‘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 the 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. ‘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 muttering 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 been 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.’

  ‘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 red, 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 the 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 posed 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.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘My lord, why did you ask my view?’ Walkelin could not hold back the question, as they headed to cross over the channel and meet with Alnoth.

  ‘Because I value it. You have earned the right to give it, for yours is a head that keeps what we learn as if a scribe had written us a list.’

  ‘And now you thinks like a serjeant,’ added Catchpoll. ‘Three heads can make things a mess, or can make things clearer. Our heads is different, but between us, well, we seems to find the answers.’ He looked at Bradecote.

  ‘I agree. Just do not tell the lord Sheriff.’

  ‘Oh no, my lord.’ Walkelin looked horrified at even the thought of doing so.

  ‘And now we do not have Siward before us, I would ask whether you came to the same answer as me on this with the same reasoning?’

  ‘You was right, my lord. The man will suffer more alive than facing a hangin’.’ Walkelin thought his ‘sentence’ to life the harder option.

  ‘And the Justices in Eyre would not be best pleased to ’ave us bring a man before ’em for a death so long past, where we can give the man’s confession but little beyond that. They faces enough put in front of ’em to keep ’em busy, and would not care for it. So, for both reasons, it were the best justice.’

  ‘Good. It feels wrong to decide to ignore the Law, but—’

  ‘We is not ignorin’ it, my lord, but applyin’ it proper. Sometimes the Law can be blind, and that works well. Other times it can be plain unjust. Siward faces a painful slide to the grave, and will face God’s judgement thereafter. Whatever we says, ’e will blame ’imself for ’is son’s death, and that broke ’im.’

  ‘Yes. So now we hope that Alnoth the Handless has given us the missing silver to set before Abbot Reginald, since not only will he be the happier, but I am sure those who receive what Walter the Steward extracted from them by threats will be more interested in that than the death of Oswald Mealtere.’

  ‘No, my lord, I doubts that. “Death by bees” will give tongues work for weeks and be remembered for years.’ Catchpoll’s experience of people was right, and Bradecote acknowledged it.

  They reached the anchoress’s crumbling cell, and found Alnoth, not asleep but very awake, a little out of the sun’s glare, for it was now mid-morning, and there was enough heat for a man to feel it pass through his clothes and be uncomfortable on his skin. Seeing the lord Undersheriff and Serjeant Catchpoll with Walkelin, he scrambled to his feet as swiftly as he could and bowed low. What life had taught Alnoth was that everyone thought themselves more important than an itinerant who made a few pennies from watching over stalls and otherwise lived upon Christian charity, and they liked that superiority acknowledged. Underserjeant Wakelin, somehow, never let that show, and Alnoth liked him the more for it.

  ‘I see you made the wise choice and chose not to let the sun dry you like a hay stalk. It is Alnoth, yes?’ Bradecote greeted him in a friendly manner, taking him aback so much that for a moment Alnoth could not speak and just nodded. Then he found his voice.

  ‘Indeed, my lord.’ He thought that answer could not be construed as either curt or forward.

  ‘So, you think that the inside of the chamber has been “visited” in recent times, long after the good anchoress’s death.’

  ‘I do, my lord, but I may yet be wrong.’ Alnoth sounded cautious.

  ‘We shall see. Open the door, Walkelin.’

  Walkelin stepped forward and Alnoth reminded him in an urgent whisper to offer a prayer for Mother Placida when they entered. Walkelin nodded. The door opened outwards, as befitted a cell, and did so a little creakily, but was not difficult to open. Walkelin stepped slightly to the side so that all three shrieval officers could see within. At first it was just gloom, mottled by little patches of light where the holes in the roof let the prying sky peep in. Then their eyes adjusted from the sunshine, and the ghosts of the anchoress’s simple life could be discerned. To one side there were fragments of coarse linen, the last remnants of the thin palliasse upon which she had slept and which had provided nesting material for generations of mice since her demise. Upon the south-facing wall was a wooden cross that had been carefully placed to catch the best light from the narrow window opening high on the opposite wall. There were cobwebs, many dust-bedecked, and the sound of scurrying mouse feet was the only sign of life. The dirt floor had once been hard packed and perhaps rush-strewn, though Mother Placida might have eschewed anything beyond bare earth. There were mouse droppings on the hearthstone, which had not felt a fire’s heat in years, and a little detritus that had accrued as the structure above it had ‘watered’ it with a rain of thatch fragments as the roof fell into disrepair, but not as much as would be expected when one looked up at the gaps.