Bradecote looked at the lady, who shrugged and gave a sad sigh.
‘Tomorrow or the next day, does it matter, except to me, his mother?’ She sounded defeated, as beaten in spirit as in her body.
‘I came to ask how you did, lady.’
‘As you see, my lord. Pain is transitory, shame lingers. Even if I could have remained here before, I cannot now. After my son departs, I will also.’
‘I do not think you will be judged, not as you think.’
‘But God will judge,’ added Hamo, unhelpfully, and as a matter of fact.
‘God judges everything we do, messire, and our charity as well as our sins.’ It sounded a little priestly in the undersheriff’s own ears, but the youth was irritating him.
‘I give generously, my lord.’
‘Of things, but what of thought?’
‘Of thought?’ For a moment Hamo looked puzzled. ‘Ah, you mean not thinking badly of people. Well, I do not think that I do. I see what is, that is all.’
It was a lost cause. Hamo de Lench did indeed see, but never understood how ordinary folk thought. Bradecote gave up. What did occur to him was that if everything came together as looked likely, Hamo de Lench would not be able to depart on the morrow for Evesham, since the manor would be passing to him if his brother was destined for a noose. It was not something that could be declared beforehand, however, so Bradecote just shook his head and rather lamely instructed the lady to get as much rest as she could. Then he left and went out into the sunshine once more. The sparrows were chirruping and taking up trampled and shaken grain from the days of harvesting, making their own store of strength for the cold months that today seemed so far distant, and above them the martins and swallows added their high pitched voices. Just for a few minutes Hugh Bradecote let himself be enveloped by an English summer; then Walkelin emerged, staggering, from the stable. His face was sickly pale, in marked contrast to the scarlet trickle of blood that coursed down from his forehead and ran down the side of his nose. He tried to stand upright but simply collapsed into the dust, as the sparrows flew up in alarm. Bradecote rushed forward.
‘Walkelin!’ Bradecote went down on one knee, hauling the inert form into a sitting position. Walkelin screwed up his eyes.
‘Hit me. Gone.’ No more explanation was needed at that moment. Bradecote yelled for aid, and after several shouts Fulk emerged from the barn.
‘Look after him,’ commanded Bradecote, loosening his hold upon Walkelin, who slumped a little forward, hands braced now upon his knees. The undersheriff rushed into the stable, bridled his grey and did not even bother to saddle it, trusting to his horsemanship for the sake of speed. It was only as he left the bailey that he realised that he had no certain knowledge of where, or indeed why, Baldwin de Lench had suddenly fled. Had he planned to do so and simply bided his time for the best opportunity? Why might he have thought he stood in any greater danger of being taken now than yesterday? Bradecote tried to think calmly, even as his heart raced. Baldwin could not have overheard what the oldmother had said, for he had not stayed for the burial. That might have sent him to Evesham and his lady-love, and then on in some mad flight but to what end? Lench, and lordship, would be lost to him, a man who for whom that meant so much. And there had been none who saw Catchpoll depart except … Edmund. Bradecote focused his thoughts. Yes, a sort of logic would work if that was the case. He threw himself off the horse and ran back towards the barn, leading it and calling for Edmund. The man came out looking frightened.
‘Did the lord Baldwin speak with you today?’
‘Yes, my lord. I told him of my son.’
‘And did he ask any question of you?’
‘Only if I had seen the serjeant, and I said as he had gone to Tredi—’
‘Thank you.’ Bradecote interrupted him. ‘Give me a leg up.’ The grey was on the fret and sidling at all the shouting. Edmund threw the undersheriff onto the horse’s back, and this time Bradecote left the bailey already leaning forward over the animal’s withers and urging it to speed up the trackway to where the hill path left the Evesham road. As he rode, gripping tightly with his knees, he prayed. All morning his prayers had been for Serjeant Catchpoll to be swift, but now he implored Heaven that he might have been delayed. It took but a few minutes to reach the hilltop, though there was no sign of a horse or rider there, and he slowed to a trot as he took the descending track to the north, very aware that an ambush for Catchpoll could as easily be launched upon himself. At the first bend, however, he heard a cry and a thud, and kicked his horse to charge forward. Ahead of him Baldwin de Lench stood over a prostrate form and he had a large stick raised in one hand.
‘Halt there!’ screamed Bradecote, hoping the words alone might buy him a few precious moments. De Lench did halt and swing round, in time to be thrown back as Bradecote launched himself from his horse on top of him. The pair were equally winded, and Catchpoll was in no condition to move, so for a brief time there was a tableau of three men lying sprawled in various attitudes upon the twig-strewn earth. De Lench seemed first to recover, and rolled the undersheriff, who
