‘Thank you. We will let you get back to your malt.’ Bradecote thus dismissed the maltster, who nodded, and went back to shout more instructions at his son.

  ‘So was the mead maker drinking with his friends, or was he meeting with Walter?’ Bradecote voiced the obvious question.

  ‘If he was ale drinkin’ there should be plenty to confirm the story, my lord. I think there is but one alehouse in Evesham, and otherwise ’tis just sold by alewives at their door.’ Walkelin expected to be the one sent to discover that truth.

  ‘And if ’twas meetin’ with Walter there will be no admission of it.’ Catchpoll sniffed. ‘Pity Oswald Mealtere hates the meduwyrhta’s guts. If they was best friends there would be no cause to try and muddy the waters.’

  ‘But then again, if that were so they might swear falsely to support the other, so would be equally useless to us.’ Bradecote shrugged.

  ‘The maltster wears a very new-lookin’ belt, my lord.’ Walkelin was observant.

  ‘Yes. I wonder if that is chance.’

  ‘And it might be worth speakin’ with Brother Beekeeper, to find out ’is view of Wulfram, and see if it tallies in any way.’ The underserjeant was thinking beyond the next interview.

  ‘Indeed, but after we have come to our own view of the man.’

  They moved on to the second cluster of buildings.

  Chapter Six

  The mead maker’s house was much like any other, but it was abutted by one with greater height to the eaves. Another, much smaller, round building stood further towards the south, on the orchard side of the water channel and near the river, but it looked unused and very dilapidated.

  Bradecote wondered if they should ignore the house and knock upon what would be the mead maker’s place of labour, but as they drew near, the door opened and a woman with a besom stepped out and then stared at them. At the sight of Bradecote, she gasped and made a hasty obeisance.

  ‘We seek your husband, Wulfram Meduwyrhta.’ Bradecote thought it a reasonable assumption that this was his wife.

  ‘Wulfram is with Brother Petrus, the beekeeper, in the orchard, my lord.’ The woman, whose quite ordinary face was made attractive by limpid blue eyes, also made an assumption, this time of rank. ‘But it should not be long afore ’e returns. If you would step inside, I will send our Edwin to speed ’is steps.’ She stood back and beckoned them within. It felt churlish to refuse. The chamber was tidy and orderly, and a little girl of about five was playing with a tabby kitten.

  ‘Thank you, mistress.’ Catchpoll held up a hand, ‘but we can as easily send Underserjeant Walkelin here.’ He made it sound kindly, rather than ensuring Master Meduwyrhta did not disappear without trace, which would be damning, but embarrassing.

  ‘As you choose. Edwin works but next door, so it would be no problem.’

  ‘I will go, mistress.’ Walkelin exuded eagerness as though haring off to meet a friend. He went out before the little girl had even turned to stare at the strangers.

  ‘We met your daughter, Mærwynn. Will she return to you, now she is widowed?’ Bradecote did not mention Walter the Steward’s name.

  ‘I hopes so, my lord.’ The woman’s face clouded. ‘She is young and will get over it.’

  This was somewhat cryptic, since it could mean the loss of her husband, but equally it could mean getting over having to live with him for nearly a year.

  ‘Was she always a quiet one?’ Catchpoll enquired, and the mother’s expression became grim.

  ‘No. A laughin’, happy girl was our Mærwynn.’ Her eyes suddenly flashed anger, but then she gulped and sniffed. ‘I cannot but be glad she is free.’

  ‘You make it sound as if she was chained, mistress.’ Bradecote spoke gently.

  ‘As good as, my lord. As good as. My poor girl! Not been close enough to say a single word since the day that man took ’er to wife. ’Twas wicked. I saw ’er in church, or rather what ’e left of ’er. It fair broke my heart to see the life fade from ’er. I begged Wulfram not to agree to the match, for all the man were the most powerful in the town, outside the abbey, and I kept telling ’im it would be the death of ’er, sooner rather than later. You could see it, week by week. I give thanks to Heaven she is released.’ The woman’s words were heartfelt, and she clearly had no idea that she was also giving a very sound reason why her husband might have killed Walter the Steward. ‘It sounds unchristian, I know, but what mother would feel different?’

  It was not a question they could answer without it sounding as though the representatives of the Law agreed with the killing, though both Bradecote and Catchpoll knew their wives would feel the same way as the mead maker’s wife. The little girl with the kitten had abandoned play and came to hug her mother about the legs, as much comforting as seeking comfort. She looked at Bradecote, accusingly, and it made him feel guilty, though his questions had not been meant to cause upset.

  Footsteps sounded outside, and a man entered, followed by Walkelin, who looked hot and a little out of breath, having run in the heat. Wulfram Meduwyrhta was a man of curves. He was not enormously fat, but he was far from skinny; his head and face were round and his nose slightly Roman; even his legs were not straight, but a little bowed. The bizarre thought hit Bradecote that if a bumblebee turned into a man, it would look like the mead maker.

  ‘I am Wulfram Meduwyrhta. What need you from me, my lord Undersheriff?’ He did not sound belligerent, but nor was he cowed and nervous.

  ‘You went to speak with the well delver, when he commenced digging, and Walter the Steward, kindred by marriage to your daughter, sent you away angrily. Why was that?’

  ‘He shouted at me, yes, and I left, but I did so ’cos Master Welldelver told me there was no cause to worry, and I believed the man. Walter the Steward liked the sound of ’is own voice.’

  ‘Yet you agreed to his marrying your daughter, even against the wishes of your wife here.’ Bradecote indicated her with his hand.

  ‘I did not do so from choice, my lord.’ Wulfram was defensive.

  ‘He threatened you? How?’

  ‘Said ’e would recommend the rent on this place rose, and make sure the honey from the abbey bees would no longer come to me. A new man has taken up one of the abbey holdings over the river in Bengeworth. He comes from Stow, which the abbey holds, and ’e made mead there. The man is a rival, and no mistake, though I doubts he could make it better, from the same honey. Mead ’as been in my family since afore Walter’s line was stewards. I will not be rivalled on the quality of my mead, but the abbey bees takes from the orchards of apple and the black pear, and their honey,’ the man almost licked his lips, ‘’tis of the finest flavour. Neither sendin’ my lad out to seek wild honey over the river, nor payin’ silver pennies to those who brings news of nests, could make up the difference in weight, nor ensure the taste. Only the lesser meads is made with those and they vary. For the sake of my livelihood, and my family as a whole,’ he glanced at his wife, ‘there was no choice.’

  ‘You did not say, Wulf,’ whispered the woman.

  ‘There were enough worries, with little Win bein’ ill. I did not want to add losin’ the roof over our heads and the wherewithal to live.’

  ‘You still should ’ave said.’ His wife heaved a heavy sigh.

  ‘Your neighbour says the monks sells you their honey cheap.’ Walkelin broke the spell between husband and wife. ‘So you could ’ave offered to pay more—’

  ‘And been refused. No, Walter would not ’ave accepted all I could find, just out of spite.’

  ‘Could you not go directly to Father Prior or even to Abbot Reginald?’ Bradecote frowned.

  ‘No rightful access is there to either but through the steward, and Walter thought of that as well.’ The mead maker stuck his thumbs into his belt, which had a strap end, though it looked askew and as if hammered hard to grip the leather. ‘Said ’e would warn them I might use “honey words”, and laughed, and said as I should not be believed. They trusted the man, and never has I thought the monks so blind. They must be so good they cannot see bad in others.’

  ‘And then you saw what the marriage did to your daughter. It all gives you a very good reason to want Walter the Steward dead.’

  ‘And glad I am he is, but I did not do it, my lord. I will swear my good oath upon it, and there’s enough oathswearers in my tithing as would support me.’

  ‘All of ’em?’ Catchpoll wanted to know if he would admit to the breach with Oswald Mealtere.

  ‘All but one, and ’e would deny me though the truth shone like the sun above today. The other eleven would swear to my bein’ of good character and law abidin’. My neighbour,’ he pointed across the ditches, ‘and me we does not get on, to the point where ’e would see me drown before ’is eyes and laugh as I went under.’

  ‘And you would do the same?’ Bradecote’s face showed no surprise, just mild interest.

  ‘Well, I would not go so far as to laugh, my lord, but yes. Nasty ’e is, and like the old stick of a father that lives still. Long ago, when I were but the age of my little Win indoors, my father lost the yeast one bitter winter. Now, next door, they is maltsters, so yeast is easy. Not sure why theirs did not get killed off too, but anyways, yeast the old man possessed, and Father asked for a little. Does not take much, since it grows and has a life to it. So some came to us, and then the bastard said as it would cost thirty silver pennies. Thirty! It were only worth tuppence at most, and a neighbour would give it for free, which is what Father assumed.’

  ‘Where were you two nights past, when it got dark?’

  ‘Why, settlin’ into my bed as any man as works ’ard would be.’

  ‘You did not go up into the town that evening?’

  ‘No, my lord. Why would I do that?’

  ‘To sit over a beaker of ale with friends?’ Bradecote made it sound merely a suggestion.

  ‘Not done that since Whitsun. Not an ale man, me, but then I makes mead so …’ He spread his hands, and looked the picture of innocence, but saw that the sheriff’s men did not let their expressions soften. His voice took on a desperate note. ‘I am glad Walter is dead, and my Mærwynn is free, but as God sees me, I did not kill the man, and will try and pray for ’is soul when they lowers ’im into the ground this afternoon.’

  Bradecote realised that they had not even asked at the abbey when the funeral would take place. Being present was important, so that they might see the reactions of those who came to see Walter the Steward interred.

  ‘That is all we need to ask at present, but you will not leave Evesham.’

  ‘I rarely does anyways, my lord, unless a good bees’ nest is found close enough. I will be ’ere, should you need me.’

  ‘Good.’ Bradecote nodded, indicating the mead maker might be about his business, and Wulfram, both relieved and worried, returned to his labours, and helping his son with a second racking.

  ‘So now we has to decide whether Wulfram Meduwyrhta is an honest man who does not drink much ale and keeps to ’is hearth, or is a man so full of guilt for marryin’ off a well-loved daughter to Walter the Steward, a man he knew to be a bad ’un, that ’e confronted and killed ’im.’ Catchpoll did not say which he favoured.

  ‘And also whether Oswald Mealtere just wants to get ’is neighbour into as much trouble as ’e can, even as much as goin’ before the Justices for murder.’ Walkelin knew he ought not to be biased towards the mead maker just because his home looked happy and his little girl played with a kitten, but he did. A man whose life was contented did not strike Walkelin as one likely to jeopardise it without great cause, though the situation and condition of Mærwynn might have been just that. Walkelin was a contented man, though he wished his mother did not scowl every time he used a Welsh endearment to his Eluned, and that Eluned herself had not, of recent weeks, seemed a little quiet and preoccupied. He was sure he was being a good husband.

  ‘One or other has to be lying, and we have to consider that even if it is the mead maker, it might just be that he thinks saying he was anywhere near the green that night risks a noose about his neck.’ Bradecote was also trying to be even-handed.

  ‘True enough, my lord. It complicates things when honest men lies for fear the honest answer will condemn ’em. Mind you, most lies badly. This, if a lie, was well done.’

  ‘He still remains of interest to us, as does the brother, but I fear we are going to find there were many more in Evesham who could join them.’ Bradecote sighed and wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘Let us go and find out how long a list it is.’

  Father Prior was a little surprised to be asked for a list of the abbey tenants who had a poor record of payment, especially since the lord Undersheriff asked that it go back for at least two years. He had to call a clerk to bring the rolls from the muniment chamber, where all deeds, titles and financial documents resided, rather than the scriptural ones in the library.

  ‘You think Steward Walter was killed because he was threatening someone who could not pay?’ His long face looked even more burdened than normal. ‘It is so hard to believe that this was a man who advocated leniency and compassion.’

  ‘We do not know, Father, but a man who fears for the roof over his family’s head may do things that he would not normally consider,’ replied Bradecote.

  There was a silence, with which the Benedictine was far more comfortable than the sheriff’s men. The clerk returned with a bundle of Quarter rolls, and pored over one at a time, writing down the names and amounts paid late or not at all. Bradecote viewed it with misgiving. He thought he would be able to decipher names, but his Latin was only sufficient to obey simple instructions that his superior did not trust to verbal conveyance, and he was not at all sure he would understand words for many of the crafts. He hoped not many debtors shared the same Christian name, and realised the safest way was to risk embarrassment, and stumble through them before the clerk and prior so that they could correct, or translate, those beyond him. He was sure that in a community where the obedientaries were literate, it would not occur to them to think of the majority of people to whom the written word was either useless or a struggle.

  ‘Here, my lord, are all those remiss since Lady Day 1143.’ The clerk handed him a piece of vellum, and Bradecote’s heart sank as his eyes ran down the list.

  ‘Aelred vestiarius, Baldwin tinctor. Father, I am sorry, but my Latin is only that of prayers and the Offices, and some basic commands. What is a “vestiarius”, and for that matter a “tinctor”,’ he looked further down, and stumbled through several more words he had no hope of understanding.

  ‘Ah, I am sorry, my lord.’ The clerk, a precise, little man with ink-stained fingers, smiled apologetically. ‘Aelred the Tailor, Baldwin the Dyer, Robert the Miller, Martin Fuller, Oswald Maltster, Grim the Thatcher, Wulfram Meadmaker, Walter Horsekeeper, though his brother William took over the lease when he, er, died …’

  Bradecote remembered Walter Horsweard, though visually only as a sodden corpse, from the previous year, and also his hobbling brother Will.

  ‘He did not just “die”, Brother. He was killed by intent.’

  ‘Indeed so, my lord. Now, there is also Alcuin the Ropemaker, Hubert the Mason and the Widow Potter.’

  At least the widow could be crossed off the list as the killer, thought Bradecote.

  ‘Thank you, Brother.’ The undersheriff turned to Prior Richard. ‘We will speak with all these people, and find out if pressure was put upon them. It might be that the steward agreed to advocate on their behalf if they later paid not just the debt, but a “fee” to him, and—’ He stopped as there came an urgent knock upon the door. The prior apologised, but called for the person to enter. A flustered monk entered.

  ‘I am sorry, Father, but there is a … woman’ – he said it as though it was a dangerous beast – ‘at the gatehouse, making a great deal of noise and complaint, and demanding to see you or Father Abbot.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she was coming to market, over the bridge from Bengeworth, and two men-at-arms from the castle stopped her and demanded a quarter of her produce as toll. When she refused, they threw it all in the river. She is weeping and shouting and making things very unpleasant.’ The Benedictine was evidently made nervous by all women, and especially agitated ones.

  ‘I see. Bring her here, Brother Julian, and we will speak with her.’

  Brother Julian eyed his prior with increased respect for this brave act, and left, to return swiftly with a woman of middle years, her rosy cheeks streaked with tears, her eyes red as the cherries she had been bringing to sell, and trying to catch her breath. She dipped to Father Prior, and, on seeing Bradecote, to him also, since he looked important.

  ‘Now, my daughter, Brother Julian tells us you were … waylaid, on the way to market.’

  ‘Just so, Father, oh just so, and what shall I do without the silver for my fruit and vegetables I does not know.’ She wrung her hands together. ‘A whole basket of cherries in my arms, I ’ad, and a basket of the sweetest peas on my back, and all gone, gone.’

  ‘Tell the lord Undersheriff exactly what happened. He will help you.’ In one short sentence, Father Prior had cast all responsibility upon the Law. Bradecote’s glance at him was not one of gratitude.

  ‘I walked from Badsey, my lord, with my peas and cherries, to sell as I does this time every year, and afore I set foot upon the bridge two men, big men with sticks, stepped in front of me and barred my way. They said as there were a toll to pay to the castle, which is next to the bridge, and it would cost me a quarter of both baskets. Well, I said no, and then they said the toll just went up to ’alf, and I kicked one of ’em in the shin, right under the knee, and the other one grabbed the basket from my arms and threw both basket and cherries into the river. Then ’e cut the straps of the one on my back and did the same with that. Bless ’em, two lads down by the river’s edge saw the baskets bob up and down and pulled ’em in with a stick, but nothin’ is there for me to sell now. ’Tis not right, my lord, not right.’ She sniffed and managed to look belligerent and vulnerable in one.