‘Thank you. Wait here and I will tell the lord Undersheriff and Serjeant Catchpoll what you have said. I do not know if we will look straight away, but I am sure we will look at it some time today.’

  ‘If you enters, you must promise to say a prayer for Mother Placida. If Walter the Steward went in for bad reasons, ’e would not say a prayer, and – well, look what ’appened to the man.’ If Alnoth did not think the place cursed, he certainly felt that treating it with less than great respect for its previous occupant would bring down wrath from Heaven.

  ‘I promise that,’ Walkelin answered over his shoulder, as he returned to his superiors.

  ‘Well, was that fruitful?’ Bradecote had noted a spring in Walkelin’s step.

  ‘I think so, my lord, though it is not certain. Alnoth remembers Walter the Steward bein’ at the anchoress’s old cell several times, and when Alnoth looked inside, ’e said as it did not seem as long abandoned as it should.’

  ‘It is worth looking into.’ Bradecote paused for a moment, wondering whether he needed to have Walkelin with them at the castle. It occurred to him that if he and Catchpoll met with opposition, Walkelin alone would not change the outcome. At the same time, he knew that Walkelin had been instrumental in collecting the information that had led them to a castle occupant being the man they sought for the death of Old Cuthbert, and he deserved to be there. He came to a decision. ‘Go with Alnoth and take a “serjeant’s look” in the anchoress’s home, not a townsman’s glance, and if the silver is there, bring it back to Abbot Reginald. Whether there or not, join us at the castle.’

  ‘I will not linger, my lord, but will look well.’ Walkelin nodded, turned and strode purposefully back to where Alnoth the Handless was watching the three men. He did not see the man who entered the new gate on horseback and went straight up to Catchpoll.

  Ansculf was not sure whether he was lucky or unlucky to espy Serjeant Catchpoll straight away. The tall, lordly-looking man with him must be the undersheriff that the lord de Cormolain disliked. There was a risk they were looking for him after the little ‘affair’ at the ferry, but he had been sent by the lord Sheriff, and that cloak of protection should hold. He came forward boldly.

  ‘You are the lord Undersheriff, my lord?’ Being bold did not mean being offensive, not yet.

  ‘Yes. And you are?’

  ‘Ansculf, my lord.’ Anculf thought better of giving his rank. ‘The lord Sheriff commands that you attend him at the castle, Bengeworth Castle, right away. I am sent to bring you to him.’

  ‘Well, I will hardly get lost going down the hill.’ Bradecote chose to sound casual, since if William de Beauchamp was at the castle, it was not going to be a courteous visit, and it was a matter of pride that he should look calm about the summons.

  ‘No, my lord.’ Ansculf was a little taken aback at the response. ‘But you will come with me.’ It ought to have sounded the way it did when Catchpoll took someone in, but somehow it had a pleading inflection.

  ‘We will have our horses saddled immediately. Serjeant Catchpoll, see things are not delayed.’

  Catchpoll caught not only the tone and being addressed as ‘Serjeant Catchpoll’. He did not think for one moment that his superior was treating him as an underling. What the lord Bradecote was really saying was ‘let Walkelin know we need him’. Walkelin’s account of what he heard and found at the ferry would be vital in showing the lord Sheriff that what his undersheriff, and by association, his serjeant and underserjeant, had done was right.

  ‘Aye, my lord.’ Catchpoll nodded and, whilst not running, disappeared swiftly into the stables. Bradecote was left looking at the messenger. He had not seen this man before, but then he had not taken note of any of the current garrison. Perhaps it was the word ‘garrison’ in his mind that made him glance at the man’s right hand. He was holding his horse’s bridle at the bit with his left, across his body. It seemed … odd. The right hand hung at his side, and about the middle finger was a linen wrapping, bandaging it. Bradecote did not allow his gaze to linger, but his confidence rose.

  Catchpoll returned, ostensibly from the stables, and leading Bradecote’s steel grey and his own horse. Bradecote could see a groom holding the bridle of Walkelin’s permanently idle mount, Snægl, just within the stables’ entrance. It proved Catchpoll had understood him perfectly.

  ‘All ready, my lord.’ Catchpoll handed the grey’s reins to Bradecote and mounted his own horse.

  The trio trotted out through the gate and turned to the right to descend to the bridge. As they did so a man stopped dead in the street and stared at the man whose name he did not know. It did not mean that he did not recognise him, however.

  Walkelin was in a hurry but knew that he could not rush what he needed to do. Alnoth, unaware that his companion was torn, was telling him how much the abbey had changed over the last few years, with claustral additions, the removal of the knights’ houses, and the new wall. They had just reached the orchard edge when a stable boy caught up with them and passed on Catchpoll’s instructions.

  ‘My friend, I am sorry that I cannot go with you to—’ Walkelin decided saying the place in front of the lad was feeding curiosity, so changed his words, ‘see the place you mentioned. You can be sure that I will come back as soon as the lord Undersheriff can spare me.’

  ‘I shall await you here, Underserjeant. I am too late to hear Prime, and I can give thanks for a new fine day as well in the sunshine as in a church.’

  Walkelin gave him a pat upon the shoulder and then ran back to the narrow gate into the enclave to seek his horse. As he went the same way to reach the bridge he passed the bandy-legged well digger, hurrying down the hill, and was hailed by him.

  ‘I saw the man,’ Adam Welldelver gasped, pointing across the bridge. ‘Leastways I think ’twere the man in the alehouse that made such a fuss. Could not see the tooth, or rather, where it should be, but it looked very like ’im.’

  ‘Then climb up behind and come with me, Master Welldelver. You may well be just the man the lord Undersheriff needs.’ Walkelin reached down a hand, and Snægl made a huffing sound as the added weight landed upon his haunches.

  ‘Beats me why a man would want to ride a beast,’ muttered the well digger, bumping up and down and with his hands gripping Walkelin’s belt. Walkelin just laughed and consoled him with the fact that they were only going a few hundred paces.

  ‘Would rather ’ave run than ’ave my bones shook out o’place.’

  ‘You gets used to it. Now, you is to say nothin’ and stay back until I calls you, when we is inside the castle.’

  ‘Is that where we is goin’? Not sure I likes that idea, from what folk says about it.’

  ‘Well, you are aidin’ the Law, so there can be no reason to worry.’ Walkelin knew that was not actually true, but he told himself it ought to be, and was thus not a real lie.

  Bradecote and Catchpoll, closely followed by Ansculf, who wanted to look as if he was preventing their escape rather than leading them in, trotted into the castle bailey, and could immediately feel the change in atmosphere occasioned by the lord Sheriff’s presence, even if he was now out of sight. The men-at-arms were indefinably more martial, the grooms more attentive, and even the lad bearing two buckets of water towards the kitchen staggered faster, and thus slopped more water over his feet and into the parched dust.

  They dismounted, handing their horses’ reins to the men who scurried forward to take them, and Bradecote led the way to the keep. At the last moment, Ansculf nipped past him to open the door for him. This was not out of courtesy, but so that he could announce to his overlord that he had completed his task, and since there had been no delay, he knew he could not be castigated. As soon as he had done so, he intended to remove himself and keep well out of the way. He began to step back, pulling the door closed after him, but Bradecote’s clipped command stopped him.

  ‘Stay here.’ It was said softly enough, but was pure command. Ansculf looked surprised and then unsettled, which was enough to make Catchpoll edge himself so that he could put his hand upon the door edge and prevent it moving further.

  ‘My lord, I have fulfilled your command and I have duties …’ Try as he might, Ansculf could not keep a note of entreaty from his voice.

  William de Beauchamp, who had been feeding his wrath, or rather lubricating it with a rather inferior wine, which was claimed to be the best within the castle, was focused upon how much he was going to enjoy berating his undersheriff. Bradecote had, as far as he was concerned, attempted to upset his plans to cause annoyance to Abbot Reginald and, in consequence, ruined his night’s sleep. That the connection was at best tenuous was not relevant. Neither Bradecote nor Serjeant Catchpoll were slow of wits, so must be anticipating an unpleasant interview, which made Bradecote’s giving the garrison serjeant a command, and looking not the least concerned, both an irritation and distraction. De Beauchamp fought down the desire to simply ask why the serjeant should remain, and let his face settle into the angry expression which had become almost that of default. He growled, letting the rumble build within his chest before letting it loose, and glared at Bradecote.

  ‘Tell me, Bradecote, how it is that you think you are superior to me.’

  ‘I do not think it, my lord, nor have ever thought it.’

  ‘Then explain to me why you came to Evesham and straight away disobeyed my instructions to ignore the Abbot of Evesham’s complaints about my castle.’

  ‘My lord, I did not visit the castle until yesterday forenoon, and that was concerning the killing of a man in the town the previous night.’ Bradecote sounded confident, which annoyed his superior even more.

  ‘I do not care what the reason was. The fact is that you took it upon yourself to “command” de Cormolain here not to raise a toll at the bridge. He is my vassal, as you are, and you have no authority over him, no right to issue commands.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord, but as I explained to him, I did not do so as another vassal lord of yours, but as a vassal of the Law. I had heard from Abbot Reginald of various incursions and depredations by men of this castle, but it was not the reason I spoke out. A woman coming to market had been assaulted, and her goods thrown into the Avon. Not only was that unlawful, but it would be all too easy for a repeat of the action to end up with a body in the river, not just baskets of fruit, and then there would be a death to investigate.’

  This was not the answer de Beauchamp had expected, and he needed a moment to consider it. In the meantime, he turned his gaze upon Catchpoll.

  ‘And you let him do this, Catchpoll? Did you fail to make my requirements known?’

  ‘No, my lord, I passed on your instructions right enough, but what the lord Bradecote says is true. ’Tis an easy step for a mindless man-at-arms to go further than jostlin’ and takin’ a woman’s means to earn silver, and push folk into the river and see ’em drown. Makes more work for us and the Justices.’ Catchpoll was respectful but firm. He would not budge from that view and looked William de Beauchamp squarely in the face.

  ‘You are not employed to do as little work as possible.’

  ‘No, my lord. I does what needs doin’. This needed to be stopped afore it got worse, but in truth we failed, and failed twice.’

  ‘How?’ Curiosity supplanted de Beauchamp’s anger, and Catchpoll glanced at Bradecote, wondering if the undersheriff would want to explain himself. Bradecote’s barely perceptible nod gave him the go ahead.

  ‘Well, my lord, this “chargin’ a toll” seemed such a good idea that an attempt was made to spread it to cover anyone coming into Evesham over the Hampton ferry. Kenelm the Ferryman rightly refused to charge folk extra and give that to the castle. Not only was it wrong, but there would be no way ’e could prove the sum and might end up bein’ told to give more and losin’ the crossin’ coin. When Kenelm refused, they gave ’im a beatin’ and cut the ferry loose.’

  ‘But why assume that it was men from the castle and not just – men seeing an opportunity?’

  ‘Because, my lord, Kenelm heard the man who loosed his ferry addressed as “serjeant”. When I came to the castle yesterday, the garrison serjeant was not here.’ Bradecote took Catchpoll’s place in the conversation.

  ‘I told you I had not sent him there,’ De Cormolain interjected, and it sounded just what it was, distancing himself from any blame.

  ‘It does not mean he did not go.’ Bradecote did not so much as glance at him. ‘My lord, the serjeant in question lacked an upper tooth on the left side. If you tell your serjeant here to open his mouth, you will find that he too does so.’

  ‘Open your mouth.’ William de Beauchamp wanted to remain in control of what was going on but felt it slipping from him. He did not like it.

  Ansculf opened his mouth, in as much as his lips parted.

  ‘Properly.’ It was no way to put the lord Sheriff on his side.

  Ansculf bared his teeth. The gap next to his upper left dogtooth was obvious.

  ‘You are a fool, Ansculf.’

  ‘My lord I was only—’

  ‘You were not ordered to the ferry but took it upon yourself to make a decision which reflects upon this castle and upon me. You will return to Elmley where I can keep you under my eye, and another will take your place here. What is more, I will send two weeks’ wages, due to you, to the ferryman in compensation.’ De Beauchamp looked at Bradecote. ‘The matter is better dealt with swiftly, and this is fair. The ferryman took no lasting harm I take it?’

  ‘No, my lord, and it is. However, there is more.’ Bradecote kept any note of triumph from his voice. ‘A man known as Old Cuthbert, a man once proven innocent by God at the ordeal, but thereafter unable to ply his craft and reduced to being a walker in a fuller’s troughs, was strangled two nights ago when he left the alehouse in Evesham. He said he had seen something of the killing of Walter the Steward and was silenced. We have spoken with those present and accounted for all but one man. This man was “a stranger” to the locals and was loud in condemning the Abbot of Evesham for not caring about the townsfolk and letting them be killed, while he lies safe behind his new wall. There is no reason we yet know why he killed the steward, but we can be sure enough that he killed Old Cuthbert for us to arraign that man before the Justices in Eyre.’ Bradecote paused for a moment, just for effect. ‘The man was described to us as shorter than me, brown-haired, without grey in his beard, and lacking an upper left tooth. What is more, the body was found at the fuller’s next morning, down by the ferry, and the ferry was taken in the night over to the Hampton side by someone not used to the work and who lost a fingernail in the process.’ He now looked at Ansculf. ‘What happened to your finger?’

  ‘I lost the nail, but the finger had got caught in a door.’ The answer was prompt enough, but lacked conviction, for Ansculf knew that when he was forced to show the finger, they would see the nail had not fallen off but been ripped from the bed.

  ‘Show us.’ Catchpoll looked grim.

  Ansculf glanced at the door, wondering, for one brief moment, if he could make it in time to escape, but as he did so the door opened, and Walkelin entered, followed by a short, bandy-legged individual.

  ‘My lord, I bring before you Adam Welldelver, as drank in the alehouse the night Old Cuthbert was killed, and who identifies this man’, he pointed at Ansculf, ‘as the stranger who spoke out against the lord Abbot and seemed intent on raisin’ bad feelin’ against the abbey.’

  ‘’Tis the man, I will swear a good oath, my lord.’ Adam Welldelver bowed low and offered the information, thinking it marginally less frightening than actually being addressed by the lord Sheriff of Worcestershire, especially as he looked now, which was mightily displeased.

  ‘We will see the injury.’ De Beauchamp could see no reason for the garrison serjeant to have killed two Evesham men, but the evidence seemed good enough to present him before the Justices in Eyre, unless he could find oathswearers to vouch for him.

  Ansculf could not escape with Walkelin between him and the door, and trying to fight his way out would be pointless. Walkelin and Catchpoll took his arms, and then Catchpoll, with no attempt at being gentle, unravelled the bandage from about the finger.

  ‘That’s day fresh, my lord, and not a nail as fell off after a blood bruise.’ Catchpoll, if anything, sounded even more displeased than the lord Sheriff.

  ‘I obeyed my lord’s commands, nothin’ more,’ shouted Ansculf, in desperation.

  ‘And I am not his lord,’ murmured Rahere de Cormolain, loudly enough for de Beauchamp to hear him.

  ‘I am, but no command from me ever said to raise tolls on the bridge, or the ferry, and assuredly none to kill innocent men.’

  Knowing William de Beauchamp well, Bradecote, Catchpoll and Walkelin knew there would have been no specific order to do so, but he might have approved the toll raising.

  ‘’Twere just an old man, and one not happy with ’is life, an old miseryguts. Did ’im a favour in many ways.’ Ansculf clutched at anything that might improve his situation, though his throat felt tight as if the noose were already about it. ‘Besides, ’e killed ’is wife, long ago, so none so innocent a man.’

  ‘God proved his innocence in the ordeal,’ snapped Walkelin, outraged that the man had suffered for that proof and yet could still be blamed.

  ‘And I am none so young,’ Catchpoll growled, his face inches from Ansculf’s, and his hand grasping the injured one so that Ansculf’s eyes watered at the pain, ‘and just at this minute I am not happy, either, but that be ’acos there’s a stench in front of my nose, the stench of a rotten serjeant, and nothin’ smells worse to me. You befouls the rank. I ’ave seen your sort afore in my time, bullies as liked to use the cloak of “orders” to step so far beyond the Law they was no better than outlaws. They just liked power over folk, and the power to end a life felt just too good.’

  ‘I wanted to be better than you, more feared than you,’ Ansculf declared, part defiant and part pleading.