‘God grant peace and rest to she who lived her life of prayer here,’ murmured Walkelin, and crossed himself. His companions added an ‘Amen’, and Alnoth, stood outside, breathed a sigh of relief and added his own.

  Inside, Walkelin got down on his knees, not for further prayer, but to look along the edges of the hearthstone.

  ‘There be some dust and dirt in the cracks, but they still shows clear.’

  ‘And if you wanted to lift it, you would use this.’ Catchpoll, quite happy to let Walkelin’s younger eyes and knees save his own, had noticed a short metal bar left upright against the door jamb on the hinge side. Anyone glancing in would not see it. He picked it up. ‘I doubts the holy woman used this as a fire poker. Too heavy.’

  ‘Then let us see if it achieves what we think it was used for.’ Bradecote was confident that this crumbling cell had been used as a hiding place, but was the silver still there?

  Catchpoll leant to press the bar into a hearth edge, noting as he did so a small flake had been chipped from very close to the place he set the bar to get under the hearthstone. He pushed down and felt the bar catch beneath the stone, then levered it slowly up until Walkelin could get his fingers under it and pull upwards. The sigh they both gave was not from their exertions.

  Beneath the hearthstone a small hollow had been scooped from the earth, and nestled into it lay a cloth bag, not yet quite full, but certainly well filled, with things that were hard enough to give bulges in the fabric. Catchpoll reached in to take it up, since Walkelin was holding up the hearthstone. He gave a small grunt as he lifted it, at first with one hand, but then supporting it with the other. He handed it to Bradecote.

  ‘If that holds less than my full year’s wage twice over, I will ride Walkelin’s idle horse back to Worcester.’

  Bradecote loosed the string that held the bag closed and looked within.

  ‘All silver, right enough. I would prefer to see it counted at the abbey rather than scrabble in the earth here.’

  ‘And she would not like it, my lord.’ Alnoth, curious, now stood in the doorway. ‘Wealth meant nothin’ to Mother Placida. Would be lackin’ respect to count it ’ere.’ Speaking on the anchoress’s behalf gave him a more confident tone.

  ‘I agree. We will go to Abbot Reginald with it, and you come too, Alnoth, for without you, this, which belongs to the abbey and to Evesham, would still be lost.’ Bradecote felt a weight as great as that of the silver lifted from him. Whatever William de Beauchamp felt, Evesham and Abbot Reginald would account their visit a success.

  ‘Oh, I am not so—’ Alnoth’s confidence fell away.

  ‘Come with us, friend.’ Walkelin, dusting off his knees, smiled at Alnoth, and the smile achieved more than any verbal request.

  ‘If you wishes it, my lord.’ The words were for the lord Undersheriff but he was looking at Walkelin.

  Abbot Reginald was not a venal man, but he gazed with pleasure upon the silver pennies as the abbey treasurer piled them upon the counting cloth. Not only would the abbey coffers, emptying by the day as the building work continued, be replenished with lost funds, but the townsfolk, who had been forced to pay the abbey steward on top of their rents, would be recompensed, and Abbot Reginald knew that would do much to mend any rift in trust between abbey and town.

  ‘This is indeed a matter for some rejoicing.’ He smiled at Bradecote, and then looked at Alnoth, standing as far back in the chamber as he could without the stonework hurting his back.

  ‘You have shown great honesty, though it is no surprise to those in this House who see you often, Alnoth. Not only that, but you have shown us the way of humility and charity of spirit. I know that you travel from place to place, but we would be happy if you chose to remain in Evesham. It seems to me that God has guided you to be here at this time and perhaps shown you a way forward also. According to our Rule, to work is to pray, but it seems to me that the Almighty, in crafting you as you are, calls you to pray as your work.’

  ‘My lord Abbot, I possess no learnin’, no Latin beyond the prayers we learns at the Offices. I am not fit for the tonsure.’ Alnoth coloured.

  ‘But God hears prayers spoken and thought, in whatever tongue. If you would care to remain with us, we offer you shelter, food and a welcome at the Offices.’

  ‘Brother Almoner shows me great kindness, but if’n I stayed, there would be one fewer place for another, more deservin’.’

  ‘Again, you think not of self but others,’ Abbot Reginald smiled, ‘which is an example we should all follow. I would be happy to restore Mother Placida’s cell as a dwelling for you. What has happened inclines me to think that it would be right for her memory to be kept with us, and from what has been said, you feel a connection to her.’

  ‘My lord Abbot, I could not live as she did, so enclosed. My life has ever been out in the open, in God’s good air. I am not called to be in the dark.’

  ‘And I do not ask it of you. Live a life of prayer within our demesne, eat as simply as you choose, attend the Offices as you feel called to do. We are none of us saints, Alnoth, but I believe you are an example to us. Think upon it.’

  ‘I will pray upon it, Father.’ The change in appellation, Abbot Reginald felt, boded well.

  ‘Good. Now I will have further consultation with the lord Sheriff’s officers about the … other matters.’ Abbot Reginald nodded a dismissal, and Alnoth went to the abbey church to seek divine guidance. The abbot looked at Bradecote. ‘Make all plain to me, if you would.’

  Bradecote set out the reasons for the belief that Oswald Mealtere killed Walter the Steward, being careful to say that it might have been an act of the moment, and defending himself, and that the killer of Old Cuthbert was in the lord Sheriff’s charge and being taken to Worcester to face the Justices in Eyre upon their next visit.

  ‘There is one other death that is “solved”, but it is not one we would publish to all Evesham, Father.’ He explained the confession of Siward Mealtere, and why they were not also taking him to Worcester. The abbot nodded, frowning.

  ‘I think you are right. That Siward feels his son has been taken because of his own sin is so great a burden upon him it will crush him. I hope he seeks confession before his priest, and lives what is left to him in penance. There is no reason to pronounce his guilt before the town, but I would have you make public what you have told me concerning the other deaths. Let us go into the marketplace and I will confirm that those “debts” falsely incurred, are paid, and that any who have been discovered to have suffered loss from paying Walter the Steward other than their due rents, will be paid back. I will also give something to the young widow, for what you have told me of him makes me feel it would be unfair to do otherwise.’

  Bradecote, Catchpoll and Walkelin all felt that the one person who might resent these acts would be the new steward, but said nothing.

  With a novice ringing a bell before them to call the attention of the crowd, the representatives of Law and Church declared what had been discovered and decided, and if not all Evesham heard it from their lips, they soon knew of it from their neighbours.

  Abbot Reginald gave the lord Sheriff’s men his blessing as they departed, even if a blessing for William de Beauchamp might stick in his throat, and a little after noon the trio left Evesham. Since they had concluded their investigation quicker than they, or the lord Sheriff, had expected, Bradecote decided it would be better to ride to the castle at Elmley, and reveal the outcome to William de Beauchamp there. They could also take up Ansculf to Worcester without the lord Sheriff having to do so, unless he wished to be in Worcester in the June town-stench, which was doubtful.

  They entered into the castle bailey mid-afternoon, having taken the time to cross at the Hampton ferry and tell Kenelm what had happened since he had been attacked, for which he gave thanks and free passage across the sluggish Avon. They were hot, dusty and tired when they arrived, even though the journey had been but a few miles. Bradecote hoped that William de Beauchamp had been able to cool down, in every sense, upon his own arrival, and also hoped that the fact that the man who killed Walter the Steward would not be presented before the Justices in Eyre would not reignite his ire. When he had woken he had thought his tenure as Undersheriff was about to end, but now, though he still risked being in William de Beauchamp’s disfavour for some time, which would not be pleasant, that fear was gone. All he wanted to do was deliver the prisoner to Worcester and return to Christina and the children.

  They left their horses with the grooms, and went directly to the hall, but found the lord Sheriff was still in his private chamber, which meant the trio had to wait. What occurred to all of them as time dragged on, was that the length of that wait was controlled by the lord Sheriff. Almost certainly, this was showing his continued displeasure.

  When he did choose to receive them, he did not look delighted.

  ‘You have it all sorted out, then.’ It was not question, and nor was it praise. He might almost have added ‘at last’ in a voice of weary acceptance.

  ‘Yes, my lord. The killer of Walter the Steward was Oswald Mealtere, though whether the killing would be judged as murder, or an emendable killing that occurred during a fight in which Oswald was the smaller and on the defensive, is unsure.’

  ‘No matter. That is for the Justices to decide.’

  ‘My lord, they cannot sit in judgement on Oswald Mealtere, for he is dead.’ Bradecote kept his eyes firmly on those of his superior and kept any hint of apology from his voice.

  ‘How so?’ De Beauchamp scowled. ‘Did he resist being taken?’

  ‘No, my lord. He was attacked by a swarm of bees.’ Bradecote was not surprised that William de Beauchamp’s eyebrows flew up in disbelief. ‘I should add that this was not mere mischance, for he sought the hoard of silver stolen from the abbey and its tenants, and had attacked the monk who tends the hives and then attempted to break into a hive, believing the silver to lie within.’

  ‘Was he mad or foolish?’

  ‘Perhaps a mix of both, my lord. The bees, naturally enough, defended their home, and so many stung him that he died within a short time. His widow gave us the information that proved beyond all doubt it was he who killed Walter the Steward.’

  ‘And the silver was not in a hive, I assume?’ De Beauchamp was always interested in silver, even if not coming to him.

  ‘No, my lord, but it is discovered, and has been returned to Abbot Reginald, who will see that those to whom silver is due will receive it. He is relieved that all is now understood, and reparations can be made.’

  ‘Hmm.’ William de Beauchamp took no pleasure at all in the relief felt by the Abbot of Evesham.

  ‘And we still has Ansculf to set before the Justices for the killing of the old man, Cuthbert.’ Catchpoll felt that their hard work was not really appreciated.

  ‘No. He is dead also.’ William de Beauchamp’s voice was expressionless.

  ‘My lord?’ Catchpoll looked taken aback.

  ‘How did he die, my lord?’ Bradecote tried not to sound accusatory, but an unpleasant thought had occurred to him.

  ‘The fool tried to escape, and I had no alternative but to get an archer to put an arrow through him. It is not the outcome we wanted, but a death was owing and that debt is paid.’ De Beauchamp shrugged. What was done could not be undone.

  ‘Indeed, my lord.’ Bradecote did not take his eyes from his superior. Had it truly been a case where there was no alternative, or was it ‘convenient’ that the man had not stood trial before the Justices, and perhaps made too much of the fact that he saw himself as doing the bidding of his lord? The Justices would have seen him hanged, regardless, but mutterings might have arisen and reached King Stephen concerning how William de Beauchamp ran his shrievalty.

  De Beauchamp’s eyes did not so much as flicker. He could see what was going through his undersheriff’s mind, and he did not care. If Bradecote had doubts, so be it. The man was far too inclined to see things in a way that verged, in de Beauchamp’s eyes, on the monastic and moral. Being but a vassal lord, he had no concept of the realities of power, and especially those involved in keeping power. His actions over the last few days proved that. He had run counter to his overlord’s wishes by involving himself in the actions of Bengeworth Castle, risking his future as undersheriff, and for what? ‘For the Law’, he would say, or ‘what is right’. William de Beauchamp told himself that he could not afford such a moral stance and looked down upon those that did. He had come close to dismissing him, but two – no three – things held him back. The first was that Ansculf, the idiot, had gone too far and committed murder, murder without any semblance of a reason. That could not be condoned. The second was that Bradecote, pox on him, was the best undersheriff de Beauchamp had ever had and he could be trusted not to betray his lord, even if he stood up against him. The third reason was Serjeant Catchpoll, who was standing in an attitude of casual observer, but whose eyes held a glint that de Beauchamp might take as indication that Catchpoll knew just what was in the heads of both his superiors and would ‘advise’ both to step back from anything irreversible.

  Catchpoll knew both men well enough to judge their strengths and weaknesses, and found himself somewhere between the two of them in the current situation. He stood with the lord Bradecote on the Law being greater than any man, but he also realised that the lord Sheriff was part of things way above Catchpoll’s knowledge and understanding, and, since Ansculf would have hanged anyway, the fact that he had not reached trial was not vitally important, and justice had been done; a life had paid the blood debt. He did not think the lord Sheriff had done more than lords tended to do, which was give out aims and instructions and leave others to work out how to implement them. Sometimes such things led to ‘misunderstandings’. Ansculf had been a nasty piece of work who implemented his instructions in a way that caused his own downfall. In Catchpoll’s eyes, William de Beauchamp’s fault had been putting the man into a position of power by making him the garrison serjeant at Bengeworth, but there was nothing that could change the past, so everybody ought to just get on with facing the next day’s challenges.

  Walkelin, meanwhile, was absorbing what he could from it all. Not so long ago he would have not even dared to listen, but now he too had some insight into those who directed his life, and, very privately, made judgements. He was sorry for Old Cuthbert, who had been failed by the Law twice, since he had died without the man who killed his wife being brought to account, and the man who had killed him did not have sufficient respect for, or fear of, the Law. In Walkelin’s view, the lord Bradecote had been in the right in all he had done. He did not get as far as the thought that the lord Sheriff had been in the wrong, for that was too dangerous a step for a mere underserjeant.

  There was a silence in the chamber, like a long breath that ended with a sigh that was Bradecote’s emotionless request to know whether the lord Sheriff required him further. It was a phrase that might have two meanings, and William de Beauchamp could choose which he would take.

  ‘There is nothing more to be done here. Go home and oversee your acres.’ De Beauchamp left a little pause, just as a reminder that his decision could go either way, and then relented, though without a smile. ‘I will send one of these two to fetch you next time there is need of you.’ He waved a hand vaguely towards Catchpoll and Walkelin.

  ‘As you command, my lord.’

  ‘As I command, Bradecote. Life is always the easier when you keep that in the forefront of your mind.’

  Easier in the short term, yes, thought Bradecote, bowing, but not necessarily on the conscience.

  When they emerged into the sun’s glare in the bailey, Walkelin went to fetch their mounts. Catchpoll looked thoughtfully at Bradecote.

  ‘There’s times, my lord, when the right can be wrong, the wrong can be right, and everything gets in a tangle. You just has to let things settle, like the dust.’

  ‘Do you think he made sure Ansculf did not get to speak before the Justices, Catchpoll?’

  ‘I think the lord Sheriff did not say the prisoner should be close-bound or close-watched, my lord, so if the man decided to try ’is luck and run for it, well, it were Ansculf’s decision. Once fleein’, it would be likely an archer would make a kill, not wing the man. Let us say ’tis easier for the lord Sheriff that Ansculf, his man, will not stand before the Justices, but if Ansculf had not run for it, ’e would be at a rope’s end soon enough.’

  ‘Do you agree with it?’ Bradecote was at least relieved that Catchpoll thought events had developed in much the same way that he had. It showed he was not just being excessively suspicious.

  ‘I does not need to agree, my lord. I am the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant and I does what the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant needs to do, best I can, in whatever circumstances.’

  ‘In spite of the lord Sheriff?’ Bradecote’s face eased for the first time since they had entered the castle.

  ‘That would be tellin’, my lord.’ Catchpoll’s eyes said the rest. ‘Do not go back to your lady and keep all this in your mind, my lord, and make more of it than you should. The lord Sheriff ’as never been the saintly sort, but then the saintly sort would make poor sheriffs. We is all sinners, and best we leave the judgement of a man’s soul to God, and sticks to just keepin’ the peace as best we can.’