Blood Runs Thicker Sarah Hawkswood (great novels .TXT) 📖

either death being now, at this time, unless something we do not know has set it all going. If we had that we would have our man quicker than you could say a Pater Noster.’

‘As it stands, my lord, surely now the steward must look most likely our man?’ Walkelin preferred optimism. ‘We know he was not in the field with the harvesters, so he could have killed the lord Osbern. If he was angered by the lord’s treatment of the lady, then he had a reason to do it, or she asked him to do it. He also knew about the box of writing so could have placed the badge in it, and he could have overheard the healing woman, and been afeard of what she might say to you or the lord Baldwin. Makes it seem good sense it was him.’

‘Yes, and yet …’ The undersheriff rubbed his chin. ‘Something is there, something we cannot yet see, and I am not sure it lies with Fulk the Steward.’

‘Best we goes and speaks with him, nice and firm like,’ muttered Catchpoll. ‘Things may be clearer then.’

‘And I still want to speak with the lady and hear just what Edgar of Flavel has to say also,’ added Bradecote. ‘He might have a clearer head after taking the brew that was prescribed for him.’

Fulk the Steward was a flustered man. The lord Baldwin wanted everyone back to their work and much as if nothing had happened, and every other man, woman and child in Lench could think and speak of nothing else but the killing. If the death of their lord had been unexpected and shocking, it was as nothing to the grief and a blossoming sense of fear that now showed upon every visage. Osbern of Lench had been killed, but it had not made the villagers feel particularly threatened. If someone had killed Mother Winflaed, who had never harmed a soul, who was next? Baldwin reviled them for looking like bleating sheep afraid of a wolf, but Fulk had heard a mumbled male voice saying that sheep had every right to be afraid of wolves. So the villagers wanted reassurance he could not give and the lord wanted industrious labour they were in no state to provide. Life was not being kind to Fulk the Steward.

‘Ah, there you are, Master Steward.’ Catchpoll’s voice was jarringly cheery, as though he were seeking Fulk to sit and have a beaker of ale with him in the shade. Fulk tensed, and turned to see the three sheriff’s men walking towards him. He muttered under his breath, and it was not a prayer of thanksgiving.

‘I am here, but am set about with tasks.’ It was the nearest he dare come to telling them to go away.

‘Well, while you are talking with us you can not be set about with ’em but set ’em aside.’ Catchpoll was now, if possible, even more cheery. His death’s head grin slashed across his grizzled jaw, and Fulk the Steward found it extremely unnerving, just as the serjeant intended it should.

‘You have need of me?’ The steward managed to sound as if he desired to be of service to the sheriff’s men, but only just.

‘We do, and would prefer to speak with you in private.’ Bradecote felt Serjeant Catchpoll had achieved a lot with few words but sought to keep the steward aware that it was shrieval power from higher up the scale that was in command of the situation.

‘You can be sure as I will help all I can, my lord, but … well, this last terrible thing has set all in uproar and no mistake. I cannot find it in me to blame them, the folk here, for their fears. Who would do such a thing to a woman as never did aught but good all her life?’

‘It is indeed a mystery, and one we intend to solve. But we have other questions for you first. The church is still being used by priest and kin, so I think we will speak by your own hearth. It will be quiet enough.’

‘Quiet enough for what, my lord?’ Fulk was still caught off balance, and that was not a situation he was used to in any way. It was bad enough having to get used to a new lord, as likely to be wrathful as the last one, but with the added eagerness of one upon whose shoulders the mantle of lordship lay new and just a little heavily withal. Baldwin de Lench clearly wanted to make his mark, and that might yet be upon the body of the manor steward.

‘To discuss your absence from the harvest at the time of the death of your lord, for a start.’

‘I was in the barn, preparing for a cartload to come in.’

‘The hall is not, as far as I can see, a barn.’ Bradecote noted, eyebrows raised, and not in the tone of one merely making an observation. He did not usually sound supercilious, but he was not going to be played for a fool. He began to walk towards the steward’s cott, and let Catchpoll and Walkelin herd, more than push, the steward in his wake.

‘Ah, that was just afore everyone came to see the lord Osbern’s horse had come back empty. I wanted to see there was wine set ready for his return,’ Fulk admitted, reluctantly.

‘So you went from the barn to the hall just a short time before?’ Bradecote did not look back but asked his questions commandingly.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Yet you did not see the grey without its rider in the bailey. How … strange.’

Catchpoll grinned. This was going to be entertaining. He felt that the lord Bradecote could keep Fulk off balance with words very cunningly, letting the man trip over his own mistakes. The tall undersheriff opened the door and ducked into the dark chamber, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. Then he turned and faced the steward, his arms folded and awaiting the