‘You got it all wrong.’ Catchpoll shook his head, but his eyes still glinted fiercely rather than in sorrow. ‘Bein’ “better” comes down to ’ard work and experience, and keepin’ to rules in ’ere.’ He tapped his temple with his free hand. ‘Bein’ “feared” is not an end, just a means to keep folk safe, leastways when you is a Sheriff’s Serjeant. Best to think of it as fear actin’ as the voice inside that tells you not to do somethin’, and warns of what ’appens if you does it. You just wanted folk to be frightened, not raise that voice in their ‘eads.’

  ‘And why did you kill Walter the Steward? Was it just because he was the abbey’s man?’ Bradecote, who had been thinking as well as listening to Catchpoll, needed the question answering.

  ‘I never killed the steward. Only saw the man twice as I remembers, and the night ’e died I played at dice with the lord de Cormolain’s serjeant until long past dark, and the night watch will swear I checked ’em late afore I went to my bed.’

  ‘You only saw Old Cuthbert the once,’ commented Walkelin, ‘so that part counts for nothin’.’

  ‘Aye, but ’is wife were distant kin of my mother, and the family said it must ’ave been ’im as killed the wife. Never thought much to it, nor recall the woman’s name, but then the story came out in the alehouse and, it seemed fittin’. Suddenly I could not only make more fear in Evesham, and anger at the abbot, but I could avenge my kin.’ It sounded an excuse more than a reason, a man grasping at a straw to validate his act.

  ‘Like Walkelin says, God found the man innocent. You cannot claim justification because a family story said he was guilty.’ Bradecote dismissed the mitigation with a wave of his hand, while his mind was grappling with the knowledge that, despite all the odds to the contrary, the two killings were definitely not connected and they were not one step closer to finding the killer of Walter the Steward. ‘My lord, I admit I thought our duty in Evesham done, and the killer of one was the killer of both, but against all likelihood, it seems there were two men responsible and we hold but one. Will you take this man in charge?’

  William de Beauchamp sniffed and looked thoughtfully at Ansculf. The man was a fool, and a killer, and a liability.

  ‘I will take him to Elmley today, and then await you in Worcester, since I hardly think you will take the second man before tomorrow.’ It was grudgingly said. Deep down, de Beauchamp ‘blamed’ his undersheriff for the very success for which he should be praised. It was – inconvenient.

  ‘Thank you, my lord. Then we will make it known in the town that a man is taken for the death of Old Cuthbert, though most were keen his killer should be taken, and less interested in who killed Walter the Steward, who had been keeping rents due to the abbey for himself and forcing silver from townsfolk with threats.’

  A part of William de Beauchamp delighted in the loss to the abbey, imagining Abbot Reginald’s chagrin when he found out.

  ‘I still expect you to find him.’ That, thought de Beauchamp, was at least a small payback for the inconvenience Bradecote had caused.

  ‘Yes, my lord. We will be about it immediately.’ Bradecote bowed, and Catchpoll and Walkelin followed suit. They went out, with the forgotten well delver in their wake.

  ‘I do not know why you keep Bradecote as your undersheriff, my lord,’ commented de Cormolain.

  ‘Because he is good at what he does, and he does not fail.’ De Beauchamp looked at his vassal. ‘I dislike failure. Remember that.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  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 to, 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 marketplace, 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 hive 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 daily, 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 directly, 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 the 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 sit 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 a 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.

  ‘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.’