The mead maker’s house was much like any other, but it was abutted by one with greater height to the eaves. Another, much smaller, round building stood further towards the south, on the orchard side of the water channel and near the river, but it looked unused and very dilapidated.
Bradecote wondered if they should ignore the house and knock upon what would be the mead maker’s place of labour, but as they drew near, the door opened and a woman with a besom stepped out and then stared at them. At the sight of Bradecote, she gasped and made a hasty obeisance.
‘We seek your husband, Wulfram Meduwyrhta.’ Bradecote thought it a reasonable assumption that this was his wife.
‘Wulfram is with Brother Petrus, the beekeeper, in the orchard, my lord.’ The woman, whose quite ordinary face was made attractive by limpid blue eyes, also made an assumption, this time of rank. ‘But it should not be long afore ’e returns. If you would step inside, I will send our Edwin to speed ’is steps.’ She stood back and beckoned them within. It felt churlish to refuse. The chamber was tidy and orderly, and a little girl of about five was playing with a tabby kitten.
‘Thank you, mistress.’ Catchpoll held up a hand, ‘but we can as easily send Underserjeant Walkelin here.’ He made it 90sound kindly, rather than ensuring Master Meduwyrhta did not disappear without trace, which would be damning, but embarrassing.
‘As you choose. Edwin works but next door, so it would be no problem.’
‘I will go, mistress.’ Walkelin exuded eagerness as though haring off to meet a friend. He went out before the little girl had even turned to stare at the strangers.
‘We met your daughter, Mærwynn. Will she return to you, now she is widowed?’ Bradecote did not mention Walter the Steward’s name.
‘I hopes so, my lord.’ The woman’s face clouded. ‘She is young and will get over it.’
This was somewhat cryptic, since it could mean the loss of her husband, but equally it could mean getting over having to live with him for nearly a year.
‘Was she always a quiet one?’ Catchpoll enquired, and the mother’s expression became grim.
‘No. A laughin’, happy girl was our Mærwynn.’ Her eyes suddenly flashed anger, but then she gulped and sniffed. ‘I cannot but be glad she is free.’
‘You make it sound as if she was chained, mistress.’ Bradecote spoke gently.
‘As good as, my lord. As good as. My poor girl! Not been close enough to say a single word since the day that man took ’er to wife. ’Twas wicked. I saw ’er in church, or rather what ’e left of ’er. It fair broke my heart to see the life fade from ’er. I begged Wulfram not to agree to the match, for all the man were the most powerful in the town, outside the abbey, and I kept telling ’im it would be the death of ’er, sooner rather than later. You could see it, week by week. I 91give thanks to Heaven she is released.’ The woman’s words were heartfelt, and she clearly had no idea that she was also giving a very sound reason why her husband might have killed Walter the Steward. ‘It sounds unchristian, I know, but what mother would feel different?’
It was not a question they could answer without it sounding as though the representatives of the Law agreed with the killing, though both Bradecote and Catchpoll knew their wives would feel the same way as the mead maker’s wife. The little girl with the kitten had abandoned play and came to hug her mother about the legs, as much comforting as seeking comfort. She looked at Bradecote, accusingly, and it made him feel guilty, though his questions had not been meant to cause upset.
Footsteps sounded outside, and a man entered, followed by Walkelin, who looked hot and a little out of breath, having run in the heat. Wulfram Meduwyrhta was a man of curves. He was not enormously fat, but he was far from skinny; his head and face were round and his nose slightly Roman; even his legs were not straight, but a little bowed. The bizarre thought hit Bradecote that if a bumblebee turned into a man, it would look like the mead maker.
‘I am Wulfram Meduwyrhta. What need you from me, my lord Undersheriff?’ He did not sound belligerent, but nor was he cowed and nervous.
‘You went to speak with the well delver, when he commenced digging, and Walter the Steward, kindred by marriage to your daughter, sent you away angrily. Why was that?’
‘He shouted at me, yes, and I left, but I did so ’cos Master Welldelver told me there was no cause to worry, and I 92believed the man. Walter the Steward liked the sound of ’is own voice.’
‘Yet you agreed to his marrying your daughter, even against the wishes of your wife here.’ Bradecote indicated her with his hand.
‘I did not do so from choice, my lord.’ Wulfram was defensive.
‘He threatened you? How?’
‘Said ’e would recommend the rent on this place rose, and make sure the honey from the abbey bees would no longer come to me. A new man has taken up one of the abbey holdings over the river in Bengeworth. He comes from Stow, which the abbey holds, and ’e made mead there. The man is a rival, and no mistake, though I doubts he could make it better, from the same honey. Mead ’as been in my family since afore Walter’s line was stewards. I will not be rivalled on the quality of my mead, but the abbey bees takes from the orchards of apple and the black pear, and their honey,’ the man almost licked his lips, ‘’tis of the finest flavour. Neither sendin’ my lad out to seek wild honey over the river, nor payin’ silver pennies to those who brings news of nests, could make up the difference in weight, nor ensure the taste. Only the lesser meads is made with those and they vary. For the sake of my livelihood, and my family as a whole,’ he glanced at his wife, ‘there was no choice.’
‘You did not say, Wulf,’ whispered the woman.
‘There were enough worries, with little Win bein’ ill. I did not want to add losin’ the roof over our heads and the wherewithal to live.’
‘You still should ’ave said.’ His wife heaved a heavy sigh.
‘Your neighbour says the monks sells you their honey 93cheap.’ Walkelin broke the spell between husband and wife. ‘So you could ’ave offered to pay more—’
‘And been refused. No, Walter would not ’ave accepted all I could find, just out of spite.’
‘Could you not go directly to Father Prior or even to Abbot Reginald?’ Bradecote frowned.
‘No rightful access is there to either but through the steward, and Walter thought of that as well.’ The mead maker stuck his thumbs into his belt, which had a strap end, though it looked askew and as if hammered hard to grip the leather. ‘Said ’e would warn them I might use “honey words”, and laughed, and said as I should not be believed. They trusted the man, and never has I thought the monks so blind. They must be so good they cannot see bad in others.’
‘And then you saw what the marriage did to your daughter. It all gives you a very good reason to want Walter the Steward dead.’
‘And glad I am he is, but I did not do it, my lord. I will swear my good oath upon it, and there’s enough oathswearers in my tithing as would support me.’
‘All of ’em?’ Catchpoll wanted to know if he would admit to the breach with Oswald Mealtere.
‘All but one, and ’e would deny me though the truth shone like the sun above today. The other eleven would swear to my bein’ of good character and law abidin’. My neighbour,’ he pointed across the ditches, ‘and me we does not get on, to the point where ’e would see me drown before ’is eyes and laugh as I went under.’
‘And you would do the same?’ Bradecote’s face showed no surprise, just mild interest.
‘Well, I would not go so far as to laugh, my lord, but yes. 94Nasty ’e is, and like the old stick of a father that lives still. Long ago, when I were but the age of my little Win indoors, my father lost the yeast one bitter winter. Now, next door, they is maltsters, so yeast is easy. Not sure why theirs did not get killed off too, but anyways, yeast the old man possessed, and Father asked for a little. Does not take much, since it grows and has a life to it. So some came to us, and then the bastard said as it would cost thirty silver pennies. Thirty! It were only worth tuppence at most, and a neighbour would give it for free, which is what Father assumed.’
‘Where were you two nights past, when it got dark?’
‘Why, settlin’ into my bed as any man as works ’ard would be.’
‘You did not go up into the town that evening?’
‘No, my lord. Why would I do that?’
‘To sit over a beaker of ale with friends?’ Bradecote made it sound merely a suggestion.
‘Not done that since Whitsun. Not an ale man, me, but then I makes mead so …’ He spread his hands, and looked the picture of innocence, but saw that the sheriff’s men did not let their expressions soften. His voice took on a desperate note. ‘I am glad Walter is dead, and my Mærwynn is free, but as God sees me, I did not kill the man, and will try and pray for ’is soul when they lowers ’im into the ground this afternoon.’
Bradecote realised that they had not even asked at the abbey when the funeral would take place. Being present was important, so that they might see the reactions of those who came to see Walter the Steward interred.
‘That is all we need to ask at present, but you will not leave Evesham.’ 95
‘I rarely does anyways, my lord, unless a good bees’ nest is found close enough. I will be ’ere, should you need me.’
‘Good.’ Bradecote nodded, indicating the mead maker might be about his business, and Wulfram, both relieved and worried, returned to his labours, and helping his son with a second racking.
‘So now we has to decide whether Wulfram Meduwyrhta is an honest man who does not drink much ale and keeps to ’is hearth, or is a man so full of guilt for marryin’ off a well-loved daughter to Walter the Steward, a man he knew to be a bad ’un, that ’e confronted and killed ’im.’ Catchpoll did not say which he favoured.
‘And also whether Oswald Mealtere just wants to get ’is neighbour into as much trouble as ’e can, even as much as goin’ before the Justices for murder.’ Walkelin knew he ought not to be biased towards the mead maker just because his home looked happy and his little girl played with a kitten, but he did. A man whose life was contented did not strike Walkelin as one likely to jeopardise it without great cause, though the situation and condition of Mærwynn might have been just that. Walkelin was a contented man, though he wished his mother did not scowl every time he used a Welsh endearment to his Eluned, and that Eluned herself had not, of recent weeks, seemed a little quiet and preoccupied. He was sure he was being a good husband.
‘One or other has to be lying, and we have to consider that even if it is the mead maker, it might just be that he thinks saying he was anywhere near the green that night risks a noose about his neck.’ Bradecote was also trying to be even-handed.
‘True enough, my lord. It complicates things when honest 96men lies for fear the honest answer will condemn ’em. Mind you, most lies badly. This, if a lie, was well done.’
‘He still remains of interest to us, as does the brother, but I fear we are going to find there were many more in Evesham who could join them.’ Bradecote sighed and wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘Let us go and find out how long a list it is.’
Father Prior was a little surprised to be asked for a list of the abbey tenants who had a poor record of payment, especially since the lord Undersheriff asked that it go back for at least two years. He had to call a clerk to bring the rolls from the muniment chamber, where all deeds, titles and financial documents resided, rather than the scriptural ones in the library.
‘You think Steward Walter was killed because he was threatening someone who could not pay?’ His long face looked even more burdened than normal. ‘It is so hard to believe that this was a man who advocated leniency and compassion.’
‘We do not know, Father, but a man who fears for the roof over his family’s head may do things that he would not normally consider,’ replied Bradecote.
There was a silence, with which the Benedictine was far more comfortable than the sheriff’s men. The clerk returned with a bundle of Quarter rolls, and pored over one at a time, writing down the names and amounts paid late or not at all. Bradecote viewed it with misgiving. He thought he would be able to decipher names, but his Latin was only sufficient to obey simple instructions that his superior did not trust to verbal conveyance, and he was not at all sure he would 97understand words for many of the crafts. He hoped not many debtors shared the same Christian name, and realised the safest way was to risk embarrassment, and stumble through them before the clerk and prior so that they could correct, or translate, those beyond him. He was sure that in a community where the obedientaries were literate, it would not occur to them to think of the majority of people to whom the written word was either useless or a struggle.
‘Here, my lord, are all those remiss since Lady Day 1143.’ The clerk handed him a piece of vellum, and Bradecote’s heart sank as his eyes ran down the list.
‘Aelred vestiarius, Baldwin tinctor. Father, I am sorry, but my Latin is only that of prayers and the Offices, and some basic commands. What is a “vestiarius”, and for that matter a “tinctor”,’ he looked further down, and stumbled through several more words he had no hope of understanding.
‘Ah, I am sorry, my lord.’ The clerk, a precise, little man with ink-stained fingers, smiled apologetically. ‘Aelred the Tailor, Baldwin the Dyer, Robert the Miller, Martin Fuller, Oswald Maltster, Grim the Thatcher, Wulfram Meadmaker, Walter Horsekeeper, though his brother William took over the lease when he, er, died …’
Bradecote remembered Walter Horsweard, though visually only as a sodden corpse, from the previous year, and also his hobbling brother Will.
‘He did not just “die”, Brother. He was killed by intent.’
‘Indeed so, my lord. Now, there is also Alcuin the Ropemaker, Hubert the Mason and the Widow Potter.’
At least the widow could be crossed off the list as the killer, thought Bradecote.
‘Thank you, Brother.’ The undersheriff turned to Prior 98Richard. ‘We will speak with all these people, and find out if pressure was put upon them. It might be that the steward agreed to advocate on their behalf if they later paid not just the debt, but a “fee” to him, and—’ He stopped as there came an urgent knock upon the door. The prior apologised, but called for the person to enter. A flustered monk entered.
‘I am sorry, Father, but there is a … woman’ – he said it as though it was a dangerous beast – ‘at the gatehouse, making a great deal of noise and complaint, and demanding to see you or Father Abbot.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she was coming to market, over the bridge from Bengeworth, and two men-at-arms from the castle stopped her and demanded a quarter of her produce as toll. When she refused, they threw it all in the river. She is weeping and shouting and making things very unpleasant.’ The Benedictine was evidently made nervous by all women, and especially agitated ones.
‘I see. Bring her here, Brother Julian, and we will speak with her.’
Brother Julian eyed his prior with increased respect for this brave act, and left, to return swiftly with a woman of middle years, her rosy cheeks streaked with tears, her eyes red as the cherries she had been bringing to sell, and trying to catch her breath. She dipped to Father Prior, and, on seeing Bradecote, to him also, since he looked important.
‘Now, my daughter, Brother Julian tells us you were … waylaid, on the way to market.’
‘Just so, Father, oh just so, and what shall I do without the silver for my fruit and vegetables I does not know.’ She wrung her hands together. ‘A whole basket of cherries in my arms, 99I ’ad, and a basket of the sweetest peas on my back, and all gone, gone.’
‘Tell the lord Undersheriff exactly what happened. He will help you.’ In one short sentence, Father Prior had cast all responsibility upon the Law. Bradecote’s glance at him was not one of gratitude.
‘I walked from Badsey, my lord, with my peas and cherries, to sell as I does this time every year, and afore I set foot upon the bridge two men, big men with sticks, stepped in front of me and barred my way. They said as there were a toll to pay to the castle, which is next to the bridge, and it would cost me a quarter of both baskets. Well, I said no, and then they said the toll just went up to ’alf, and I kicked one of ’em in the shin, right under the knee, and the other one grabbed the basket from my arms and threw both basket and cherries into the river. Then ’e cut the straps of the one on my back and did the same with that. Bless ’em, two lads down by the river’s edge saw the baskets bob up and down and pulled ’em in with a stick, but nothin’ is there for me to sell now. ’Tis not right, my lord, not right.’ She sniffed and managed to look belligerent and vulnerable in one.
‘It is not right, mistress, and I will go to the castle and speak with the commander of the garrison.’ Bradecote looked severe.
‘Thieves, the lot of ’em,’ grumbled the woman. ‘And what chance be there of me seein’ a single silver penny for the loss? None, and me with four fatherless children to feed.’
‘Oh, I think in this very particular case, mistress, Father Prior might consider it charitable to at least provide you with some recompense for your loss, especially as it is the abbey who has the right of the market, and takes dues from it.’ 100Bradecote was all reason, and smiled at Father Prior.
‘Er … well, I can see you are in distress not of your own making and it would be … I will see to it that Brother Almoner gives you six pennies.’
‘I always gets at least ten when I comes to Evesham.’ It was the nearest the woman could come to haggling with the monk.
‘I see, then eight, yes, eight pennies, for the abbey has to show charity to many souls.’
‘Thank you, Father. And will you say a prayer for my poor ’usband, Brictric, as died last Ascensiontide?’
‘I will.’
Tears forgotten, the woman beamed at the prior, then bobbed a curtsey to them both, and went out, followed closely by Serjeant Catchpoll. His words to her were softly spoken, but firm. Others, he said, would not be honest victims like her, but folk trying to get something for nothing, and would be claiming so much cast into the Avon that the river would divert into Bengeworth to go round the islet of goods. It would mean that the abbey came to see all requests as false, and good women, like her, would not be aided again.
‘So what you does now, mistress, is go back to Badsey with your eight pennies and damp baskets, and just say trade was not so good today, it bein’ so very hot. Understand?’
‘I understands.’ She did not know who he was, or what, but she understood the reasoning.
‘Many folk stayed indoors if they could, and trade were a bit less than usual.’ She showed she had the words ready.
‘Good. Now, best you get them pennies, and if any tries to get toll off you goin’ back across that bridge, tell ’em Serjeant Catchpoll, the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant, knows what they is up 101to, and that it makes ’im unhappy.’
Catchpoll knew that there would be some men-at-arms within the garrison who had spent watches upon the walls of Worcester Castle, and everyone in the castle knew Serjeant Catchpoll. He had a strong feeling the lord Sheriff would not be ‘unhappy’ at all, but he could be as pleased as he liked with the commander of the garrison. The men-at-arms knew who was closest to making their lives a misery when next they came to Worcester, and it was not William de Beauchamp. He stepped back into Father Prior’s chamber with the hint of a smile on his face.
‘… and I will attend the service, of course.’ Father Prior was giving details of Walter the Steward’s funeral. The body had already been moved from the abbey church into the parish church of the Holy Trinity, which lay, unusually, within the enclave. It was a building of some age, the gift of Earl Leofric of Mercia, and his equally devout wife, the Lady Godgifu, in the time of the sainted King Edward, and if its exterior was not in the modern style, it was wonderfully endowed within. The abbey habitually provided the priest from among those who took their vows but felt the calling of a parish, and the current incumbent, Father Paulus, had been within the enclave, monk and priest, for thirty years.
‘We will be there also, Father.’ Bradecote made it sound for religious rather than investigative reasons and thanked the clerk once again before turning to leave.
Outside, he ran a hand through his hair.
‘Holy Virgin, I hope I can remember all those trades again.’
‘I listened close, my lord, and I reckon as I could put name and trade together for most. Odd to ’ear the name of Walter Horsweard again.’ Walkelin had a good memory. 102
‘It was, and it seems odd that his brother has fallen short on the last two Quarter Days.’
Bradecote was puzzled, and there was something niggling in his brain. Something did not fit. ‘At some point, when the steward is buried, we will have to go to Bengeworth Castle, but what is likely to be important is this list. I get the feeling that these people will give us a clearer idea what Walter the Steward was doing, and thus the best chance of discovering who wanted to stop it, at any cost.’
The funeral of Walter the Steward was well attended, and although nobody shed a tear, or looked grief-stricken, faces were schooled into solemnity as they entered the cool of the church. As Catchpoll whispered to Walkelin, having heard about the man’s character, it was a surprise that nobody cheered. Not for the first time, Catchpoll wished that for a few minutes he could be the priest, not for any religious reason, but because it would give such a good view of the faces of the congregation. Standing at the back, the sheriff’s men could see the expressions as people entered and left, but otherwise they saw only backs of heads. The only faces looking towards them were those of the priest and the serene and shining faces of the Holy Virgin and St John the Evangelist, whose images, adorned in gold and silver, were set in niches either side of the chancel arch. Prior Richard, flanked by two accompanying minor obedientaries, might have been expected to intone a prayer for one who had served the abbey for many years, but he simply stood in the chancel, apart from the townsfolk, facing the body and looking grave as the priest stood before them in blissful ignorance of what had come to light, and extolled the virtues of a man who had 103‘been devoted to the abbey and to this town’. A few feet did shuffle at that. Bradecote thought the prior had made a wise decision, since anything that showed the abbey’s appreciation of what the man had done, would do nothing for relations between spiritual and secular in Evesham.
Bradecote wished that he could put the names on his list to more of the faces among the assembly, but other than the widow’s family, Oswald Mealtere, with a placid, if not downtrodden, looking woman beside him, Adam the Welldelver, Hubert the Mason and Will Horsweard, memorable because of his hunched shoulders and limping gait, they were all simply townsfolk. He tried to imprint upon his memory any who looked different in demeanour to their fellows. To be sure, lack of grief was no sign of guilt in this case, but there might be an added tension if one had been the man to send Walter the Steward from the world in hot anger and was now seeing the stark reality of the consequences.
The widow looked pale, and even younger than her years, and had her mother at her side, though her father remained in the row behind. Was that to catch the girl if she fainted and fell back, as a physical as well as moral support, or keeping a lower profile? Walter’s brother, William, was also at the front, but stood away from her and never as much as glanced towards her. He looked as if this was not a funeral but an investiture of his new position, and he stood the taller for it. There was no sign of the ‘distress’ he had shown before the monks the day before.
As Mærwynn followed the body out of the church for the burial, her mother took her alabaster-white hand and gripped it, possessively, as if reclaiming something that had been lost – or stolen. The graveside was in the full glare of 104the sun, and it beat upon the mourners, whose numbers had thinned, with some returning to their work. Walkelin saw a man with angel-blonde, wavy hair, wipe his forehead and murmur it was not half as hot as Walter the Steward would find Hell.
The soft monotone of the priest came to an end, a handful of earth was dropped into the grave by widow and brother, reduced by the summer’s baking to a dust that landed with a patter rather than a thud, and the mourners dispersed, some to celebrate in private. Bradecote sent Walkelin in search of cool refreshment for parched throats, and he returned not only with a pitcher and three beakers, but a loaf of bread tucked under his arm.
‘We needs to wait until everyone is back at their trades, so I asked for some bread as well. Also, I found out from a servant in the kitchens where the fuller, the dyer, the thatcher and the Widow Potter lives, so we has a start.’ Walkelin had no doubt this would all be greeted with approbation, though Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed.
‘You did not ask outright, now, did you?’
‘No, Serjeant.’ Walkelin looked offended. ‘’Course not. I did it the “serjeantin’ way” and they was none the wiser afterwards.’
‘Just checkin’ to be sure, but I did not think you would act green.’ Catchpoll was placatory, which was unusual.
‘Not now I am an underserjeant.’ Walkelin was proud of his elevation, not so much because it gave him seniority over mere men-at-arms, though that was good, but because Serjeant Catchpoll had thought him worthy. He handed round the beakers.