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 others 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 hand 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 the 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.

  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.

  Chapter Fourteen

  William de Beauchamp passed a poor night, though that was more down to eating too much than the news from Bengeworth, according to his lady, who turned her back to him and huffed as he tossed and turned to try and get comfortable. He woke, unrefreshed, with the first glimmer of dawn, his head fuzzy, and then could not get back to sleep. He decided that if he was awake, then so could everyone else be, and so rose, roused his servants and called for his horse, and the men from Bengeworth, to be ready to ride out in short order. It was more pleasant to ride before the day became hot, and he had no desire to break his fast, so they would not get the chance to do so either. That there were grumbles among those who followed him, and stifled yawns, did not interest him.

  Ansculf did not yawn, and nor did he grumble. He was worried, though he concealed it from his companions. In a foul mood, their lord could be unpredictable, other than you could guarantee that he would not be charitable and understanding. The garrison serjeant was not sure whether the fact that they rode in silence was a good or a bad one, and secretly hoped that venting his ire upon the lord Bradecote, or on the lord de Cormolain, would, like excising a boil, ease the lord Sheriff and leave nothing more than disinterest in a mere serjeant. If that was not the case, his life was about to become very difficult.

  It was only a few miles from the castle at Elmley to the loop of the Avon that snaked about Evesham and kept it from Bengeworth, and the majority of those who dwelt in the latter were only just opening their shutters and doors when William de Beauchamp and his entourage reached Bengeworth. The look upon his face made those inhabitants of the community that saw him make so deep an obeisance that their faces were nigh unto their knees, and they crossed themselves thereafter, pitying whoever it was who was on the receiving end of his wrath, even if one of the garrison, who were distrusted and disliked. He rode into the castle sitting lance-straight in the saddle, his reins-bearing hand upon the pommel, the other imperiously upon his hip, and entered the hastily opened gate to find the duty watch assembling in a rush. He ignored them and came to a halt in the middle of the bailey. A man ran forward to take his horse at the bit so that he might dismount, though he remained in the saddle, and received not so much as a glance.

  Rahere de Cormolain did not give the appearance of rushing, though his heart rate had increased at hearing his overlord was at the gate, and he had fumbled getting his sword into its hanger as he strove to look more ‘garrison commander’ and less ‘man only recently risen from his bed’. Once he set eyes upon him, he did not think it was because William de Beauchamp had come to heap praise upon his head. He was worried, but composed, and made a bow that was deferential but not grovelling.

  ‘My lord, I am hon—’ He got no further.

  ‘Send a man to find my undersheriff, and bring me wine. Now.’

  While he disliked being addressed like a common servant, a flood of relief surged through de Cormolain like the wave of the Severn Bore rushing upstream. It was Bradecote who was in trouble, not he himself.

  ‘Immediately, my lord.’ He turned to Ansculf, who had also dismounted, and was hovering just out of the lord Sheriff’s line of sight. ‘Ansculf, go to the abbey and fetch the lord Bradecote. If he is not within the walls, have the monks go out and search for him, as a matter of urgency.’

  Ansculf did not respond immediately. He thought it would be better if he remained in the background and did not show his face in Evesham town for a while. He stared at de Cormolain, part of him hoping that he would realise it would be better to send another.

  ‘Yes, go, and make sure Serjeant Catchpoll also comes before me.’ De Beauchamp would have words with his serjeant for not making his commands sufficiently plain, as well as with his undersheriff for ignoring them.

  ‘As you command, my lord.’ Ansculf had no choice but to obey swiftly. He remounted and wheeled his horse about, clattering out under the arch of the gateway as though chased by hellhounds, though he amended his pace as he crossed the bridge and rode up into the town, realising that he had no power to command the lord Abbot of Evesham’s monks, and it was a matter of debate as to whether the lord Sheriff did either.

  De Cormolain, irritated that the garrison serjeant had not leapt to obey without the added command of de Beauchamp, overcame his temper and strove to sound emollient. ‘I am sure you would prefer to come within my lodging, my lord, and the best wine will be brought to you there.’ He indicated the duty constable’s lodging. It looked what it was – makeshift and half-hearted, and no lord who performed his service to de Beauchamp there enjoyed a single day of it.

  De Beauchamp sat silent for a moment, as if considering the offer, though in reality he just wanted to keep de Cormolain off-balance. Then he grunted and dismounted slowly.

  ‘Very well.’ It was grudging. He followed in de Cormolain’s wake until the garrison commander stepped aside to let him enter the chamber first.

  William de Beauchamp himself had never stayed in this castle, since his own seat at Elmley lay only a few short miles away, and in fact he had never actually been within the ‘keep’ since instructing it to be adapted from a draughty barn. He halted in the doorway and sniffed.

  ‘What is the foul smell?’

  ‘It is the damp, my lord.’ De Cormolain tried not to sound annoyed that the man who sent him to this place, and lived under an hour’s ride away, had never discovered this for himself before. ‘It is here and in the barracks also, though the hot summer has dried them out a little more than the stonework.’

  ‘Then give thanks you are not on duty here in the winter.’ De Beauchamp wrinkled his nose and went towards the dais and the seat that was his right.

  ‘Indeed, my lord.’ De Cormolain had done a month in midwinter three years previously and had feared he would take such an ague from it that he might never recover. He sent a servant scurrying for wine and, in a low voice, the best goblet, and invited his overlord to be seated. Suggesting he might make himself ‘comfortable’ would sound foolish. There was an awkward silence until the wine had been brought, and the servant dismissed. Then de Beauchamp took a long draught, ran his tongue along his lips, with his gaze never leaving his vassal lord, and spoke.

  ‘So Bradecote is getting in your way.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘As you are getting in the Abbot of Evesham’s way.’

  ‘My lord, I have done only as you instructed me. Whenever opportunity arises, my men disrupt the townsfolk and villagers bringing in goods, make incursions over the abbey wall to show its uselessness, and sow discord among the townsfolk, which has been the easier since the steward of the abbey was killed a few days past. Bradecote is here to sniff into that, but it was beyond any possible remit to have Serjeant Catchpoll threaten the garrison if they continue to harass those who want to cross the bridge by exacting a toll.’

  ‘You have been doing that?’ De Beauchamp looked vaguely pleased. Money coming to him always pleased him.

  ‘Why yes, as it complies with your instruction my lord.’

  ‘An instruction that has never been given, de Cormolain, just remember that.’

  ‘But you—’

  ‘I have no knowledge of any unlawful acts by members of this garrison, nor, of course, as lord Sheriff, would I condone those acts.’ De Beauchamp’s tone was colourless. There was a pause. ‘Have the countryfolk been complaining loudly to Evesham’s overlord, the high and mighty abbot?’ A touch of eagerness entered his voice.

  ‘I believe so, since that must be how Catchpoll learnt the details of a recent reported incident.’ De Cormolain now comprehended that his lord was approving of his actions but would deny any connection. ‘There is no link between anyone here and the dead steward, and while Bradecote might want to poke his nose in just to annoy me, it should have ended with a few questions and him trotting off to root around for answers elsewhere.’

  ‘You do not like him, do you.’ Again, this was not a question.

  ‘No, my lord. Never did and never will, and nor does he like me.’

  ‘Very well. But remember that he is my vassal, not yours, and so you will not go beyond your “dislike”.’

  ‘As you command, my lord.’

  ‘Exactly. As I command.’

  ‘And what happens now, my lord?’

  ‘I wait, and the longer I have to wait, the less happy I will be.’

  De Cormolain made a silent prayer that Bradecote would be hard to find in Evesham.

  The lord Sheriff’s men had risen before the bell tolled for Prime, with the intention of appearing before the castle gates as soon as they were unbarred for the day, though Catchpoll had needed to shake Walkelin by the shoulder to rouse him after his shortened rest. As they were about to leave by the gate in the new enclave wall, however, Walkelin was hailed by Alnoth the Handless, who had been heading towards the church to sit in the south transept and listen to the Office. Alnoth beckoned the underserjeant with his vestige of a hand, and Bradecote indicated he would wait until the man had spoken with Walkelin. It was clear that Alnoth did not feel confident enough to approach the lord Undersheriff. Walkelin greeted him with a cheerful ‘good morrow’.

  ‘I tried to see you yestereve, Underserjeant, but no sign of you could I find.’ Alnoth’s voice had a hint of excitement within it.

  ‘No, Alnoth, my duties kept me from the guest hall and my rest until after nightfall.’

  ‘At least I can tell you now.’ Alnoth did look as if his information was bubbling up within him and he was glad to give it release. He took a deep breath. ‘I think Walter the Steward broke the sanctity of Mother Placida’s retreat and buried ’is stolen silver there.’ It came out in a rush of words.

  ‘Why do you think so?’

  ‘I went to sit outside it in the evenin’, and I remembered seein’ the steward several times by it, for it made me keep away to avoid bein’ shouted at. And – and then I felt encouraged to look inside.’

  ‘You have found it?’ Walkelin was understandably excited.

  ‘No, but I looked within, and it was not … right. These long years after the godly soul’s death, and with the roof part fallen in, it should ’ave looked unloved, untidy. I expected little bits of thatch upon the earth, a broken rafter. The floor was just – the floor, as though it had been swept, not recently, but certainly only months past.’

  Walkelin tempered his excitement. This was an impression, a ‘feeling’, nothing solid upon which to declare to the lord Bradecote that the missing silver was found, and even if it had been where the steward had hidden it once, there was no proof it still lay there.

  ‘So there was no bag or sign of anything bein’ kept there?’

  ‘No, but – mayhap Walter the Steward buried it and just moved the earth about so it did not look fresh?’ Alnoth sounded a little less sure himself now.