‘We wondered about that from speaking with his widow. She said nothing that fitted with the thoughtful and charitable soul described by Abbot Reginald.’ Bradecote was pleased that there was corroboration.

  ‘Hubert the Mason said the steward felt better and more important than everyone else, acted lordly – when no right did ’e have to do so.’ Walkelin added the last part in case it sounded as though acting lordly was of itself wrong.

  ‘It would set up backs, but not be reason to kill the man. What we did discover, Walkelin, is that before she was married to Walter, his wife, who is young and pretty, seems to have been fond of a youth nearer her own age, and it was mutual. Did Hubert the Mason mention his son, Simon?’

  ‘No, my lord, not of his own will, and never by name. The well delver suggested ’e used his son’s strong arms to help lift the stone for movin’ to the new diggin’ site, and I thought as the mason did not look pleased.’ Walkelin frowned. ‘And ’twere a sensible thought, so why did it get that reaction?’

  ‘It might well be that the mason wants to keep the lad lyin’ low, out of our sight. Now, that might be from simple fear of us, or else the mason knows somethin’ connects this Simon to the death.’ Catchpoll knew some folk were simply afraid of anything involving the Law.

  ‘Then let us find out which.’

  ‘My lord, we might do better to wait until the donkey takes the first load of stone to the site for the new diggin’,’ Walkelin suggested. ‘We can ask our questions without the well delver listenin’, and the mason wore an apron tied about ’is waist, over ’is cotte, so I could not see ’is belt or any strap end.’

  ‘Understood, Walkelin, and yours is a good idea. In the meantime, was anything learnt from those who live next to the green?’

  ‘No, my lord, though a few did not answer. They might be already gone to their labours. A woman bemoaned that the new steward would ’ave “closed ears”, and the impression I got was that this would not be new, but a continuation. That also fits with what we is learnin’ of Walter the Steward.’

  ‘Looks like the cart is on the move, my lord.’ Catchpoll was the one facing towards the corner of the green and could see over Walkelin’s shoulder.

  ‘If we goes up the north street and cuts left at the top end of the marketplace, we should meet where the new well pit is to be, and do so without “followin’” the cart.’ Walkelin had learnt the ‘map’ of Worcester’s streets, and Evesham was a lot simpler.

  Catchpoll was still smiling at his protégé’s ‘serjeant-craft’ as the trio traversed the marketplace.

  Chapter Four

  If Hubert the Mason had looked suspiciously at Walkelin, he regarded the lord Undersheriff and Sheriff’s Serjeant with blatant fear, and the donkey sensed it and began to back up in the shafts of the cart. Walkelin went to its head and tried to calm it. The mason, with four worked stones cradled in his arms, could do nothing but stand his ground and try to look less panicked.

  ‘Best you sets them stones down afore you drops ’em on your foot,’ advised Catchpoll, calmly.

  Hubert obeyed. He still looked trapped.

  ‘We would have you show us your belt.’ Bradecote made it a command, and confusion was added to the man’s worry.

  ‘My belt, my lord? Well, ’tis naught but my apron strings this day. Not as thin as I once were, and all the bendin’ to lift the stones would dig the buckle into the result of the wife’s good pottage.’ He patted his apron-covered belly, but his smile was nervous. He was trying too hard.

  ‘Where is Simon, your son?’ Bradecote was direct.

  ‘Gone over to Hampton, my lord, to aid my brother, for the pease be ready early this year.’

  ‘He is a labourer? I had thought you would have him follow your trade.’ Bradecote’s eyebrows rose, questioning.

  ‘Oh, he will follow me, my lord, b-but just now I can manage alone and my brother cannot.’ It sounded a poor reason, and Hubert coloured slightly.

  ‘And when did he go?’

  ‘Oh, must ’ave been a week since, my lord. At the least. Ought to be back in a day or so.’ This was said airily, but Hubert was tense. The lord Sheriff’s men could tell he was lying.

  ‘And was ’e sweet on Walter the Steward’s wife after she wed the steward?’ Catchpoll did not sound as if it made much difference to him.

  ‘O’course not, not once she wed. Would not be right.’ Outrage sped the words from the mason’s lips, even as he realised he had confirmed the relationship had existed. ‘Lads go cow-eyed over a girl very easy, but such things does not last. One girl one month, and a new one the next.’ He laughed, though it rang false.

  ‘Just a passin’ fancy, eh?’

  ‘Aye, and now forgotten.’

  ‘Strange that Walter’s widow ’as not forgotten, and assured us otherwise so strong it rang as much as a lie as the one you just spoke.’

  ‘Women linger on such things. Men move on.’ Hubert shrugged, ignoring the accusation of a lie.

  ‘And it must be annoying that he is gone to your brother just when there is this commission for the well stones.’ Bradecote kept up the pressure.

  ‘Never short of work, a good mason, and I am that. This be a simple task. I does not need aid.’

  ‘But if it is simple, then your journeyman, your son, could have done it alone and you could be working on something needing more skill.’ The undersheriff was very reasonable.

  ‘And we will go and find out just when he arrived in Hampton, if at all,’ added Catchpoll, smiling his most unnerving smile.

  ‘It might ’ave been just under a week. I did not count the days,’ admitted Hubert, in a rush.

  ‘Just long enough ago that he could not possibly have been the man to kill Walter the Steward. We understand.’ Bradecote was almost soothing.

  ‘Though of course it does not mean you could not ’ave done it.’ Walkelin, who had remained silent, spoke up. ‘Nobody liked ’im, as you said afore, and could well be you are one as loathed the man. It would give a reason for the meetin’ bein’ by the well pit.’

  ‘No. I slept sound all night. The wife will swear to it.’

  ‘Loyal wives always does,’ murmured Catchpoll.

  ‘And you knows nothin’ of Walter the Steward if you thinks as ’e would agree to meet where another said. It must ’ave been at ’is own command.’

  This, at least, gave a new line of thought.

  ‘Do not take up an offer of work outside Evesham, Master Mason. We will see how true your words are about your son, and may need to speak further with you.’ Bradecote sounded commanding. The man just nodded, and the shrieval trio left him to his stones.

  ‘We will cross to Hampton and check the tale of the son and the pease. Walkelin, we want to know if Walter’s widow was seen out and about freely, and alone, or is there gossip that he kept her close and “caged”. Since they wed last Michaelmas, if she is the reason for his death, something must have happened recently, or come to light.’

  ‘My lord, might Simon ’ave got close again, without ’is father’s knowin? ’Tis not somethin’ a son would want to admit, committin’ adultery.’ Walkelin thought Hubert’s rebuttal of the suggestion had rung true, but might be incorrect.

  ‘That is a possibility. Take your whittling, or help some old woman with her bundle of washing, and play the helpful stranger. You are good at it.’ Bradecote smiled. ‘We will meet at the guest hall later, though we cannot tell when.’ He gave directions to the steward’s house.

  ‘Yes, my lord. And what does the widow look like and what is her name?’

  ‘She is not yet seventeen, good figure, turned up nose, shy. We do not have her name, but you will discover it, no doubt.’ Bradecote nodded a dismissal and Walkelin strode away purposefully. ‘And we are for Hampton, Catchpoll.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord, and with luck, Kenelm the Ferryman will give us much of what we needs.’

  Bradecote and Catchpoll headed south to the green and then west along the northern boundary of the abbey demesne, marked by a hawthorn hedge as it descended gently to the western side of the promontory and the Hampton ferry. At one point there was a gap in the hedge where a blackcap was singing, and a gate, with a track that went southward, bridged over what must be a brook or deep ditch, and led to a cluster of buildings. Perhaps they were the abbey’s stores for the produce of the demesne gardens and orchards, for neat lines of trees were also just visible beyond the hedge.

  The ferry was midstream, and bearing a man with a pig. When it arrived, and the pig had been ‘encouraged’ to disembark, the ferryman acknowledged them.

  ‘Do you charge more for a pig?’ Bradecote wrinkled his nose.

  ‘I ought, and that be a fact. Mind you, that’n crossed none so bad. You needed in Hampton as well as Evesham, my lord? I would think one death enough for you to look into.’

  Kenelm the Ferryman knew all the news that came from Evesham, and that which came in from the westward. It was Catchpoll who answered as they climbed onboard.

  ‘Just castin’ about to make sure what is told is true, friend.’

  ‘And rare that be as fair-smellin’ swine.’ Kenelm often sifted hearsay from wishful thinking and downright malice.

  ‘We heard as some from Evesham had come over to help kin with the pease harvest this last week.’ Catchpoll was ‘just making conversation’.

  ‘It took several trips to get the lay brothers from the abbey across, that is for sure, and they returned but yesterday. The abbey ’as tended a vineyard in Hampton since Abbot Walter’s time, but they gets a good pease yield also most years.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Bradecote tried not to sound very interested but was not as good as Catchpoll.

  ‘There was young Simon, the mason’s son, but ’e only crossed yestermorn, so that would be too late to gather much, and ’e said as ’e were goin’ to Aelfric, an uncle, for a few days since ’is father was on ’is back over the quality of ’is work. I said as we all makes mistakes, and time be a great teacher, but ’e did not look cheered.’

  ‘Lads takes things to heart too easy.’ Catchpoll sounded the voice of aged wisdom.

  ‘That they does. That they does.’ Silence fell, letting the Avon whisper beneath the planking of the ferryboat. Kenelm might have been thinking about his youth, but the shrieval pair were wondering about Simon the mason’s son. As the ferryman tied up on the western bank, Catchpoll asked directions to the pease field, and Bradecote dropped a silver penny into the ferryman’s calloused palm.

  ‘I doubt we will be long before we return.’

  ‘I will be ’ere, my lord, or else on t’other side.’ Kenelm touched his cap and grinned.

  The pease field was not empty, but it was clear that the majority of the crop was in, and the haulms were being cut and left to dry for fodder. They asked for Aelfric, who was rather in awe of being spoken to by a lord, and who volunteered that his nephew was the lad with the wide-brimmed straw hat ‘over yonder’. Bradecote and Catchpoll got within about five yards of him, approaching from behind, and then Catchpoll sneezed and the youth turned around, saw two men he did not know but who looked intent on knowing him, and ran. Catchpoll groaned. Bradecote, unconcerned about how it looked that a lord should run, gave chase, and if his legs were older, they were also longer, and although a stone mason would have strong muscles, they were not in his legs. It gave the undersheriff, who rode nearly every day, another advantage. At the same time Simon jinked about like a chased hare, and the others working in the field watched in a mixture of curiosity and some amusement. However, after a few minutes the journeyman mason tired, and tripped over a willow root. He went sprawling, and Bradecote was spared the possible indignity of launching himself to grab about his legs. He folded his arms and waited, just beyond arm’s length, breathing fast but not desperate for air. Catchpoll, having gauged the direction and taken the shortest route at a dog trot, arrived, wheezing a little.

  ‘Landed a fish, my lord? Looks like one.’

  Simon was certainly trying to get as much air into his lungs as possible. He had rolled over and lay looking up at them, very frightened. They noted that his cotte was girdled by a narrow belt with a curved strap end, one that had a heart shape crudely etched into it.

  ‘Mornin’.’ Catchpoll grinned at him, and the youth’s bowels nearly opened. ‘You are Simon, son of Hubert the Mason. This is the lord Bradecote, Undersheriff of the Shire, and I am Serjeant Catchpoll. We doesn’t look like outlaws, so why did you run from us?’ Catchpoll sounded curious.

  ‘It were not me,’ blurted out Simon.

  ‘That’s good, then.’ Catchpoll’s grin widened, and grew more awful. ‘So now you tells us what you did not do.’

  ‘I did not kill ’im, on my oath, I did not.’

  Catchpoll did not tease further and ask whom Simon meant.

  ‘In which case, why run from Evesham yesterday morning, and why run from us now?’ Bradecote did not raise his voice, but it held steel.

  ‘Father told me to. Said I would be blamed for it, since everyone knew I loved Mærwynn.’

  The youth, who could be no more than four or five years older than Walter’s wife, sounded as if the noose was already about his throat, and his voice was a trembling gasp.

  ‘Do you love her still, or was this all in the past?’ Bradecote did not question the passionate verb.

  ‘Still – not that we—I scarce spoke to ’er since she wed. She sort of disappeared, and Father said I must not give Walter the Steward reason to demand more.’

  ‘Demand more?’ Bradecote and Catchpoll spoke almost in unison, genuinely surprised.

  ‘Somethin’ about Quarter Day. I knows no more, but Father said as it risked our business, our ’ome. I did not see Mærwynn, I swears it, not ’til a week past. She looked so frightened, like a mouse in a trap, and she begged me not to even look at ’er.’ Simon’s voice strengthened. ‘What sort of man frightens a wife like that?’

  ‘Did you say anything to her?’ Bradecote wanted to know the source of her fearing he had killed her husband.

  ‘I said it were not right.’ This was mumbled and Simon did not look at them.

  ‘Tell us the words, exactly.’ It was a command.

  ‘I-I said a man like that did not deserve to live.’ There was a pause. ‘But I did not kill ’im, even though I rejoices that someone did. When the widow-time is past, I will ask again to wed ’er. We thought it would be agreed afore. Father and Mærwynn’s father spoke of it, and it were part agreed, then she wed the steward, sudden-like, and without a reason to me. I tried to ask ’er father, but ’e just shook ’is head and said some things could not be.’ He sighed. ‘My lord, it looks bad, I knows that, but what I said to Mærwynn was just words, words sprung from shock. I meant ’em, in a way, but could not ’ave done the deed. When Father came and told me about the body in the well pit, I tried to imagine doin’ it, throwin’ the stone down onto the steward’s head,’ he mimed the action, but halted as if the stone did not leave his hand, ‘but I could not.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Bradecote glanced at Catchpoll. Simon had ‘lifted’ the stone with his left hand and thought that it was a lobbed stone that killed Walter the Steward. ‘But between you and your father, and Mærwynn also, there have been lies and a fleeing that has taken us from the real path to who killed Walter the Steward.’

  ‘But whoever did it did Evesham a favour.’ Simon sounded sulky.

  ‘It does not make it lawful, and the Law lies there to stop folk doin’ what they wants out of spite, greed, vengeance or “doin’ a favour” for themselves or others.’ Catchpoll spoke almost magisterially, and it was one of those times when Bradecote was well aware that Catchpoll also meant he was the physical embodiment of the Law.

  ‘If your uncle still has use for you here, then remain for a few days. It may mean, if we are fortunate, that whoever killed Walter the Steward will be taken by then, and even if not, you are better out of Evesham while this is on all lips and in all minds.’ It was the best advice Bradecote could give.

  ‘Yes, my lord. Will you tell Father? I think a bit of ’im feared I did it, even when I swore I did not.’

  ‘We will tell ’im,’ Catchpoll assured the young man, and as he and Bradecote made their way back to the ferry, he added that he would personally tell Hubert the Mason that all he had done was make things look worse than they were.

  ‘I thinks some folk mishear the word “Law” for “wolf” and acts brainless, my lord.’

  ‘Or the name “Catchpoll”.’

  Catchpoll was still laughing as Kenelm took them across the Avon.

  Walkelin, left to tackle his task his own way, chose not to loiter and whittle some child’s toy, as was his usual ploy, but sauntered past the house where Walter the Steward had lived, and apparently found a stone in his boot. He leant against the wall of the house next door, removed the boot and wobbled a little, tipping out the invisible stone and rubbing the ball of his foot with an expression of discomfort. He had caught the sound of voices within the neighbour’s house, and hoped someone, preferably female, might emerge. He was in luck. A woman younger than his mother but much older than his Eluned, and with the same sing-song Welsh voice, propelled a lad of about tithing age into the street, with the injunction to ‘go back to your father and tell him not to send you next time when he wants to make an excuse for bein’ late. I knows it is the alehouse as calls him’. She glanced sideways to see who was leaning on ‘her’ wall, and Walkelin, exuding ‘innocent man with painful foot’, smiled and grimaced in one expression.

  ‘Apologies, mistress. So sharp a pain it was I thought a nail was gone through the sole and into my foot.’

  ‘A nail? There’s bad.’

  ‘No, Heaven be praised. ’Twere but a stone, though it hurt like a sharp nail.’

  ‘A bruise can be very painful.’

  ‘Indeed. I will hobble back to the abbey’s guest hall, for sure.’