Adam Welldelver said he would rather walk back into the town, so the three sheriff’s men were free to discuss what lay before them as they rode over the bridge and up the hill.

‘It seemed impossible that the two deaths were not connected and must mean Walkelin’s idea about the hoard is correct,’ bemoaned Bradecote, still contemplating that although he had proved himself in the right, his overlord was not going to thank him for it and might make his life awkward.

‘Well, in one way they was, my lord,’ Walkelin reminded him. ‘Old Cuthbert was, most like, a witness to the killin’ of Walter the Steward. ’Twere just wyrd that a man killed ’im for another reason.’

‘What Walkelin says is true, my lord. Wyrd can do that, and no point in worryin’ over it.’

‘Yes, you are right, both of you. The problem I see is that removing the death of Old Cuthbert does not give us a new view of things. There are no more people we need to speak with, and thus far there seems little to make any one person more likely than the others. Every time something pointed at a man, something else countered it.’

‘What if we goes, just for a bit, on gut feelin’, my lord? Just to see if it gives us any new idea. Of all those we spoke 254to, once or more, who would you discount completely?’ Catchpoll thought it might help to gather in mind all those they had interviewed.

‘The Widow Potter and her sons;  the tailor; the thatcher – in fact everyone except Hubert the Mason, reluctantly, Oswald Mealtere and, even more reluctantly, Wulfram Meduwyrhta.’

‘I thinks the same, my lord, ’cept I cannot see the mead maker as the killer.’ Walkelin was sifting the information in his head. ‘You could say ’e possesses more reason than others, what with Mærwynn as well as bein’ cheated. Added to that, I cannot forget ’e lied about ’is lost strap end, though we now knows the design is common in Evesham and so even if Wulfram owned one and lost it, there can be no proof it is the same one I found. ’Tis another little thing.’

‘Aye, but the coppersmith put a strap end on a new belt for Oswald Mealtere within the last week.’ Catchpoll reminded them. ‘We did not prove that was afore the steward died, and the man shows temper easily.’

‘Agreed. Let us therefore look first at every little thing we have discovered about him and speak with him again.’ Bradecote’s head had cleared of thoughts of his lord, and he could focus again.

Alnoth was not a man who rushed things. His life was itinerant, and based around market days and fairs, where his ‘minding’ of stalls provided an income, and there were more folk about to be charitable. Since he also stayed when he could within the security of religious houses, pilgrims often also proved to be in a giving frame of mind. Whilst he would otherwise have spent the morning in the Evesham 255marketplace, he did not begrudge waiting for the lord Sheriff’s Underserjeant, and he felt that Walkelin would return as soon as he could. He sat upon the grass, in the sunshine, leaning against the south side of the trunk of an apple tree that had been planted by brethren now long inhabitants of the monks’ churchyard, and which had a gentle dent in the trunk that formed a comfortable place to lie back and relax. The bees, already at work, hummed what became a low lullaby, and Alnoth slept, lightly.

Brother Petrus was glad that Chapter had not been a long affair this morning and he could get to his bees. Last evening he had sat by the ‘sick’ skep and listened, and felt melancholy. Fanciful as it seemed, he felt the buzzing of the bees was a bidding of farewell. It was intuitive, but not, as Brother Justus had rather spitefully suggested, ‘superstitious nonsense’.

The abbey hives faced west and sat upon the shelf in several doorless ‘cupboards’, designed to keep out the winter wet and the heat of summer noontide. Brother Petrus had got the carpenter to incorporate timber from the orchard trees that had grown too old and unproductive, at least where he could, because he thought it would encourage the bees to collect nectar from the apples, cherries and pears more particularly. Even as he drew near to his ‘village of bees’, Brother Petrus could sense a difference. The hive that had worried him was silent. He sighed. He would find new bees, for whenever Wulfram Meduwyrhta learnt of a bees’ nest in the locality where he could get wild honey, he always passed on the information to the Benedictine. With his abbot’s permission, Brother Petrus could leave the enclave and the skep, fully cleaned and freshened, could be used to lure in new occupants, but it was midsummer already, and a new 256hive would need any honey it made to help it overwinter, so he would get no more honey than lay within it now. He opened the twine-hinged door in the side of the skep. It was deserted.

He stepped back, opened his arms and looked heavenwards, offering up thanks for the bees and hives that remained, then clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and began intoning prayers for the bees that had departed, wishing them well. His voice was a soft monotone that blended with the gentle buzzing around the other hives. Bees and beekeeper were in harmony. So lost was he in his prayers that he did not hear the soft footfall upon the grass behind him.

Oswald Mealtere did not think about bees unless he was swatting a buzzing insect from about his head. He did not like the idea of being stung. He had lain in his bed before falling asleep, and tried to work out how Walter the Steward could have hidden his stolen silver in one of the hives without that happening to him. He decided the only way would be for him to have had the aid of the beekeeper, and that since he had threatened townsmen to get what he wanted, he must have found out something he could use against the monk if he did not comply. He wondered if bees would be too sleepy to sting at night, but it felt too great a risk. His only option was to go to the hives when the bee monk was present, and he could not see the hives from his holding. He decided the best option would be to cross Wulfram Meduwyrhta’s land just below the bridge, where the two tracks diverged, since he would be less likely to be seen. He could then enter the orchards and keep watch from behind a tree. He assumed the beekeeper tended his hives 257daily, and hoped he would not waste too much of his day.

On rising, he told his son his first tasks and said that he was going to speak with the lord Undersheriff. He thought this a clever ploy, since, if they came to pester him again, his family could say that he was in fact seeking them and must have missed them at the abbey. He did not go as far as thinking what he would say was the ‘information’ he had been seeking to pass on.

He was delayed at the first by Mistress Meduwyrhta, bearing a basket, walking up the track to the bridge to go to the market, and until she had disappeared from view he lingered outside the mealthus, slowly raking the ash from the previous day’s fire, and readying the wood for the next burning. Then he strode purposefully up towards the bridge and, at the last minute, diverted to the right. With a small smile he shut the sluice that the mead maker must have opened that morning, and jumped, with a grunt, across the slowly draining channel. He then headed towards the abbey enclave wall. When he could see the bee hives in their shelter he stopped. There was no sign of the beekeeper, and Oswald felt vaguely annoyed, as though he ought to have been there to save him time. Then he realised that the Benedictine would not tend his bees until after Chapter. He hoped there was not much abbey business to be discussed, and felt fortune favoured him when a figure, veiled, hatted, and garbed in linen, came into view. He watched as the man turned and, rather to his surprise, lifted his arms in a welcoming gesture, like a priest at the Mass, and then clasped his hands together and began what looked like prayer.

Oswald was not sure how long the praying might last, so did not advance tree by tree, taking cover, but approached 258directly, with his steps almost silent over the grass, which had been cropped short by the small flock of sheep that roamed the orchard and provided milk and cheese for the brethren. This morning they were grazing close by the river, and so could not give away his presence. As he drew close, Oswald noticed that the monk was standing before a hive with its door open and no sign of any bees coming out of it. That was how the steward hid his silver! The elation at this thought precluded Oswald wondering how the beekeeper had concealed a lower yield of honey.

‘So, Brother, have you taken the treasure within?’

Brother Petrus jumped in surprise, and turned.

‘Oh! I am sorry. I did not hear you. No, though however much is there will be a blessing to the abbey.’

‘But much of it does not belong to the abbey.’ Oswald was annoyed at the monk’s presumption of ownership.

‘How could that be?’ Brother Petrus looked perplexed. Why did this man, whom he vaguely recognised as the maltster from beyond Wulfram Meduwyrhta’s in the abbey demesne, think the honeycombs belonged to anyone but the monks?

‘Suffice to say, my own unwilling contributions lie within, so I will take them.’ Oswald pushed the monk aside, and reached, just a little cautiously, into the hive. His hands could feel nothing but the sticky, honey-filled combs. He withdrew them, rubbing the stickiness onto his cotte, and stared angrily at the Benedictine. ‘Lying is a sin, Brother. Where have you put it? In another hive?’ He grabbed Brother Petrus by his thin shoulders and shook him. ‘Where is it?’ His voice grew loud and aggressive. He could not see the monk’s expression very clearly through 259the thin veil over his face, but had he been able to do so he would only have seen great confusion and some fear.

‘I do not know what you mean. The bees were still there yesterday, and I have not removed the honey.’ The beekeeper’s voice was uncertain and plaintive.

‘Honey? What care I for honey? Where is the silver, monk?’

‘Silver? Are you mind-addled?’ Brother Petrus now thought this must be the case, and wondered how he might calm the madman. ‘Let me take you to Brother Augustine, our infirmarer. He can help you as I cannot.’ He put a hand on Oswald’s arm, and it was thrust away.

‘I will take it,’ Oswald shouted, and pushed the monk hard in the chest so that he fell backwards to lie on the grass. Brother Petrus, slightly stunned by both the fall and the very fact that he had been attacked, sat up slowly.

‘No more will I be cheated, no more, do you ’ear. No more.’ Oswald’s temper, never well leashed, broke loose, suffusing him with the red mist of anger that consumed him. He waved his fists at the Benedictine, even as the monk began to both edge away and get up, and then, seeing the old censer lying in the grass, took it up and swung it in a great arc.

Alnoth was more than half asleep in the sunshine, though it would soon be too hot to bask in the direct rays. The sound of a shout brought him to full consciousness, and he opened his eyes, blinking in the brightness, and pushed himself up, back against the tree trunk, until he stood. He turned, for the cry had come from towards the abbey. He saw one man standing over another, and then recognised the garb of the abbey beekeeper. The standing man did not look as though he was about to offer assistance, and then he saw the monk 260sit up and raise his arm protectively, as if to ward off a blow. Alnoth had no fist to clench, but indignation filled him. Violence towards a monk was unthinkable, surely. He began to run towards the abbey hives. The angry man was shouting and gesticulating, and then, as Brother Petrus tried to get up, grabbed the old censer that provided smoke for calming the bees, and swung it round at the beekeeper’s head. Brother Petrus fell, insensible, and Alnoth feared he would not reach him before the angry man hurt him further, though he was not sure what he could do beyond cannon straight into the man and knock him down.

Then something happened that Alnoth had not expected.

The bees in the hive adjacent to the empty one became agitated. Their colony seemed to be under attack from some large, loud animal. They reacted as they would to a bear and swarmed out to defend it. In a matter of moments Oswald was surrounded by angry bees, and was flailing his arms about his head, roaring in pain, which incensed them the more. He tried to run, but the swirling swarm kept with him, each bee intent upon defending the hive with its life. Alnoth, now as close as he dared, could see no way of rescuing the man, and feared also for the beekeeper, lying upon the ground. The bees, however, saw no threat from the inert heap that was Brother Petrus, and ignored him. Oswald’s cries diminished, not least because bees flew in and stung inside his mouth. He dropped to the ground, moaning and writhing. Alnoth lay prostrate upon the grass, praying for the tormented man in his agony, for the beekeeper and himself. Then there was no more human sound, not even a groan, and the bee-fury abated to a concerted buzzing. It was this that Brother Petrus heard as consciousness returned. The bees sounded angry, and for 261a moment he could not think why. He moved, cautiously, aware of the blood upon his face, which stuck his veil to his cheek, and aware that his bees were dangerous if afraid. He raised himself, turning so that he could sit up, and a sound between a sigh and a whimper left his lips. He saw Oswald’s body, so covered by the swarm that he looked a man of bees. Tears came to the Benedictines eyes, not just for the man, but for all the bees that would have given up their lives to save their hive. Then he became aware of Alnoth, on the edge of his vision.

‘Stay where you are, I beg,’ he called, in a singing voice. His bees heard him chant psalms to them, so he thought the sound would not increase their fear and wrath. Alnoth obeyed, willingly.

The lord Sheriff’s trio gave up their horses to be taken back to the stable, and then all three went to the little door that led from the enclave into the orchards, with the intention that Walkelin conduct the search of the anchoress’s old home, with Alnoth, and his superiors would go to speak again with Oswald Mealtere. When they stepped from the claustral into the pastoral they had no expectation of anything more than seeing Alnoth awaiting them among the fruit trees.

‘Holy Virgin,’ whispered Walkelin, crossing himself. Three figures were upon the parched grass, two prostrate and one sat, head bowed, and body bent forward. All three were very still, as though frozen, but upon one body there was movement, a strange ripple as thousands of tiny creatures moved in concert.

Bradecote was about to stride forward, but Catchpoll, put an arm before him to hold him back. 262

‘Not yet, my lord. Saw somethin’ like this many years past, when a lad disturbed a bees’ nest just beyond the butts, outside the Worcester walls. A bee sting or two is not more ’n painful for most, though once or twice a single sting has led to a death, but if a whole swarm attacks ’tis more stings than could be counted and – whoever lies there be dead, or be beyond savin’, and the bees is not yet calmed.’

‘And the sitting man looks to be “Brother Bee”,’ added Walkelin. ‘If any can calm them it will be ’im.’

So they watched for what seemed a very long time, as Brother Petrus slowly crawled away from where the bee-covered body lay, dragging the old censer, and filled it with a little dry grass for kindling, and some twigs from beneath an apple tree. It would not give thick smoke, but it was a start. It looked, from a distance, that he was summoning the smoke, and once it was more than a curling wisp, he began to swing it, very gently, and advance towards the swarming bees, chanting softly in Latin. The movement on the body slowed, or so they imagined, but then the monk stopped and simply knelt upon the ground and waited, gently swinging the censer.

‘What is he waiting for?’ whispered Bradecote, lowering his voice by instinct.

‘I suppose the bees will go back to their hive when the threat is over, and if they feels sleepy. What was said to me, when the lad died, was the bees must ’ave thought some animal was come to destroy the nest and defended it. Most like ’twas the same thing ’ere.’

Inaction was frustrating, but there was nothing else they could do but watch and wait. Eventually a few bees left the corpse, and once the vanguard had led the way, the other bees followed. Alnoth dared to raise his head when 263the beekeeper stopped chanting.

Walkelin gave a sigh of relief, not having known whether Alnoth was the victim.

‘So who did they attack?’ Bradecote wondered, stepping forward, but without haste. With the only bees remaining on the body being dead or dying, the man’s face could be seen, though it was red and swollen almost beyond recognition.

‘I believe it is the maltster,’ Brother Petrus lifted the veil from over his face, revealing a visage where blood and tears had mingled. ‘I do not understand why, but he had it in his mind that one of the hives was full of silver. He was not drunk, not by the smell of him, but clearly his mind was disordered, poor man.’ He sighed and shook his head.

‘I wonder why he thought that,’ mused Bradecote. ‘Brother, you have had no sign of interference in your hives? I imagine not, if the result of such a thing would be what we see before us.’

By now, it had dawned upon the beekeeper that these were the three shrieval officers staying in the guest hall.

‘None, my lord. I think the hive I found empty this morning has been ailing some time, and when a hive is “sick” and the number of bees within it becomes too low to carry on, those that are left just leave. Nobody could have hidden anything inside a hive without – this.’

‘Yes, I understand. Walkelin, go and find something to cover the body, and an abbey servant. If we carry the body to his family rather than use a cart or barrow, we can avoid any idea of another murder panicking the townsfolk.’

‘Yes, my lord, but I will aid Alnoth first.’ Walkelin could see Alnoth was now kneeling. He went over to him and took him by the upper arms, so that he could be steady as he stood. 264‘I must ask you to await me a little longer, Alnoth. Meet me at Mother Placida’s in a while?’

‘I will be glad to go there and pray, after this.’

‘Did you see what ’appened?’

‘I did, Underserjeant. I were asleep in the sun, against an apple’s trunk, and ’eard shoutin’. When I looked, I saw a man wavin’ ’is arms about and Brother Petrus on the ground, and when ’e tried to get up, the man swung that censer bowl at ’im and knocked the poor Brother senseless. Then the bees came out o’ the skep there, to defend their keeper, and attacked the man, all over ’im they was, and the cries awful to listen to as ’e suffered. Then ’e lay still, and Brother Petrus told me to lie quiet until the bees was calm.’

‘You did not hear what had made Oswald Mealtere strike Brother Petrus?’

‘No, Underserjeant. I were sun-sleepin’ then. ’Twas ’im?’

‘Aye. Now go and sun-sleep by the anchoress’s cell and I will come to you.’

‘Assuredly, I will try, but I fears bad dreams.’ Alnoth sighed and turned down the gentle slope towards the dilapidated dwelling, and Walkelin went off at the run to find another pair of hands and a blanket.

Oswald was not so light a man that his body was easy to bear when four men each held a corner of a rough blanket, and in crossing the mead maker’s channel, the abbey groom slipped so that they nearly dropped the body in the mud, though thankfully it was only the man’s feet that got damp, which led to some muttering.

The maltster’s wife was hoeing the weeds from the vegetable plot when she heard, not the footfall, but the 265muttering and heavy breathing, and looked up. She wore a wide-brimmed, loosely woven straw hat over her coif, and it hid some of her face. Bradecote was looking carefully at her, and saw the way she stopped, as if holding her breath, and stood motionless. She made no exclamation of distress, or even surprise, but just stared at them for several moments, and then lay down the hoe, dusted her hands on her skirts, and walked slowly towards the house, which was clearly where they would go. She arrived almost at the same time and opened the door without a word to let them pass in before her. Catchpoll gave silent thanks for the calm reception. Bringing the news of a death, and a body as proof of that reality, was often met with outpourings of grief and heartbreak. Whilst inured to it, and accepting it as part of his position, Catchpoll did not enjoy being the bringer of such news, especially when it also might mean casting the rest of the household into poverty or destitution. What neither he nor his companions had expected was the reaction of Siward Mealtere. The old man had been seated upon a chair, though it was little more than a stool with a pair of arms so that he might push himself up to stand, and staring into space. He did not move until he registered more than his daughter-in-law entering, and then he turned. His milky eyes could not make out much, but there were a group of men, and they did not greet him. He sensed, rather than saw, something calamitous, and pushed himself upright to come towards them, leaning forward so that he might see the quicker. When he saw them lower a body, he let out an anguished howl, like a wounded animal.

‘My son!’

Bradecote wondered if his eyesight was better than had 266been thought, since it could have been his grandson who had come to harm. Then he realised that if it had been the lad, Mistress Mealtere would have been inconsolable, a mother’s love being a thing that was always total, whilst wives did not always grieve for husbands, and even gave quiet thanks for release. From what he had seen of this household, Oswald’s wife was in the latter category.

‘My son!’ the old man repeated, and stumbled forward to reach down towards the body. ‘Who did this?’

‘No man. A swarm of bees attacked him when he threatened their hive.’ Bradecote spoke calmly, but a little louder so that his words would be clear to the old man.

‘The fault is mine! God punishes me!’ Siward began to tear at his hair.

‘That cannot be so.’

‘It is, I tells you. All my fault. I dared to think none would ever know, but God sees all and punished me worse than the fires of Damnation!’

‘What has He seen?’ Catchpoll sensed more than a strange outpouring of grief, though it was not uncommon for folk to put blame upon themselves when a loved-one died, as though there was a need to feel even more crushed.

‘I did it.’

‘Yes, but what?’ Catchpoll wanted confession.

‘I killed ’er, put my ’ands about ’er white throat and took the life from ’er, when she said she would not come away with me.’

Bradecote’s mind was racing to catch up, but Walkelin’s natural filing system meant he came up with the answer in a trice.

‘Old Cuthbert’s wife.’ 267

‘O’course. Never good enough for ’er, the useless bastard. I loved ’er, afore I wed the wife, and she me, but ’e “persuaded” ’er that it were better to wed ’im, and she fell for it. Could not get ’er from my mind and ’eart, though, and after she lost a babe she came to me for – comfort. When she came and told me to my face it were over, I could not bear ’er to be Cuthbert’s and not mine. And though God proved ’is innocence, I ’olds that the Almighty also left ’im hand-crippled so ’e would suffer for bein’ a weak ’usband. So long ago, and now look! My son! My Oswald!’

‘And he never knew of this?’

‘You think I would tell my son of it? Would any man? No, course not, and ’e were but a little ’un when it all ’appened.’ The old man had tears running down his cheeks.

‘Could Walter the Steward have found out?’ Bradecote was now able to take the next step. If the steward had discovered the truth he would, knowing his character, have used it against the maltster.

‘None but God knew.’

‘My lord.’ It was Mistress Mealtere who spoke up, calmly, without emotion. ‘When you came ’ere the yesterday, you was still interested in whoever killed Master Walter the Steward. Well, I can tell you the night ’e were killed, my ’usband went out, when Father ’ere were asleep, but afore full dark, and came back a while later. ’E groaned when ’e got into bed but said nothin’ to me. In the morn, I saw ’is clothes was dusty and bloody and there were a rent in the sleeve of ’is oldest cotte. Said ’e fell over in the dark, ’e did, but I saw ’is ribs when ’e dressed, and they was black and blue in different places, like a man ’ad punched ’im. Doubt you can tell now, if them bees stings ’as made the body all 268red, but the left side should be darker.’

It was Walkelin who knelt by the body, pulling up the cotte carefully, since there were a few dead, or nearly dead, bees tangled in the fabric. The skin was inflamed all over, but there were clearly patches of bruising, still dark and discoloured.

‘Just tryin’ to foul ’is name! Never a good wife, always sulky.’ Siward Mealtere, roused from his misery to point a bony finger at his daughter-in-law.

‘Nothin’ did I ever ’ave to smile about, other than our Ernebald, but then my son does not take after ’is father nor oldfather neither, and ’as a sweet nature.’

‘Did you play Oswald false, then?’ The old man challenged her.

‘Never. A dutiful wife always, but never was there love. Why would there be with a man as found fault, and carped and berated, and took ’is belt to me when we was younger.’

‘Oswald wore a new belt when we saw ’im, mistress. When did ’e begin to wear it?’ Walkelin asked the question.

‘Day after the killin’. Had it ready, mind, for the old one showed wear, but the end ’ad gone and it were near torn in two, so the new one came out.’

‘Thank you.’ Walkelin looked at his superiors and did not need to ask whether they felt they had discovered who had killed Walter the Steward. Whether it was self-defence or not would never be known, but it all fitted.

‘Walter the Steward was keeping back rent due each Quarter to the abbey, and, if he treated him as he did others, quite possibly making Oswald pay more than the rent sum as well, by using some threat or unfulfilled promise. We may never know which. It was most likely the steward who demanded the meeting by the well pit, since it was just before 269the paying day at midsummer, and perhaps asked for even more. Whatever the reason, a fight ensued, a brawling fight, and it seems beyond doubt that Oswald hit him with a stone and cast his body into the pit. Had it come before the Justices in Eyre, it might have been adjudged a killing emendable, and silver due to the steward’s widow, or else a hanging offence. This morning Oswald took it into his head that the stolen silver was in a beehive, and that led to his death. We cannot know why he—’

‘I told ’im last eventide, my lord. I ’eard Wulfram Meduwyrhta’s little girl, Win, tell ’er mother you ’ad asked Mærwynn if there were anywhere the silver could be in the steward’s ’ouse, and then somethin’ about bees, but the two was not connected. I-I did not make that clear, since Oswald would not like to know I was friends with next door. Better it sounded over’eard. Does it make it my fault?’ A note of doubt entered the woman’s voice.

‘No, mistress. Oswald came to his own conclusions and was driven by a desire to get the silver. At least we now understand a little why he attacked Brother Petrus.’

‘Oh, the poor man!’ Mistress Mealtere was not feeling sorry for her husband, but the Benedictine.

‘I am sure the priest will tell you that you are not to blame for others’ sins.’ Bradecote saw no reason why the woman should blame herself, since she could not have guessed what her husband would do with the information.

Siward, who had been attending enough to be outraged at his daughter-in-law’s ‘disloyalty’, sniffed, and straightened a little.

‘So, you will be takin’ me.’ It was not a question, and he did not seem in any way concerned by the thought, but it 270posed one, as far as Bradecote was concerned. The man had admitted a killing, one for which he had seen a man he knew to be innocent risk the noose, undergo ordeal, and suffer thereafter to his life’s end. It was also true that a death was owing for Cuthbert’s strangled wife. Yet the trouble lay in presenting the case before the Justices with the confession of an old man who looked so nigh to the grave as one finger-push would send him into it and be glad to be there. Distant kin, like Ansculf, might be found for the wife, but it would be unlikely any could speak accurately of what happened perhaps nearly forty years past. He looked at Catchpoll, whose face was grim. The serjeant shook his head, slowly. Bradecote then looked at Walkelin, which surprised the underserjeant, who did not think his view would even be considered. He bit his lip, frowned, and then also shook his head.

‘No, old man, we will not, and the most important reason is that a quick end, for you, would be the easy one. This way you know your guilt, and how a harsher judgement than any the Justices could bring upon you has come down. Life is harder than death for you, and you are condemned to carry on living a while longer.’ Bradecote heard Mistress Mealtere give a small sigh and looked to her. ‘You are not his gaoler, mistress, but I would also say you are not his servant. You and your son run the malthouse as you see fit, and look to the future. Let your peace with your neighbours be seen, and – live.’

It was a licence to step from subservience, and she nodded.

‘I will, my lord. Ernebald and I can manage.’

‘Then we are done here.’ Bradecote acknowledged her obeisance, and the three sheriff’s men left her to tell her son and arrange a funeral.