They descended into Lench at walking pace. Of the two men living it was debatable who was the more focused upon what to do next. Catchpoll still felt dizzy and a bit sick, and the undersheriff was more than a little distracted by the pain in his left arm. His right hand was sticky with blood from staunching the wound that had soaked through parts of the binding, and he wiped it in his grey’s mane. As they entered Lench, a woman came out of her home, rubbing her hands upon her skirts, and raised one to her mouth, then called out to her neighbours. It seemed to Bradecote that everyone appeared as from nowhere and very quickly, parting as Catchpoll’s horse walked towards the bailey gate, crossing themselves, and then whispering in hushed, mumbling voices.
‘Where’s the girl Hild?’ called Catchpoll.
‘Here, but the lord be clear dead.’ Hild pushed forward, a slightly more confident Hild in the wake of the last twenty-four hours.
‘We knows that, but you get your salves and mosses or whatever, and come into the hall to tend the lord Undersheriff. Quick now.’
She paled a little, but since the undersheriff was patently conscious and able to sit upon his horse, she consoled herself with the fact that his wound could not be such as to tax her knowledge. She nodded, sighed with relief as she noted how he held his arm and darted away.
Catchpoll dismounted and went to assist Bradecote from the big grey, though the undersheriff muttered he needed no aid, and walked perfectly upright towards the hall. Walkelin, still a little concussed, stood at the doorway, relief upon his face as he stood to one side to let his superiors in. ‘Bring the body into the hall also,’ commanded Catchpoll, in charge of the situation, and looked to Edmund the new father, and Kenelm the Groom. He did not need to maintain the look to know they would obey. He entered the hall’s dimness and found the lady de Lench fluttering about the lord Bradecote, not quite sure whether to offer wine, sympathy or a fresh binding for the wound. When the body of her unlamented stepson was brought in this distracted her enough to leave the undersheriff in peace. She was now uncertain as to whether she should rejoice openly or assume an appearance of distress. Father Matthias came in, crossed himself and knelt beside the body. The lady joined him, as out of habit.
Hild entered, followed by Fulk, bobbed a general obeisance and came before the undersheriff, requesting him to lay the arm and hand, palm up, upon a trestle table. He did as he was bid, and watched in a remarkably disengaged manner as she unwound the wrapped sleeve from about it and looked pensively at the long wound, now oozing sluggishly.
‘Mother Winflaed, God rest her soul,’ Hild crossed herself devoutly, ‘did not like to shut up a wound with a needle and thread of any sort. She said as wounds went bad more, so unless really big she liked to bind ’em tight with a mash of garlic and leek upon the wound and moss over that for the first days, then honey once there was sign of it joining. And always used strips of yellow cloth cos it is dyed with onion skins and has the charm of ’em. The wound is not deep at the top, my lord, and that will heal fast, but near the hand will take longer. It is there I am not sure about stitching. Mother Winflaed,’ she crossed herself again, and Bradecote wondered if it would become some form of totem to the girl to make her think the treatment would be more effective, ‘loved to use the leek and garlic over all else with wounds, even cleavers. There is some as uses it but for the stye in the eye, but all in Lench would say the leek and garlic has worked well over the years, and,’ she added, ‘there is plenty of both hereabouts. Stings a lot o’ course.’ This was said in a casual way as she pounded both in a bowl which gave off a strong vapour that made her eyes water. ’Tis good, that is. When it brings tears to the mashing it is stronger in healing.’ She sniffed, pounded some more, and then took a scoop of it with her fingers and laid it upon the wound. He winced but did not exclaim. She repeated the action until there was a pale greenish mulch all down the inside of the forearm, and then laid moss upon it and bound the arm as tightly as she dare, pushing the wound edges together with one hand as she bound it round and round with the efficacious yellow cloth.
Catchpoll, meantime, was sat upon a bench, and given a draught of ale and a cold compress for his sore head.
As the girl finished her ministrations Hamo de Lench burst in. He looked at the corpse.
‘He is dead.’ It was simply an observation.
‘Yes, my son.’ The priest was perhaps the only person who would sound regretful, and that because the man had died unshriven of the acts which had brought him to this end.
‘Then I am lord of Lench.’ Hamo sounded neither pleased
