Walkelin did not dawdle, for he was eager to return and hear all that his superiors learnt without it being at second hand, but he felt a little guilty leaving the little boy with no chance to keep up, so ameliorated his pace a little. It did give him time to think upon the information they had gleaned that morning, and his conclusions were very similar to both his superiors. Oswald Mealtere looked most likely to be the killer, but to drag him off to await the Justices in Eyre would be to ignore other possibilities. There was also something he thought might solve the issue of the strap end, and a question niggling him which he wished to voice.
When he arrived at the ferry it was, as bad luck would have it, upon the other bank, and Kenelm was handing a woman into it, and a man in a wide-brimmed hat was already seated. Walkelin waited with every appearance of merely casual interest, though he was willing the ferryman’s hand over hand progress to go the faster and he himself stepped forward to aid the woman to climb out. It was then that he saw the man stand up, and his mouth opened.
‘Why, ’tis you, Master Sheriff’s Man.’ The speaker, who smiled, had one arm with the vestige of a hand bearing but two misshapen fingers, and the other arm tapering to nothing below the elbow. 159
‘It is, and underserjeant I am now.’ Walkelin smiled back and there was pride in his voice. ‘How fare you, Alnoth?’
Alnoth the Handless was impressed that the lord Sheriff’s officer could recall his name, though less surprised that his person stuck in the memory.
‘Well, Underserjeant, very well. See, I still wears the boots I bought.’ He indicated his feet with a stumpy arm. ‘And prayers do I still offer for the lord as wore ’em afore me.’
The woman, who had been pleased that this young man had offered her a hand from the ferry, felt rather ignored, and her thanks were brief. Walkelin barely heard them, for Alnoth was speaking.
‘And you is come to Evesham again and all for Master Walter the Steward as I hears.’ Alnoth shook his head. ‘In charity I ought to pray for ’is soul also, but it sticks in the throat to do so.’
Walkelin was torn. He needed to speak with the ferryman, and privately, but Alnoth was a man like himself, one who observed, and took in information. There might yet be something to be gleaned from his knowledge of how Walter the Steward had acted in Evesham these last few years.
‘Would you await me under the tree yonder, and then we might walk up to the abbey, since I take it you seek lodgings there? I needs to speak with the ferryman first.’
‘Gladly.’ The crippled man went to sit beneath a youthful oak that had been an acorn when The Confessor died.
Walkelin turned to Kenelm the Ferryman.
‘The lord Undersheriff thanks you for sendin’ so quick to tell us what went on in the night. You saw nothin’ until the dawn?’ 160
‘Saw, no, and I blames myself for thinkin’ the sounds was my own dream. I could not tell the hour, though as I opened one eye the darkness were still full, and I felt the night not jaded, but I thought I dreamt the creak of the ferry in distress, callin’ me, so to speak, and a gruntin’ noise, a man not used to the work. All a dream I thought it, since we oft dream of what we does day in and day out, but now …’
‘Just a grunt?’
‘Well, I thought it sounded like ’e cried out, sort of in pain. Added to me bein’ sure t’were a dream, makin’ no sense.’
‘And yet the ferry went over and a man took it.’
‘Aye. Glad I am that Frawin, my mother’s kinsman, came to cross early, and knows ’er.’
‘Your mother?’ Walkelin looked confused.
‘No, the ferry.’ Kenelm rolled his eyes as though his statement had been obvious.
Walkelin realised that Kenelm treated his ferry like a horse that needed to trust its rider.
‘Have many crossed today?’
‘Not so many as yestermorn, but some days ’tis quiet and some busy.’ Kenelm was a man who took the blessings of each day one at a time.
‘And may I look in the bottom in case anything remains that tells something of your ferry thief?’
‘I saw nothin’, but then I did not look. Your eyes is serjeantin’ eyes and sees what plain folk does not see.’ Kenelm was quite serious, and Walkelin knew it to be true.
Walkelin got upon his hands and knees, without any self-consciousness, and scrutinised the flat bottom of the ferry. He could not imagine what a man might have dropped that 161would aid in identifying him, but his job was to look, to see, and to report, even if there was nothing.
‘How strong do you need to be to take her across?’ Walkelin decided treating the ferry as ‘she’ would be a good idea. He had heard the Severn sailors call their boats ‘she’, so Kenelm was not alone.
‘Just the once? Well, no insult meant, but with more in the arms than you possess, Underserjeant. Needs strength of forearm and of shoulder.’
‘So it would need a man as works with the upper part of the body.’ Walkelin was looking at Kenelm, who was quite skinny-legged, but whose arm muscles were visible through the linen of his cotte.
‘Aye, and it takes time to learn the way of it, castin’ the loop forward to catch on the crossin’ rope and makin’ it bite.’
Walkelin, who could see nothing beyond a snail in the boat bottom, stood, with a very slight wobble, and stared at the loop of twisted hemp, though not with any real hope. He caught his breath, feeling that Heaven had sent him a sign, for caught in the twist was something small and bloodied. He peered closer. It was a torn fingernail, and just seeing it made him wince, for it had been ripped from a finger with force. It would certainly have made a man cry out.
‘Not yours, I take it?’ He pointed at the scrap of another man’s body, and then grimaced as he delicately drew it from between the twisted fibres. He no longer felt his stomach churn with the dead, but this was part of a man that still breathed, and it felt slightly wrong to hold it in his hand.
‘How did you see that? No man as knew the ferry would catch a finger and a nail like that.’ Kenelm drew 162his hand down the loop of rope in a half caress as though commending it for wreaking vengeance upon the thief. ‘She bit ’im for layin’ ’and on ’er.’
The portion of fingernail lay in Walkelin’s palm, and he screwed up his nose in distaste. However, it was a possibly important find, for there could be few men in Evesham with a finger showing a damaged nail. He tried to assess which finger it might have come from, but only decided it was neither from a thumb or ear-cleaning finger, being too narrow for the former and too large for the latter. He then cast it into the river, since no further aid could it be. The lord Undersheriff and Serjeant Catchpoll would be content that any man who had been in the alehouse and lacked a fingernail would need oathswearers and appear before the Justices for the murder of Old Cuthbert, even if no confession could be gained for the death of Walter the Steward. It was only unfortunate that so small an injury would not stand out without looking carefully at hands.
Adam Welldelver was not a man who worried about things he could do nothing about. That he had spent two days shovelling earth back into the hole that had taken days to dig was just wyrd and now, as he levelled off the ground and prepared to move to the newly selected well site, he simply crossed himself and said a silent prayer for Walter the Steward to ward off bad luck attending his future diggings. The men who dug wells were not just men with spade and shovel but made it clear to ‘ordinary folk’ that it was also a slightly mystic art, and as it passed from father to son, it became something they began to believe themselves. It would be unwise to leave this ‘well that was never a well’ 163without a good, Christian prayer. Focused on the words in his head, the well digger had to be hailed a second time before he turned and saw the lord Undersheriff and lord Sheriff’s Serjeant.
‘If’n you wants me to take out the earth again, my lord—’ He was all set to remonstrate, but Bradecote shook his head.
‘No, Master Welldelver. There is nothing more to be known from that earth. However, we would ask what you could tell us about last night in the alehouse.’
‘But that be days after the death.’ The well digger looked confused. ‘Words were said about ’im as died, and not sorrowful words, but nothin’ as made a man the one as killed ’im.’
‘That we understand, but a man who sat alone, one Old Cuthbert, was found dead this morning, and the death was intended.’
‘Never!’ The well digger crossed himself. ‘I tells you, my lord, I will not choose to come to Evesham again. Not peaceable, not at all.’
‘And they will not need many more wells once this next gives up water,’ commented Catchpoll.
‘True enough.’
‘So what can you tell us of who was there and what was said, other than a lack of sadness at Walter the Steward’s death?’ Bradecote pressed the man.
‘I could not name many, not bein’ an Evesham man, though I sat with Hubert the Mason and we talked over a beaker or two. He—’ The well digger stopped suddenly, and looked worried.
‘Go on. Better we know and can set it aside, rather than you conceal and we have to think it something suspicious.’ 164
‘Worried about ’is son, was Hubert.’
‘Well, we know the lad did not kill Walter the Steward, so do not be afraid to say more.’
This, thought Bradecote, was taking too long.
‘Seems the lad used to be lovelorn over the girl as be now the steward’s widow, and Hubert thinks if none stands trial for the death, then when the lad weds the widow, and ’e says ’e seems determined upon it, there will always be the rumour that young Simon committed murder.’
Catchpoll snorted at this foolishness, and commented that if the lord Sheriff’s officers declared that Simon, son of Hubert, was not involved, that should be good enough for Evesham.
‘I only says what Hubert said and you asked to learn.’ The well digger looked a little affronted.
‘So continue.’ Bradecote’s glance at Catchpoll indicated he should keep quiet.
‘Not much more I can say, my lord. There was others there, o’course, but I could name none.’ He frowned. ‘One man did not fit in, not like one long known. Loud ’e were, like the cock on a dunghill if you asks me, though not crowin’ proud about hisself, more determined to tell everyone what they should think. Sort of man as is used to tellin’ folk what to do.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Not so as you would be sure to recognise the man at fifty paces, my lord. Not as tall as you, by my ’and’s breadth,’ he held up his hand, horizontally, to show them, ‘though, come to think on it, ’is ’ands were much bigger ’n mine, and I saw no grey to what sprouted on the chin after a day. Oh, when ’e laughed, or rather pretended to laugh, mockin’ the 165lord Abbot, which be a disrespectful thing to do, a tooth were gone, left side.’ He opened his mouth and pointed to the tooth one back from the dogtooth. ‘Not uncommon, but it might aid you.’
‘Indeed. Thank you. Are you set to begin digging the new hole?’ Bradecote ensured he did not sound as though the information was too useful.
‘Aye, my lord. This forenoon will see first sod lifted, once the spare soil be spread around ’ere, so I wished it were cooler, but there.’ The well digger shrugged, touched his forelock to Bradecote, and began stamping firmly over the freshly replaced earth. Undersheriff and serjeant left him to his labours and went to speak yet again with Hubert the Mason. It felt as if they were going round in ever-decreasing circles, being told half-truths and lies.
Hubert the Mason had put up a rough awning to keep the worst of the day’s sun from his back and was dressing a stone from a pile which was all hewn to roughly the same size. He was not alone, for a young man they recognised was splitting larger lumps of stone to create them. Bradecote was surprised, since he had advised Simon to remain in Hampton.
‘So you have returned, after all.’ Bradecote raised an eyebrow and gazed at the youth, who blinked, wiped a dusty hand across his forehead to brush away a lock of curling hair, and nodded, blushing.
‘I went over and fetched ’im, my lord. There’s work to do.’
‘Yet the stones that were going into the original well hole lie ready for use and the well delver has yet to set his spade 166to the earth here. It does not look an urgent need.’ Bradecote sounded sceptical and the mason did not meet his eye.
‘I reckons as this’n will be deeper and ’tis best to be prepared.’ Hubert the Mason knew the excuse was lame.
‘So you have fetched back your son even though only last evening you were bemoaning that if none is taken for the death of Walter the Steward, then suspicion will remain in Evesham that your son killed him. That seems strange.’
‘’Tis not true, not all of it.’ Simon spoke up. ‘Father did not come for me. I came back ’acos I-I wanted to see Mærwynn.’ It came out in a rush, and the lad glanced at his father’s angry expression.
‘Which be a fool thing to do, and I told ’im such,’ grumbled the mason. ‘Will lead to talk.’
‘No, for I went to ’er father to ask after ’er first, and she be back with the family already. Stayin’ in that place, Walter’s “prison”, would make ’er more ill, so Mistress Meduwyrhta says. But none other than me knows she is ’ome, not yet.’ Simon wanted to show he was not just a rash and lovelorn swain.
‘Is she now?’ Catchpoll nodded at the information. ‘Glad will ’er mother be for that.’
‘Aye, and Wulfram says as once the time is passed to …’ Simon stopped for a moment, not liking to think of Mærwynn in Walter the Steward’s bed – ‘to show she does not carry the steward’s child, then if I work’s ’ard with father then Wulfram will not refuse me when I asks again to wed Mærwynn.’ He looked almost belligerent, daring both father and sheriff’s officers to tell him he could not do so.
‘And you does not fear gossip?’ Catchpoll sounded vaguely curious, no more. 167
‘No, Serjeant, ’acos you and the lord Undersheriff will take them as killed Walter the Steward, even though I would like to shake that man’s ’and afore you lead ’im away.’
‘Well, we likes to ’ear that folk feel confident of our success.’ Catchpoll controlled the urge to laugh, but then asked a serious question. ‘When did you return?’
‘Came over the ferry first thing. Odd it were, for Kenelm stood upon the Evesham bank and a kinsman took me across. Someone took the ferry over in the night. Very strange.’ Simon shrugged and dismissed further thought on the incident, not knowing that it proved his statement true without further corroboration.
‘And when did you hear of the killing of Old Cuthbert?’ Bradecote looked at father and son together.
‘The old man as smells of piss and shouts out ’is door that ’e does not want the well near to it?’ Simon looked stunned. ‘Dead?’
‘Yes, after leaving the alehouse. You were there, Master Mason. Was anything said that might hint at who killed him.’ Bradecote wanted the mason to know his presence was undeniable.
‘Nothin’ my ears caught, my lord.’
‘So you did not hear him say he had seen that one man alone killed Walter the Steward?’
‘No, my lord.’ The man was a poor liar.
‘What do you fear by admitting it, if you had nothing to do with the death? Most of the alehouse would have heard him.’
‘You spoke with me afore and I want nothin’ more that links me with any killin’.’ Hubert looked sullen. ‘The only thing I ever raise my ’and to is stone, and with my mallet, 168though the steward tried me sorely. I killed none, my lord and there’s the end to it.’
‘And we accept that, but we need to have the truth spoken to us, not half-truths and lies. It just makes our task the longer and harder.’ Bradecote’s admonishment was softly given, but the mason hung his head nevertheless.
‘Who else did you see in the alehouse?’ Catchpoll did not expect any revelation.
‘Aelred the Tailor, grumblin’, though ’tis not like the man, to be fair. Then others as Walter the Steward took dues from but did not put into the abbey’s coffers. Seems there was many of us,’ Hubert gave a grim laugh, ‘and fools we all felt. Oh, and Oswald Mealtere, who said little and looked into ’is beaker more ’n most. Mayhap the same trick were played on ’im, but ’e did not like to admit it.’
‘That we shall ask him. We need trouble you no more, Master Mason.’ With a nod, Bradecote turned away, and he and Catchpoll went to speak again with the maltster.
They encountered Oswald Mealtere pushing his purloined handcart over the little stone bridge, for which Bradecote gave silent thanks, since it would enable raising the question of his father’s antagonism towards Old Cuthbert without the irascible old man interrupting. When hailed, Oswald looked visibly annoyed.
‘Does I get no peace, my lord? What possible need has you to speak with me again this day?’ The man glowered at them and winced as he stopped and straightened.
‘Not keen others know you lost silver to Walter the Steward, we ’as found.’ Catchpoll jumped in first.
‘Ha. Why share it? Does it feel better to be one of many? 169No. Best just forget the lot.’ Oswald shrugged as if dropping a cloak from his shoulders.
‘You did not tell us that your father and Old Cuthbert were so much at odds that your father would not even sit next to him.’ Bradecote changed the line of question.
‘Who would want to do so, my lord? Smelt of piss, no fault to ’im, but ’tis true.’
‘Yet we hear that there is some old grudge between them.’ Bradecote felt the word appropriate, having heard how the maltsters, father and son, kept a grudge alive for decades.
‘Whatever the cause, it be so old I cannot tell you the source of it, and Father never leaves the ’ouse these days. To suggest ’e killed Old Cuthbert would be madness. ’Tis impossible.’
‘We is not suggestin’ that,’ murmured Catchpoll, softly.
‘Then—wait! No! You think after all this time I did it, as some sort of revenge? Why would I do it now if the reason existed?’
This thought had already occurred to both Bradecote and Catchpoll, but there were too many lies and half answers coming to them, and they needed to be able to sort it all out.
‘Agreed, but what if what you told us afore were but ’alf the tale? What if Old Cuthbert really did see one man kill Walter the Steward and that man stands before us right now? Knowin’ your father loathed ’im would make the act the sweeter. An old score paid off when your father sits too blind and weak to end it for hisself.’ Catchpoll almost purred the accusation.
‘Not so.’ Oswald Mealtere paled and shook his head. ‘That somethin’ lay betwixt my father and Old Cuthbert I knew, but never did Father speak of it, and the “fault” did 170not lie with ’im. Words was said, many years past, and not forgotten, but I bore no grudge against the old man. Life was not kind to ’im, and why did I need to add to that? No reason. I will swear a good oath and would undergo any ordeal, knowin’ I be innocent of the death of Old Cuthbert. God hear me.’ He crossed himself.
‘Then we will speak with your father to discover what began the grudge, lest others shared it.’ It sounded sensible enough, but Bradecote was hoping the old man, in his anger against the world, might be more forthcoming than the son.
‘Worry an old man as awaits nothin’ more than the grave?’ Oswald sounded accusatory.
‘The more we knows of what runs through Evesham to fester in the present, the closer we will be to Walter the Steward’s killer.’ Catchpoll clearly agreed with his superior’s decision.
‘And none in Evesham would thank you for that, only for takin’ the man as killed Old Cuthbert. Father could ’ave done neither. Leave the man be.’ The son was defensive, but his words fell on deaf ears. Undersheriff and serjeant strode down the gentle slope to the house, followed by the maltster, still complaining, and Catchpoll opened the door without knocking.
A woman was shelling peas into a bowl, and looked up, startled. She had a weary and wary face, one which spoke without words to Catchpoll of a life spent placating a house filled with anger and little kindness.
‘Be calm, mistress. This is the lord Undersheriff and—’ Catchpoll, seeing the woman’s surprise turn to terror, realised that his second announcement had rendered the 171first useless. If she was afraid of the men in her house, she was even more afraid of men with power. She dropped the pea pod she was shelling, and dipped in a curtsey so low she stumbled as she rose afterwards.
‘I—’ She got no further, stopped by a look from her husband and his terse words.
‘The lord Undersheriff does not need to speak with you. Go and feed the hens.’
Since she fed the chickens early each morning, this was clearly just a command to get out. She nodded, made a second obeisance to Bradecote, and dashed out.
‘A good wife for some things, and a fair cook, but no wit to speak of.’ Oswald dismissed his spouse in a tone of some contempt.
‘Why come they back?’ Siward Mealtere, huddled before a small hearth fire that made the room even hotter than the June day outside, peered in the direction of Bradecote and Catchpoll. He did not sound worried, just annoyed.
‘We needs to know what cause lay between you and Old Cuthbert, so strong as to keep you from words even after as long as half a lifetime.’ Catchpoll spoke a little louder, on the assumption that since the old man’s words were loud, his hearing was as limited as his sight.
‘Ask the bastard yourself.’
‘I would, but he lies dead.’ Catchpoll’s response was instant, to catch the natural reaction. That it was a cackle of laughter and a clapping of hands was not what he had expected. ‘He died by intent and ’is body left face down in the fuller’s stocks.’
Siward Mealtere laughed the louder, and rocked to and fro with the spasm of it. Bradecote, watching the son, 172Oswald, saw that he was as surprised as they were at his sire’s emotions.
‘It is not a matter for rejoicing, Master Mealtere.’ Bradecote was severe.
‘’Tis to me, my lord. Has shut his lyin’ mouth at last. Left in a trough of piss! Could not ’ave imagined a better end.’ The old man sounded gleeful.
‘Father.’ Oswald’s tone made the word a warning, but it was waved away. His father chuckled and looked rejuvenated by the news. He stooped the less, even if his eyes were as milky as ever.
‘So what did Old Cuthbert say as was a lie?’ Catchpoll put no threat in the question.
‘Nothin’ as need be spoken of again,’ came the swift response, and although the eyes could not twinkle, the voice held triumph. ‘The past lies buried from now on and can rot.’
Whatever Siward Mealtere meant by these obtuse utterances, it was patent that they meant as little to the son as to the sheriff’s officers, and, not without a deeply felt reluctance, Bradecote mentally crossed Oswald from the list of those who might have killed Old Cuthbert, and thus also Walter the Steward.
Alnoth had been waiting patiently for Walkelin, seated upon the grass beneath the spreading boughs of the oak tree. When Walkelin approached he rose with a nimbleness that surprised the underserjeant, since he had no good hands upon which to lean and push up. Instead, he bent his knees and leant back against the tree, bracing his back and pushing up from the ground so that he rose like a growing plant to stand before him. 173
‘You looked like a hound upon a scent, down in the ferry,’ commented Alnoth, grinning. ‘If you had given voice I would have laughed out loud and counted it the funniest thing seen since a man with no charity in ’is soul and no coin for a man as needs it, tripped and fell flat in a fresh horse shit outside St Peter’s Abbey in Gloucester.’
‘Come you from Gloucester this journey?’ Walkelin smiled at Alnoth, knowing that the man was not being other than friendly.
‘Indeed, and from Pershore afore reachin’ the ferry, and Kenelm as gives me free passage, God be kind to ’im. The news of Walter the Steward is a big surprise, but however much I ought to pray for ’is soul, as I said, I fear it will not be felt from the heart in my case.’
‘You are a watcher of men, Alnoth, and I values that. What would you say about the man?’
Walkelin wondered if anything new might be learnt that would progress the hunt for his killer.
‘First, I would say as the man was one with two faces, one to the lord Abbot and Father Prior, and another to all of us as ’e felt beneath ’im. Never came across a man with more pride and – self-worth. If you told me Walter the Steward were a king’s bastard, I would believe it, and we all knows King Henry, God grant ’im rest, were a king as fathered more ’n any could count, so as to make Earl Robert of Gloucester just chief among bastards.’ Alnoth was about to continue, but stopped, his mouth half open, and frowned. Walkelin pounced upon this hesitation.
‘You recalls somethin’ strange?’
‘Aye. Last Michaelmas, I think, I stayed at St Peter’s in Gloucester for their fair, and folk was generous, so I could 174buy a new oilcloth to keep out the worst of winter rains if no shelter could be found. I watched over a stall while the woman sellin’ apples went to buy linen for a coif, and I would swear a good oath that I saw Master Walter the Steward, but for the fact that ’e wore a cap of soft coney fur and a cloak trimmed the same, like a great lord, and strode about like it too. A man, a man with the manner of a grovellin’ clerk by the look of ’im, bowed and scraped before ’im and this “Walter” fair glowed with pleasure at it. Never saw me, o’ course, but then the likes of Master Walter never saw me, just wanted me out the way. Oft I waited in the courtyard at Evesham Abbey and Master Walter would send a groom to tell me to leave and not trouble Brother Almoner, but the grooms did not like ’im either, so would tell me as they was told to say, but then let me lurk quiet in a sheltered corner until Brother Almoner was free to see me.’
‘Are you sure this man in Gloucester and Walter the Steward was one and the same?’
‘Sense says no, Underserjeant, but my eyes is good and, as you says, I watch, and my oath would be good to say yes.’
‘That is both interesting and fits with somethin’ else learnt of the steward.’ Walkelin felt he could trust his instincts with Alnoth, and would have revealed something of what had already been learnt of the steward’s desire for rich clothes, but he feared that Serjeant Catchpoll would berate him for letting out knowledge that should still be kept privy. Instead, he asked for any aid that the crippled man could give.
‘You speak the truth when you says folk do not see you, 175not all of ’em, nor do they keep quiet when you might listen. I ask you, in the name of the lord King’s good laws, that if you learn anything about the death of Master Walter or of Old Cuthbert the—’
‘Old Cuthbert too?’ This time Alnoth clearly regarded the news as bad. ‘Now there be a poor man as I will pray for, though some might laugh at me. Suffered, did Old Cuthbert, and I understand sufferin’ and not bein’ able to do those things others do and be a master of a craft, though I were always like this, and poor Cuthbert came to it through mischance. When I first came to Evesham, ooh, when I numbered no more ’n fifteen summers, so a score years past, Cuthbert, none so old then, showed a little kindness to me, and I learnt the tale of woe as brought ’im to be but a walker of cloth. Cuthbert ’ad a fair wife, the sort other men covet, and Cuthbert feared she were unfaithful. Told ’er that the life of a woman without virtue would mean no wife of Evesham would speak with ’er, and the lover would in time replace ’er, though ’e, Cuthbert, would always cherish ’er. She said she would tell the lover no more would she meet, and it were after that she were found dead, strangled. The gossip meant it seemed Cuthbert might ’ave done it, and the hue and cry took ’im up and the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant, not the one as does it now, came and took Cuthbert to Worcester and the Justices. Despite the rumours, all Cuthbert’s tithing swore for ’im, bar one man, and Cuthbert told me once it were that man as killed ’er when she said ’im nay.’
‘Did the man have a name?’
‘Aye, Siward Mealtere. Cuthbert were proved innocent, but the ordeal by hot iron cost ’im the use of ’is right ’and. A coppersmith needs fingers and good ’ands, and Cuthbert 176could not continue. When ’e said what ’e believed about Siward, Siward denied it all, and said Cuthbert’s mind were as twisted as ’is right ’and, and would never speak again with ’im. Most forgot the grudge, but not the pair o’ them.’
‘Why did Siward not face questions?’ Walkelin felt the Law had let a man down twice if Cuthbert had been right.
‘I does not know, but mayhap folk did not like to think too much about the speed they took up Cuthbert, and wanted it all forgotten, or Siward’s wife swore ’e were loyal and in ’is own bed the night of the killin’. I does not know, Underserjeant. There was some of the wife’s kin as always blamed Cuthbert, even after God proved ’im innocent. It were all a long time ago when I learnt it.’
‘Well, the more we knows, the easier it will be to find the truth, friend. One more question, since you knows Evesham well. Where do folk go for strap ends for their belts?’
‘Let me see, mmm.’ Alnoth considered the question. ‘Them as shows off wealth might go to a silversmith, but most ordinary men would go to Theobald the Coppersmith as works just off the marketplace, east side. I can tell an interestin’ story about Theobald …’ Alnoth was clearly happy to have someone to talk with, and since they were both going to the abbey, Walkelin was quite content to listen to him.