’
‘Aye, mistress, it is just wyrd and none of us can avoid that.’
‘Should I confess …? I …’
‘I cannot say. If it gives your mind and soul ease, the priest will be a good listener. Thank you.’ Catchpoll squeezed the hand, and let it go, getting up with a grimace at his creaking knees. He went to the doorway, and spoke quickly and low to the priest, who nodded and went back to his watch.
Will was standing in the yard. He had seemed confident when Catchpoll arrived, but now looked younger and less sure of himself. His face was clouded.
‘My mother?’
‘She gave good honest truth and breathes still. Why not go to her?’
‘I … I am not brave enough.’ Suddenly the mask of maturity slipped. Catchpoll clapped him on the shoulder in the manner of an oldfather.
‘Yes, you are, lad, because you are a man, and it is the act of a man to face what he fears, and because it is the last gift you can give her, your presence, your hand. You run from that now and you will regret it always. Your father,’ Catchpoll did not pause for even a breath, ‘has duties as well as this, and one of you should be there now. She is giving a confession, but stand you by and close, and when you hear the absolution, you go in to her.’
‘Yes. I shall.’ Will took a gulp of air that was part sob, and then blurted out, ‘His love is carrying his child.’
Catchpoll did not need to ask who ‘he’ might be.
‘Is she now? Well, that is betwixt him and her, I say, so you just keep it nice and quiet, and look to your father in the days to come, for he will need a good son in his days of grief, as you will need a good father.’ Catchpoll patted the shoulder once more, and went to the hall where Guthlac sat as he had been left.
‘All is well, Master Steward, and the priest is with her again. I have said to your lad to go to her, and forgive me, I would say as you ought to be there soon. It won’t be long now, by my guess.’
The steward just nodded, and Catchpoll went to fetch his horse, not relishing the long ride back, but confident he had all that the lord undersheriff would need.
He rode at a decent pace but was sensible enough to realise that forcing his horse to speed early on would leave it exhausted for the last miles, and curbed any urge to ride headlong. The steady canter also gave him the chance to go over and over the import of what he had learnt, making sure every last part of it fitted together like the shards of a broken jug. The steward’s wife would be long-buried before she could give her oath on what she said, but she had no cause to lie, and he would vouch she then confessed all to her priest, which was as good as oath if one was dying and needed full absolution. What was more, the boy-man that was her son had the final reason why such a revelation might just tip a man to killing a father he feared, hated and admired all in one.
Stratford seemed closer on the return ride, and certainly more lively. There was a woman wringing out her washing at the water’s edge on one side of the ford, and a group of noisy children, stripped bare, splashing water at each other on the other side. The blacksmith was shoeing a horse, while the owner leant against the wall under the shade of the thatched overhang, and a girl was trying to shoo a goose from pecking at her skirts. It was peaceably normal, the way a serjeant liked things to be, even if it was not in his own jurisdiction.
He ran a finger along the inside of the neck of his tunic, feeling it sweat-wet, and let his horse halt and drink in the river’s flow before urging it onward.
The sun was a little past its zenith when he passed through Alcester but he knew he would soon be in his own shire and that eased his saddle-weariness. He headed south-west to pass through Abbot’s Morton and then kicked his now-sweating horse to take the shorter route and go up the top of the lord Osbern’s hill to drop down into Lench. There was no reason to assume anyone would be there among the trees as he neared the top, and when suddenly a horse came at him from the side and rear he had no time to more than turn at the hoofbeats before he was shoved sideways to land, dazed, in the dust. For a moment he was dizzy and disorientated, and then he looked up and saw the face of Baldwin de Lench, and the stout branch gripped in his hand.
Chapter Seventeen
Hugh Bradecote sat upon a bench in the hall, tying up his blanket roll and with his thoughts elsewhere. Until Catchpoll’s return there was little he could do, except keep the lord of Lench from committing acts of violence. What concerned him was the thought that the serjeant might return with nothing that would turn possibilities, opportunities and instincts into something solid that would remove any doubt and make any
