‘Find ’er. ’Tis all I asks. Downriver she be gone, not long. Please, find ’er. I will do well enough.’ The words were a little muffled by a split lip, and Kenelm spat blood into the water’s edge.

  The man looked about, for a moment thinking that Kenelm meant a woman passenger lost from the ferry, then realised it was the ferry itself that was missing. On seeing a woman approaching, the Good Samaritan called out urgently to her, promising Kenelm he would get aid and bring back the ferry. It was not only a charitable act, but practical for one that lived on the Hampton bank, since the ferry was part of everyday life. The woman, taking his place with Kenelm, soothed as she would a hurt child, and Kenelm felt suddenly too overcome to push her away. He just wished the man God’s speed.

  Ansculf was feeling pleased with the result of his visit to the Hampton ferry, although it was very hot and rivulets of sweat were running down his spine beneath his cotte, and his hand throbbed. No sooner had he dismissed the men with a small word of praise and more of warning to keep their mouths shut about what they did, than Baldric came to him and said that the lord de Cormolain wanted him straight away. Ansculf frowned. It did not sound as though this was to praise him. He entered the slightly musty gloom of the hall and wondered if de Cormolain had moved at all during his absence.

  ‘You called for me, my lord.’

  ‘Yes, you are to ride to Elmley Castle, immediately, and if the lord Sheriff is not there, go on to Worcester. You are to tell him that his undersheriff has been “requiring”, and you are to stress the word, that the occupants of this castle do not take any action that creates problems for Evesham Abbey, counter to his own commands, and that I request that he come, most urgently, to make the situation clear to the lord Bradecote that it is he, and not the undersheriff, whose word is to be followed.’

  ‘But I am the castle serjeant not a messenger, my lord, and I am just come back from—’

  ‘I care not. You are the only one I can be assured will deliver the message properly. Go, and ride fast. If you do not return with the lord Sheriff on the morrow, at the latest, I will see that you are removed from the post of castle serjeant, if the lord Sheriff does not do so first. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Ansculf felt hard done by.

  ‘Repeat back what you are to say, first. It is important that the lord Sheriff comes straight away.’

  Ansculf, in a slightly sullen voice, did so, and went to find the swiftest horse in the castle stables.

  Rahere de Cormolain decided that the man need not know that it was also better he be absent from Evesham, at least until the overarching ‘protection’ of William de Beauchamp was visible. It had occurred to him that Ansculf, who was a man who relished handing out violence, might just have taken his orders too far when keeping abbey and town at odds, especially if he had drunk too much in the alehouse. It was a situation de Cormolain would rather face with his overlord present, since he wanted to be able to distance himself from any responsibility and to see Bradecote’s face when told to leave it all alone. Rahere de Cormolain smiled and pushed the cup of wine away.

  Chapter Twelve

  By the time the trio entered the abbey enclave again, Bradecote had come to terms with the fact that his actions might have put his position as undersheriff in jeopardy. He had done what he thought right and the rest was, as Catchpoll would say, ‘wyrd’. If he was fated to be removed and become again just a minor vassal lord, well it would mean more time with his wife and children and his manors, which was no bad thing. The part of him that insisted it would be, he silenced firmly.

  Catchpoll did not fear for his position, and was sanguine about the lord Sheriff’s wrath, since he had felt it on enough occasions in well over a score years, but he did not like to think about having a new undersheriff when Bradecote was the best he had worked for, and indeed with. He knew that they, with Walkelin, made a very efficient team. He wondered what it was that lay between the lords Bradecote and de Cormolain, and when Walkelin went off to find the grooms who had been at the alehouse the previous evening, and seek out the coppersmith, the serjeant took the chance to ask the question.

  ‘You can say ’tis nothin’ I needs to know, my lord, but you both act like tom cats in a sack when put together. Cannot say I likes the man, not one bit, but with you, well, ’tis more.’

  ‘You do not “need” to know, but it is a fair question, Catchpoll, and I will tell you this much. His sire and mine were at odds from long ago, over the same woman – my mother. De Cormolain the Elder even sought to “win” her by taking her from her family and wedding her by force, but my father intervened. I think my father nearly killed him, and from then on, if the de Cormolains could serve us a bad turn they would, openly or by underhand ways. Son is like sire, and not only has he repeated his father’s lies about my mother, God grant her peace,’ Bradecote crossed himself, ‘but we both hold land at Himbleton, and he is ever trying to encroach, or claim encroachment. It is like having a horsefly about one’s head, and like a horsefly, I wish I could swat him away forever.’ He paused. ‘It does not mean I would try and implicate him in a crime without cause, if that is your fear.’

  ‘Never entered my head, my lord, but not many men rouse you to anger, or you them, just on sight. Thing is, though, the lord de Cormolain might well claim such to the lord Sheriff.’

  ‘I know, but there is nothing I can do about that now. I still think that the unknown man in the alehouse is likely to have come from the castle, but we have not heard anyone say they saw Walter the Steward meet with anyone, or speak of the castle, so why would he arrange to meet a castle dweller by the well hole?’

  ‘Mayhap the steward wanted to get silver from the castle as from the townsfolk and knew somethin’ about the man?’ Catchpoll did not sound very convinced.

  ‘But the constable changes regularly, and brings his own men-at-arms as garrison, so there would be no time to gain such a hold over someone.’

  ‘There’s some as is the lord Sheriff’s own men. I heard as the serjeant died of a fever midwinter, and the lord Sheriff promoted a man from Elmley Castle, but I does not recall the name. Did not seem important, since they would not be servin’ in Worcester and gettin’ under my feet.’

  ‘At least that means we are only looking at a small number of the permanent garrison, which is in our favour.’

  Bradecote was cheered by the thought.

  ‘And also at the men directly in the service of the lord Sheriff, who will like our interfering even less. If we can prove that you are right, the lord Sheriff will hunch ’is shoulders and grumble, and if we cannot …’ Catchpoll did not need to finish the sentence. If Hugh Bradecote pointed a finger of suspicion at William de Beauchamp’s own men without it being almost impossible that it could be anyone else, then de Beauchamp would more than just snarl.

  ‘Since we cannot think of a reason why one of the garrison would kill Walter the Steward, the lord Sheriff would dig in his heels and say it simply could not be one of his men and that it must be a townsman.’ Bradecote ran his long fingers through his hair and sighed. ‘What have we missed, Catchpoll? That the man who claimed to have seen the first killing is then also killed must mean both deaths are connected, but I cannot see why a man-at-arms would kill the steward, nor a townsman kill Old Cuthbert. The most likely was Oswald Mealtere, but you saw his face when his father gloated over Old Cuthbert’s death.’

  ‘Aye, as surprised as we were, even shocked, and if ’n that were an act, I never saw one better. Truth rang from ’is offer of an oath also.’

  ‘It is all there, and yet all hidden still, and I do not know how we ask again and do not get the same truths and also the same lies, for lies have certainly been told.’

  ‘Which might aid us in the end, my lord. Lies, said over, oft show little cracks we can open like Hubert the Mason with mallet and bolster. What makes things difficult is when folk speak “true”, and would swear an oath, yet be mistaken. But we gets there in the end, my lord, and the morrow brings a fresh dawn and fresh chances.’ Catchpoll’s was sometimes a patient philosophy.

  ‘Over all the years as the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant, how many times has no answer come, and nobody been taken to put before the Justices in Eyre, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Some, my lord, but I could not give a number, for a tally would be of no use. I cannot go back and change the outcome, just as I cannot bring the dead back to life. Only God in Heaven can do that, and if we misses some, well He will not, come the Reckonin’.

  ‘Well, tonight I will pray God gives us aid before that.’ Bradecote was sincere.

  There was a firm but courteous knock upon the door and Walkelin entered, returned from a fruitless questioning of the servants, but more useful information from the coppersmith.

  ‘The coppersmith put a strap end on a new belt for Oswald Mealtere a few days ago but cannot swear whether ’twere the day afore Walter the Steward died, or the one after. The coppersmith’s favoured decoration be a leaf and ’tis rare for any to bear anythin’ else. Wulfram Meduwyrhta buys from ’im, but ’as not done so in two years, and the coppersmith does not think ’e asked for a special shape. So the strap end I found could belong to either of ’em, or many men in Evesham. The grooms that visited the alehouse could tell me nothin’ of use, but we can be sure that the man missing a tooth does not come from among those recently at the abbey, my lord. I knows it were not likely, but every path we can shut off makes it easier to find the right one.’

  ‘Now you are sounding like Serjeant Catchpoll.’ Bradecote gave a small smile.

  ‘Well, it shows as I learns well, my lord, and Serjeant Catchpoll cannot find fault with me if I sounds just like ’im.’ Walkelin looked all innocent eagerness.

  ‘Hmm. Since you sounds like me, what does you make of all we knows?’ Catchpoll was not going to actually say Walkelin’s view was of equal value, not out loud, but he knew it was these days, for the most part.

  ‘Nothin’ fits together neat, not yet. We ’as many pieces, but they sort of do not make a pot. In fact, they looks like different pots, or when a man gets a knock on the skull and sees two of everythin’.’ Walkelin paused. ‘We still does not know what Walter the Steward did with the coin kept from the abbey and forced from the townsfolk, other than—There, I ought to ’ave said afore!’ Walkelin clenched his fists in annoyance with himself. ‘But all the thoughts were about the ferry.’

  ‘Then sit down and tell us now.’ Catchpoll did not approve of Walkelin getting agitated over something he could not alter.

  ‘I met Alnoth the Handless at the ferry, and we walked together up to the abbey after I spoke with Kenelm the Ferryman. Alnoth found the boots and clothes of the lord Osbern de Lench, last summer.’

  ‘I remember.’ Bradecote nodded.

  ‘Well, Alnoth goes from place to place, and seems to follow a way from Gloucester to Evesham, since there’s shrines and pilgrims and a good chance of charity and work for a day at the markets and fairs. What Alnoth said was ’e saw Walter the Steward, though dressed far finer, in Gloucester last Michaelmas. Was sure it were Walter. So why did the Steward of Evesham visit Gloucester lookin’ “lordly” and where did ’e keep the silver as paid for those clothes and the ones ordered from Aelred the Tailor? Could we ’ave been lookin’ at this the wrong way?’

  ‘How?’ Bradecote frowned, but it was with interest, not annoyance.

  ‘What if the man as killed Walter found out about Gloucester, by chance, and sniffed about to find out the way Walter got ’is wealth? Suddenly, that man can threaten Walter who is used to threatenin’. It is the killer as arranges the meetin’ after all, and demands a share of the silver. Walter refuses and the man tries to make ’im say where it lies. They fight, and Walter gets clouted with the stone and dies.’

  ‘It could be as the man already knew a little by bein’ one made to give more on Quarter days.’ Catchpoll could see the logic of Walkelin’s idea. ‘Not a great leap to think ’e were not the only victim.’

  ‘And that would help us, since some have only now discovered their rents were not all paid into the abbey coffers, and were not threatened and made to pay extra as well. A good thought, Walkelin.’ Bradecote was approving, but cautious. ‘The trouble is, that if that was the reason for the killing, it makes it very unlikely Old Cuthbert’s killer came from Bengeworth, since the two connect.’

  ‘If the killer found the silver, and it must be quite a sum, would they ’ave left Evesham, or kept quiet until we leaves and all is quiet?’ Walkelin pondered aloud.

  ‘A missin’ townsman would raise too much talk and gossip. No, Walkelin, if what you say be so, man and silver remain.’ Catchpoll’s experience told him it could not be otherwise.

  ‘So the killer will keep a close eye upon the place and if we gets close, may well panic.’

  ‘The trouble is, Walkelin, that since last night the alehouse was full of gossip about Walter the Steward and fine clothes, any men in Evesham he took from will have worked out that he had a lot of stolen silver pennies hidden somewhere. If we go hunting for a hoard, many eyes will watch us. But it was a good idea,’ Bradecote saw the underserjeant’s shoulders droop a little, ‘and we may be fortunate. We should at least bear in mind as we go about Evesham that there must be a place that Walter could use and be confident it would remain a secret.’

  ‘And since Mærwynn is back with ’er kinfolk, the steward’s place lies empty. Might be wise if we was to look within afore others beats us to it.’ Catchpoll could just imagine it being ransacked by eager hands.

  ‘Unless … No, I was thinking that the new steward would have already moved in, but I doubt he could have moved all his goods and chattels since yesterday, when there was no sign in his home that anything was being put in chests in preparation.’ Bradecote looked thoughtful. ‘It might be too obvious a place, but if Walter cowed Mærwynn so much he could have commanded her never to look within a certain cask or chest and would have been obeyed, even over a young wife’s curiosity. We would also look foolish if we hunt all over Evesham and it was hidden there all along. There is time before the evening meal for us to go and be thorough.’

  ‘My lord, could Mærwynn have been curious and looked in a forbidden place once Walter lay dead?’ Walkelin could not see her doing so while he breathed, but his Eluned had told him several times when he had tried to sound ‘man of the house’ that nothing made her want to do something as much as it being declared forbidden, other than by the priest, of course.

  ‘Possibly, but we can go and ask her after looking for ourselves. It also has the benefit of us doing something rather than brooding on our lack of progress.’

  The sheriff’s men went out into the heat of the mid-afternoon with a purpose.

  As they reached the door of the steward’s house, the Welsh neighbour was at her own doorway, in conversation with another woman, whom she nudged as Bradecote approached, and they dipped respectfully. On seeing Walkelin, however, the woman looked far more at ease and friendly, and gave him a ‘Pnawn da’ and a smile.

  ‘No quieter now than when the poor wife were alone in the place,’ she commented, as Catchpoll opened the door. ‘Be noisier once the new one lives within, him having a full brood of family. Take a bit of getting used to, it will. Came round a while ago to look it over. Surprised I was he did not bring the wife, though. ’Tis a woman makes the tÿ a home, not the man.’

  ‘Did he leave with anything, mistress?’ Walkelin, about to follow Bradecote within, stopped and looked at her.

  ‘Not that I saw, though I was not looking.’ The woman blushed a little at the soft lie. ‘Other than a scroll of vellum under one arm, that is.’

  Walkelin thanked her in her own tongue, smiled, and went into the cool gloom of the interior to pass on this information to his superiors.

  ‘The only way it could connect with the silver is if it is a map of Evesham and has the place where the silver is buried marked upon it,’ suggested Walkelin.

  Catchpoll, already checking a chest containing two thick blankets and a linen sheet, slightly darned where a toe had gone through it, looked up.

  ‘Unless Walter split the hoard and set it in different places there would be no need to mark a map. A man remembers where he leaves silver wealth.’

  ‘But it is interesting that there are other documents still here, and we have no reason to think either Walter or William can read. What lie here are maps of abbey holdings right up onto the Cotswolds and in three shires beyond Worcestershire. So why one particular map?’ Bradecote thrust a rolled vellum back into a long box. ‘It is worth asking him when we have finished here, and before visiting Mærwynn the mead maker’s daughter.’ It was only as he said it that Hugh Bradecote realised he had not called her ‘Walter the Steward’s widow.’ Perhaps, he thought, he was instinctively extracting her from a relationship that had not been of her choosing and brought her nothing but harm.

  ‘Nothin’ shows a rich man, beyond what you would expect of the Evesham Abbey steward,’ noted Catchpoll, ‘and most men with money likes to dress up the wife and show ’er off in the best cloth and silver brooches, but this one kept the girl within, other than to go to church, and none said she dressed too fine for that.’

  ‘I do not think he had any intention of showing off to Evesham. After all, it would make everyone ask how he could afford it, and if he still lived here, as the steward – Walkelin, tell us again what Alnoth the Handless saw.’ Bradecote, about to check behind a small tapestry that hung on an otherwise bare wall, turned and looked at him.

  ‘He said he saw him at Michaelmas, all dressed in fine clothes, a cap of coney and a coney-trimmed cloak, and acting like a great lord. There was a man with ’im, a man Alnoth said was like,’ Walkelin drew the word from his memory, ‘a grovellin’ clerk.’

  ‘I think Walter was trying out being someone else.’ Bradecote half shut his eyes, imagining.

  ‘But who, my lord?’ asked Walkelin.