Bradecote looked up as Walkelin entered the small chamber.
‘We have been trying to work out where Walter the Steward might have hidden his ill-gotten silver, Walkelin, as well as working back through all we have been told to try and find the lies, or those things mistakenly given as truth. That a killer will lie is what we expect, but we are being muddled by innocent folk misleading us.’ Bradecote looked to Walkelin as the repository of information, for his head seemed to file it away most accurately, and he was good at retrieving it. ‘Sense says the hiding place must not be where all could get to it, and if not his house, then we are looking at abbey land. The trouble is that he might even have hidden it on one of the abbey holdings outside Evesham.’
‘Not to my mind, my lord.’ Catchpoll wore a ‘thinking face’, but not the one where his eyes were also closed. ‘A man like Walter would always worry that someone might come across it by chance if it lay somewhere else where ’e could not check upon it when the fear touched ’im.’
‘Yes, you are right, Catchpoll. I ought to have considered that.’
‘Which means that it would be most like somewheres 214down this bit ’o the ground as lies close to the loop of the river, and not where folk pokes about day to day in their work. So it will not be inside the walls as they stands.’
‘And not where the masons is at work either, my lord,’ Walkelin offered.
‘But there are those two ruins before the orchard, that Prior Richard told me had once been for knights who owed service to the abbey but had been told they need only pay in coin. Not much stands, but we have seen before how a hearthstone can prove a good hiding place with a hiding hole dug beneath. We should go and look there after the evening meal. There is also—’
What Bradecote was about to say remained unspoken, for an urgent knocking on the door interrupted him, and what was reported drove all thought of stolen silver from their minds.
The man who stood before them had come from the Hampton ferry, if not at the run, then at a fast walking pace, which meant sweat stood upon his brow and he needed to catch a breath between sentences.
‘My lord, Kenelm the Ferryman lies near senseless and beaten bad on the far bank. They got the priest to ’im, but the good Father thinks Kenelm needs care and prayers but not the Last Rites.’ The man took a deep breath and then continued. ‘And the ferry be cut loose and gone downstream, though two men ’as gone and rowed downstream in a boat to catch it. I came across in a coracle.’
‘Did someone steal his takings of the day?’ Bradecote wondered if it would be a sum that would inspire a violent robbery. 215
‘That I does not know, my lord. Kenelm were not yet clear of mind when I left.’
‘We will come immediately.’ Bradecote sent Walkelin to see to the horses being saddled. The tired messenger could be carried up behind Walkelin, rather than run himself into a red-mist exhaustion trying to keep up with the fresher sheriff’s men. If there was nothing bigger than a coracle to convey them across, they would leave the horses and cross one at a time, if there was no alternative.
Within a few minutes they were trotting out under the abbey gateway, their faces so serious that a woman who saw them crossed herself and told her neighbour she thought there had been another killing in the town. When they reached the ferry, a rowing boat awaited them. The priest, certain that at least the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant would come to see what had happened, had found another man with a small fishing craft which was more stable, and larger than a coracle, and might take two in safety, and three if the passengers sat still, and sent him over to await whoever came down from the town.
Bradecote, not liking the idea of an overburdened boat tipping him into the flow of the Avon, suggested he and Catchpoll cross, but Walkelin, not wishing to be left holding the horses on the Evesham bank, persuaded the man behind him that he could fit in the coracle, being thin and with joints that bent easily. Thus, all three sheriff’s men crossed the river, and the horses were left tethered and under the eye of Kenelm’s young nephew.
The priest still sat with Kenelm in the little wooden hut that was the ferryman’s shelter when he thought the crossing traffic would be more from west to east bank, and the ferryman 216looked both pale and bloodied, and a rough bandage had been wrapped about his head. He was crouched upon the ground, his head resting forward in his hands, which in turn rested upon his raised knees. It was almost a foetal position, and he did not lift his head as they entered.
‘How does he, Father?’ Bradecote addressed the priest.
‘Well enough, my son,’ the priest assessed Bradecote as lordly by garb and voice, but it did not change his demeanour, ‘though his head still spins and he will not allow himself true rest until his ferry is safely back where it belongs. I have no doubt at all that it will be found, for two men rowing will be faster than the current, and the only delay will be towing it back upstream, against the flow.’ The priest was softly spoken, and exuded calm.
‘Can you tell us who did this, Kenelm, and for what reason? Had they crossed from the Evesham side with you and then attacked you rather than pay the fare?’ Bradecote looked down at the man, not expecting much in response.
Kenelm moved his head slowly, shaking it in slow motion and groaning a little as he did so.
‘Bastards came down this side, and I thought they wanted to cross.’
‘And they did not. What did they want, friend?’ Catchpoll, who had been offered a log end to sit upon, crouched down with a groan not unlike that of the injured ferryman, thanks to his arthritic knees, and put a hand onto Kenelm’s arm.
‘To take more ’n just, and give it to them,’ Kenelm managed, in something between a growl and a groan.
It sounded as though someone had taken the idea from Walter the Steward. 217
‘And you refused.’ It was the obvious assumption, otherwise they would not have cut loose the ferry, even if Kenelm had been ‘persuaded’ by blows. Catchpoll was not surprised.
‘’Course I did. The ferryman asks a fair price and no more. They wanted me to add on the toll.’ Kellen raised his head, outrage giving him strength.
‘What toll?’ Bradecote frowned. ‘No toll is due on the ferry.’
‘Same toll as at the bridge.’
Understanding dawned on Bradecote.
‘So they were from Bengeworth garrison.’
‘Aye, the lord Sheriff’s men. Said as folk was avoidin’ the toll on the bridge and walkin’ round to use the ferry, but no change in numbers ’as I seen, and no toll were there afore now on the bridge.’
Catchpoll swore under his breath, and Kenelm took it as vindication of his stance.
‘I thinks the same, Serjeant Catchpoll.’
‘Can you describe or give a name to any of them, and how many were there?’ Bradecote wanted to be able to identify the culprits before Rahere de Cormolain.
‘Four, my lord, and no face did I know. Three was just the bullies, big men. Fourth was in charge and only one as spoke. Enjoyed it all, though ’e left the blows to the bullies. Laughed, ’e did, and ’twere ’im as cut my ferry loose, may ’e rot in Hell,’ Kenelm groaned again then added, ‘and “Serjeant” was what one called ’im.’
Catchpoll made a growling noise.
‘And what did the serjeant look like?’ Walkelin wanted detail. 218
‘Not so tall above the usual, but big in build. Brown locks.’ Kenelm shut his eyes tight and tried to see the man in his mind more clearly than through the mist of anger. ‘Lacked a tooth. Saw that when ’e laughed.’
‘Top or bottom?’ Walkelin did not care that he sounded eager.
‘Top, left side, as I recalls. Nothin’ more I can give you.’
‘Nor need you, friend. We ’as enough.’ Catchpoll got up, slowly.
‘Your ferry will be restored to you, and any damage will be paid for by those at the castle,’ declared Bradecote. ‘You were right to refuse, and I am sorry you suffered for your honesty.’
‘As long as my ferry be found, my lord, and she ’as taken no worse ’arm, I will not complain.’
‘Well, we will see justice for what has been done.’ Bradecote looked at the priest. ‘Can he be taken across to lie in his own bed?’
‘Indeed, he can, my lord, but after you have gone across. There are willing hands to row all as needs this evening, and the ferry fare will still be Kenelm’s, not,’ he raised a hand, ‘that any fare was due for you doing your duty by the Law.’
‘Then we will leave now and hope to reach the castle before the gates are barred for the night.’ Bradecote nodded to priest and ferryman, and the temporary ferrymen, in rowing boat and coracle, took them once more across the Avon.
It was only when they were alone and had collected their horses that Catchpoll gave vent to his ire.
‘A serjeant to act like that. Gives all serjeants a bad 219name.’ He spat somewhere past his horse’s right ear.
‘But the serjeant I saw early this afternoon was not lacking a tooth and was grey at the temple and the lazy sort.’ Walkelin knew it could not be that man.
‘And de Cormolain said none of his men were allowed into the town, which was a lie, since the serjeant with a missing tooth is clearly our “stranger” in the alehouse.’ Bradecote would never trust de Cormolain, but the blatant lie still stung.
‘Depends the way you sees it, my lord. The serjeant Walkelin saw would be the lord de Cormolain’s man, not the lord Sheriff’s, the garrison serjeant as stays all the time, not the one as comes with each lord. Which makes things more – difficult.’
‘He would still be under de Cormolain’s command during his tenure, and there is no difficulty if we have proof enough, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote was determined.
‘Easy to say, my lord, but the lord Sheriff thinks ’is own way.’
‘True, but if faced with our proof—’
‘And if the serjeant is missin’ a fingernail too, my lord,’ added Walkelin, interrupting.
‘Indeed. That is plenty enough to give cause to put the man before the Justices in Eyre for the killing of Old Cuthbert, and while the lord Sheriff might be more than happy to annoy Abbot Reginald of Evesham, he cannot be seen to set aside murder by one of his own men.’
Catchpoll wished he was as convinced as his superior, but they cantered up into Evesham and then trotted down the hill to cross the bridge and into the gateway of Bengeworth Castle. 220
The duty guard, somnolent of a summer evening, were present in body, but not in mind. Three were playing at dice on the dusty earth of the bailey, just out of sight beyond the corner of the gatehouse. The two actually in the gateway were lounging against the day-warmed wood of the palisade. One caught sight of the three figures just in time to straighten as they swung left, and, recognising them from earlier in the afternoon, he made no effort to challenge them. They ignored him, for which he was grateful, seeing the look on the lord’s face and that of Serjeant Catchpoll.
Rahere de Cormolain was thinking of his bed when Bradecote entered, without knocking and with Catchpoll right behind him. Walkelin had been ordered to cover the gate to ensure that no man left the castle.
‘Not again.’ De Cormolain covered his eyes as if by doing so he could make Bradecote disappear. ‘Is not one pointless visitation in a day enough for you?’
‘You can be sure I would not return to this damp hole without good cause, de Cormolain, but good cause I have. This afternoon, Kenelm the Ferryman, who mans the crossing from Hampton, was attacked by men from this castle, and his ferry cut loose.’
‘And you think me the one wine-addled? I most certainly did not send anyone to the ferry. Why would I?’
‘The ferryman is sore of body and head but could tell us what happened. Four men, one of whom was addressed as “Serjeant”, came to the Hampton side. Kenelm thought they wanted to cross, but they did not. What they did want to do was get him to take silver beyond his crossing fare to match the “toll” due at the Bengeworth bridge, because 221some might avoid the bridge when bringing goods to market. They said it was the lord Sheriff’s wish.’
‘I have not had any instruction from the lord Sheriff about the ferry at Hampton, and if I had then you would need to speak with him. I would enjoy watching you try and treat him as you do those Catchpoll here takes up. Do you have any idea who he would pick as your replacement?’
De Cormolain smiled, unpleasantly. ‘You come here, at a day’s end, to spout accusations that can be nothing but foolishness. My serjeant has been here all day, and from what he told me after you left, your “Serjeant’s whelp” was asking him questions this afternoon about drinking in the town, and I said that none went without my permission.’
‘But this were the lord Sheriff’s man, my lord, the garrison serjeant, not yours.’ Catchpoll was respectful but guarded.
‘And the garrison serjeant is away from Bengeworth at present. You did not see him this afternoon because he was not here and I do not know when he will return, for he is gone to the lord Sheriff upon garrison business.’ De Cormolain turned back to Bradecote. ‘Has it not occurred to you that any small band of greedy men could claim to be in the lord Sheriff’s employ to give power to their threats.’
‘But they knew of the toll being taken here, at the bridge,’ countered Bradecote.
‘Many do, since it was brought in.’
‘At the lord Sheriff’s direct command?’
‘At his wish, shall we say.’ De Cormolain yawned. ‘The ferry will be found, I take it?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘And the ferryman is not like to die or be crippled for life. So a man was threatened by four unknown men who 222claimed connection with the lord Sheriff. That cannot be proved, the lord Sheriff’s garrison serjeant is not even in Bengeworth, and I did not, I swear to you, order him to Hampton at any time. You are just trying to put pressure on this garrison because you and I dislike each other. There is no proof you can bring to show otherwise.’
‘There you are wrong, de Cormolain. We have a description of this serjeant that is quite distinctive, since he lacks an upper tooth on the left side.’
‘But Serjeant Catchpoll lacks an upper left tooth and you have not thought to arraign him before the Justices.’ De Cormolain shrugged. ‘It is not so very rare.’
‘And—’
‘We ’as enough to be sure, my lord, and to make it beyond doubt to the lord Sheriff,’ Catchpoll interrupted his superior without compunction, and Bradecote, realising why, made no complaint.
‘I somehow think your “sure” may not be the same as his, Serjeant.’ De Cormolain was apparently unruffled.
‘I want all the garrison in the bailey to answer our questions, whether the garrison serjeant is present or not.’ Bradecote felt nothing more could be gained discussing the absent serjeant.
‘You can “want” all you please, but I am not turning out my men upon your whim.’ De Cormolain was beginning to lose his temper. He was tired, annoyed and needed to think.
‘I do not speak as myself but as representative of the lord Sheriff and the lord King’s Law.’
‘Ah yes, the really not so very high, and only moderately mighty lord Undersheriff. Behold me quaking.’ De Cormolain was mocking. 223
Hugh Bradecote was also tired, and had missed the evening meal, so he was hungry and in no mood to back down. His hand went unconsciously to his sword hilt.
‘The Law is patient, my lord.’ Catchpoll was looking at de Cormolain, but his words were as much for his superior. He had no doubt that Bradecote, even a tired and hungry Bradecote, could best a man who, if the state of the table was anything to go by, had not only been drinking in the afternoon, but continued after his own dinner, and with enough ease to make it look an unfair contest. It would complicate matters even more. Far better they withdrew, even if de Cormolain felt that a victory, since the last word would be with them on the morrow.
Hugh Bradecote stiffened, but did not look at Catchpoll.
‘The Law is … better than the men that serve it. Oh, go to bed, Bradecote, and see sense in the morning.’ It was, very intentionally, an insulting dismissal, and de Cormolain liked that.
Bradecote did not, but he could almost feel Catchpoll’s eyes on his back and knew that what he wanted to do and what was best diverged.
‘I will be glad to get to bed, de Cormolain, thank you, and I will be seeing the same sense come the dawn. I wonder if you will.’ It was the best he could do to counter the man, though it fell far short of what he would have liked. At least de Cormolain’s laugh did not sound as confident as it would have otherwise done. ‘And I will set a watch upon the gate so that none can slip away before my return.’ Bradecote did not have the resources to do so, but he doubted de Cormolain was clear-headed enough to think things through, and he could at least leave Walkelin, 224very obviously, until after full darkness fell.
When undersheriff and sheriff’s serjeant had departed, de Cormolain swore. Ansculf had been too open and heavy-handed and had better hope that William de Beauchamp would stand up for him in the face of damning evidence, since he would be the only one to do so.
‘I will be damned if I will let him drag me into all this,’ de Cormolain muttered. ‘Let him get himself out of the mire.’
Bradecote knew he had been too close to letting his anger overcome good sense, and he was annoyed with himself. He forced himself to set his anger aside to think clearly and had swift but quiet words with Catchpoll and Walkelin, who made a short report while their horses were brought.
‘My lord, somethin’ were different from the first visit. Nobody tried to leave, but many eyes watched me, and they looked – nervous. If the garrison serjeant be the one we seek, it may be that the men as went with ’im carried on to Elmley or Worcester, but then others know they went off sudden and did not return, which looks strange. The lord de Cormolain’s serjeant also did not come nigh me, and I thought ’e would ask why we was back.’
‘So we have very good grounds to say that Kenelm the Ferryman’s attackers are from the castle, and that whoever killed Old Cuthbert is their leader, but it gets us not much closer to laying hands upon the man. I have told de Cormolain I will set a watch upon the gate, in case the underlings are still here, which means, I am afraid, I need you to be seen to be outside until it is full dark and quiet. We will ensure the porter at the abbey gate knows you will 225return late, so you can get to your bed eventually.’
‘I understand, my lord, though I wish as we ’ad eaten afore we came.’
‘Your rumblin’ gut will make sure you keeps awake,’ offered Catchpoll, but then relented and said he would try and secure at least some bread to eat before he laid his head to rest.
The trio then gave a performance in the bailey, with Bradecote ordering Walkelin to give his horse to Catchpoll and to remain outside the castle to detain any who might leave overnight. Walkelin looked suitably ‘obedient but none too pleased’ and stationed himself very obviously opposite the castle gateway.
Bradecote and Catchpoll, the latter leading Walkelin’s horse, did not say anything until halfway up the hill to the abbey, and it was Bradecote who broke the silence.
‘You were right, Catchpoll. The Law is patient, but its patience is not without end. I nearly let my own feelings get in the way of the Law. Tomorrow will be different.’
‘Aye, my lord, but unless the garrison serjeant returns, we are matching a description with an unknown. Will the man lack a tooth? I am sure that ’e will, but it needs to be seen for the accusation to be made without doubt, and with the lord de Cormolain sayin’ as the man was not in Evesham at the time.’
‘Do you believe that, Catchpoll?’
‘Not as such, my lord. My thought would be ’e were sent off out the way, but it could be mighty difficult to prove just when, and whether ’e went by way of the ferry first.’
‘And my fear is that de Cormolain will send to the lord 226Sheriff and tell him it would be best not to send back the garrison serjeant at all.’
‘Well, the lord Sheriff was never one to like to be “told” anything, so we ’as that in our favour, and worryin’ about the morrow will just cost us sleep and do no good.’
‘You are right, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote managed a small smile.
‘As always, my lord?’ Catchpoll ventured.
‘I would not go that far, Serjeant.’
The abbey gate had been shut, for the hour was late, and the sun had finally dipped below the western horizon, but since it was known that the lord Undersheriff was not yet back and within, there was a gatekeeper on watch to let them in. They dismounted, and Catchpoll led the horses to the stable to find a groom, while Bradecote spoke with the gatekeeper. Both were surprised that in the guest hall a tired servant was waiting with the welcome news that there was not only bread and cheese, but cold chicken from the abbot’s own table should they wish to eat. Catchpoll ensured a portion was wrapped in a cloth and left on Walkelin’s cot.
The only person who had given up waiting to see them, and taken to his bed, was Alnoth the Handless.
Alnoth was a man who was content with his own company, and found joy in simple things, such as being warm, fed, and able to sit of an evening and listen to the birds singing before the melodies ceased in July. When the evening meal was over, he had gone to listen to Compline in the abbey church, and then, since it was still warm and the evening light was soft and golden, he walked within the abbey land, 227into the orchard, past the near-silent bee skeps and on to the tumbled-down retreat that had been home to Mother Placida. He was accompanied part of the way by Brother Petrus, the beekeeper, who was giving up sleep before the Night Offices to check one of his hives that gave cause for concern. It had seemed to him increasingly ‘out of sorts’ the last few weeks, and he was concerned that the numbers of bees within it had dropped. If the queen was ill or too old to produce more bees for the colony, it might cease to be viable, and the bees might simply go away.
Alnoth left him to his hives and carried on to the anchoress’s old cell. If he had possessed hands, he would have touched the wall in remembrance, but instead he leant back against it on the south side, where the heat of the sun had warmed it through the day, and closed his eyes. The memories flooded back; he had sat at the base of this wall and heard the swallows on the wing, the blackbird in the orchard asserting his territory, the trilling wren in the bushes where the women of two households always laid their washing, and Mother Placida’s voice, low and intent, using the words of the Office he had just attended. Her voice was the one thing absent, yet it drifted into his mind, as a benevolent ghost of sound. He smiled, and then sighed, and quietly said the Nunc Dimittis in her memory. Assuredly, he thought, hers was a soul that had departed in peace.
His mind had drifted, and the disconnected thoughts that swirled in his half-dozing state passed around each other in a soporific dance until two touched. He opened his eyes and a frown appeared on his brow. Walter the Steward had hidden his stolen silver somewhere 228others would not find it, and he had seen the man at the anchoress’s decaying home several times over the last two years. He remembered it because he had been coming to sit as he was now, and decided against it, since the steward was a man who was full of his own worth and power and would no doubt order him away. He had once done so when Alnoth was walking through the orchard, claiming he would steal the fruit, though how he was meant to do so without hands to reach the laden branches, and no power in a two-fingered grip on a stick, Alnoth could not imagine. He had assumed it had simply been unfortunate that Walter the steward was making rounds of the demesne just at that hour, but now another reason raised its head. Could he have been adding to his hoard, or checking it lay safe? Yes, now he considered it more, he had actually seen him coming out of the doorway, and most folk did not enter what felt like a tomb, although the anchoress had been too frail to dig her own grave within its walls, as Alnoth heard some did. She had been buried in a quiet spot at the edge of the monks’ burial ground, keeping her bones in the chaste seclusion in which she had lived.
Alnoth still had not wanted to trespass in what he felt was a holy place, however fallen down it had become. It may not have been consecrated by a priest, but the anchoress had consecrated it by her presence within the walls for so long. At the same time, Underserjeant Walkelin had said that if the stolen silver was returned to the abbey, there was a better chance of finding out who killed Old Cuthbert. Alnoth was torn, so he had prayed for guidance. Into his mind came the memory of Mother Placida’s shapely white 229hand proffering food through the little hatch in the door. He felt it was a sign. Yes, he could open the hatch without disturbing the serenity within, and at least see if there was anything inside.
When his eyes had adjusted to the low light, he could see nothing obvious, and yet something was not right. The chamber had been unoccupied for years, and the floor rushes had rotted to dust, but there were holes in the thatch, new since his last visit, which should have meant remnants of the reeds upon the floor, yet there was nothing but a hearthstone and bare earth. He felt, rather than knew, that someone had trespassed. He would tell Underserjeant Walkelin, and if it was nothing, then at least the underserjeant would not chastise him for making the suggestion.
As the sun set he returned to the enclave, and asked after the lord Sheriff’s men, but was told they had ridden out and not returned. He waited a while in the shadows, half dozing, until he heard horses’ hooves upon the cobbles, but there were only two riders. Alnoth, unwilling to speak of his suspicions other than with Walkelin, took them to his bed and kept them close. They could wait until morning, or the underserjeant’s return.
Oswald Mealtere’s wife had spent much of the evening keeping quiet, which was always the safest thing to do in her house, and had lingered over scrubbing out the bowls from the evening pottage. Her husband was in a foul mood, which was not uncommon, and arguing with his father. Their son, whose nature was more like that of his mother, had offered to go and put the chickens into the coop for 230the night, and she knew he would remain outside as long as he could.
Siward Mealtere was on the defensive, as his son harangued him.
‘What lay betwixt Cuthbert ’n me be no business of any other, even you. ’Tis enough that you know ’e would be as pleased at my death as I be at ’is.’
‘But to crow of it before the lord Undersheriff, Father …’ Oswald shook his head.
‘Ha! No risk to me in that, and the Law be so keen on truthfulness. Well, I did not lie and say I regretted the death.’
‘Our strife with Wulfram Meduwyrhta I understands, aye, and agrees with. You never said why though, with Cuthbert. No need would ’e ’ave of our malt, and even afore ’e lost wife and trade, there—’
Siward held up a hand, not so much in an action of halting, as protecting himself.
‘You leave ’er out of it.’
‘I did not bring the woman into it, just—oh, I gives up. Your skull be as full of clouds as your eyes.’ Oswald had thumped the table angrily, and grimaced, though his wife looked thoughtful. ‘I needs none of this. Every mouth in Evesham spouts questions about Walter the Steward’s silver, ’cept it were never ’is to keep, and where it might be kept close and safe. A good sum of it be mine, but all will pass to the monks, I doubts not, if whoever finds it speaks up. The bastard steward deserved all ’e got. That is what I will always say. Not even content with what ’e took, ’e wanted more, and—’ Oswald, pursed his lips and shook his head, vehemently. 231
His wife realised that she would be sharing the bed with a still irascible husband, and tried to say something that might reduce his anger.
‘The lord Undersheriff spoke with Mærwynn about the silver this afternoon.’
‘How could you know that?’ Oswald turned, and his voice was dismissive.
‘I was out with washin’ when Mærwynn and little Win came to their mother, and the little girl’s voice carries.’
‘Hmm. So what did she say?’
‘I only ’eard what the child reported.’
‘And that be what I meant, foolish woman.’ Oswald scowled.
His wife, who had in fact still been talking with the mead maker’s wife, made a vague report, to avoid showing how close she had been.
‘She said about them askin’ Mærwynn if she knew if the silver were kept close in the steward’s ’ouse, and Mærwynn said no, and somethin’ about bees and Brother Petrus.’
‘Did she now? Well, that may just be interestin’.’ It was the nearest Mistress Mealtere would get to praise, but she had just been thankful that it seemed to make her husband less angry and more thoughtful.