house and Brewer’s on my way home.”
“Hmm. Tell me, what do you think of the Ultons?”
“Oh, they’re alright. They’re jealous of me, or at least Roger is, but they seem friendly enough.”
“How do you mean, jealous?”
“I am a free man. Everyone else in the village is either a cottar or a villein, but I earned my freedom. I earned it by buying it from the Furnshill estate, and it has made some people a bit difficult. It’s foolish, because others – look at Brewer – are more wealthy than me, but that doesn’t stop them envying me.”
“What do you know about Brewer? No one has been able to tell me much about him. Did you know him well?”
The warrener’s friendly smile did not leave his face, but his eyes lost their focus, making him seem to almost go into a daydream as he thought. Now when he spoke, his voice had fallen, becoming quieter and lower.
“He was not an easy man. Everyone hereabouts was sure that he had a lot of money, but I don’t know whether that’s true. It didn’t make him popular, anyway.”
“No?”
“No, he had money but he kept it for himself. And he was a heavy drinker, and when he had drunk too much he got violent. He was a big man, Brewer, and when he decided to hit someone, he could hurt.”
“Did anyone have a reason to hate him, then? Did he hurt anyone recently?”
The warrener gave a sudden laugh, a great gale of amusement, and had to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand before he could answer.
“Oh, sorry, bailiff, sorry! Yes, you could say that. He was a drunkard, often got into fights, was always sneering at others and belittling them. I don’t think you really understand how people felt about him! Round here it’s hard to find anyone who did like him!”
Chapter Nine
The bailiff must have shown how much this comment depressed him, because the warrener stood, walked over, and patted him on the shoulder.
“Come now, bailiff! It’s quite likely he just died in his bed and it was an accident. Are you sure you’re not chasing a wild goose? Come on, give me your pot. If you like my beer, you may have another pot with me.” So saying, he took Simon’s mug and went through to the back room.
By the time he returned, Simon had managed to recover to the extent that he was able to smile again in gratitude for the fresh ale. “Thank you. Do you mind humouring me a little further? For example, did you see anybody when you did finally get home? We have been told that someone helped Brewer home on the night he died, but no one seems to know who it could have been. Do you?”
“Well, no. I didn’t see him being helped – I assume you mean he was being dragged home after he was thrown out of the inn again? I thought so. No, I didn’t see him.”
“Are you surprised that someone would help him? After what you said, about him being so unpopular?”
“No, people often helped him home. Oh, he was hated alright. Arrogant and rude, and he would always use his fists when he couldn’t find words, but this is a small vill. We need to get on. Otherwise, if there’s arguing, how can we get the harvest in, or get the ploughing done? We have to get on together – it’s just that he made it hard.”
“How?”
The warrener’s eyes crinkled again in amusement. “Do you like braggarts? No, well that’s how Brewer was. The rumours about his money – well, I don’t know if they’re true, but he certainly helped put them about. He owned his own oxen, always had money for ale, and always seemed happy to put others down.”
“I see.” The bailiff peered at the fire. “And you didn’t see him that night?”
“No, I didn’t,” he said, but then he put his head on one side and glanced at Simon with what the bailiff felt was a faintly shamefaced smile. “But I think I might have seen someone on my way home.”
“Who?”
He gave a short giggle. “I’m not sure! It was far too dark. I’ll tell you how it was, though. I’d finished trying to catch the fox, or whatever it was, and was on my way home again. I was annoyed and tired, and I had just got past the Ulton place when…”
“Have you any idea what time it was?”
Cenred gave him a pitying look. “I don’t know why you keep asking me that. Look, I don’t carry an hour candle with me out of doors, bailiff. How could I know what time it was? All I know is, it was dark. It could have been just eleven o’clock or well past midnight. How could I tell? No, all I can say is it cannot have been more than one, and it was past ten, but beyond that I don’t know – I was too tired to think about it. Anyway, as I came past the Ulton place and down the road towards my own, I could have sworn I saw a figure at the edge of the road. It would have been down by Brewer’s house, I suppose, opposite, in the trees on the other side of the road. At the time I did nothing – I…” He paused, embarrassed. “It seemed like a slim, dark figure. You know, what with the dark and the shadows from the moon and everything, when I saw this shape scuttling into the trees in front of me I sort of thought back to the old stories and, well, I walked past and tried to forget I’d seen it. Anyhow, it was around Brewer’s house, on the other side of the lane, where the trees come and meet the roadway. You know where I mean?”
“Yes, yes, I think I do,” said Simon. But he was thinking, who could it have been? What time was it, was it one of the two brothers? Was it Roger Ulton? Was it the man who had led Brewer home? Or was it someone else?
Simon stood outside the warrener’s cottage for several minutes when they had finished talking. He wished that Baldwin was here, that the knight could have heard the evidence of Cenred, so that he could have the advantage of his opinion, but the knight still had not turned up. Kicking at stones and pebbles, he made his way back to his mare, untied her and walked south with her, away from the village.
The road curved away to the left almost immediately after the warrener’s house, heading more directly south as it passed the ruins of Brewer’s cottage. Keeping to the lane, the bailiff walked on, hardly giving the wreck a glance. It was strange, he felt, that now that Baldwin had firmly planted the concept of a murder in his mind, the actual reality of the death seemed almost irrelevant. The house was of no importance any more. Brewer’s animals held no relevance. The only issue that could hold his attention was the man responsible.
Once past the collapsed and smoke-stained building, the road opened out a little, pointing straight to the blue-greyness of the moors. Here, it was clear, the road had moved away from ancient holdings, away from fields and pastures, away from possessions and owned land, because it suddenly gave up its meandering and ran, straight as a rule, leaving the stream behind on its left bank.
It was here, where the road continued in solitude towards the distant hills, that the Ulton house stood. It was a once-large, solitary longhouse. It must have stood here for more than a hundred years, a cob building, basically constructed of old clay, earth and dung, originally positioned for a farmer and his children, but with his master’s security in mind as well. For here the sweep of the country could be seen ahead, an enemy, whether it be a Cornish horde or Vikings from the coast on a chevauchee, could be seen early and the alarm raised. Simon knew that now, since the fortunate ascent of William of Normandy, the raids and killings of the foreigners had all but ceased, but where the privations from alien armies had been halted, there was always the threat of attack from a less distant foe.
It was not many years since the last civil war, a vicious and senseless time during which alliances were made and broken with monotonous regularity, while men tried to juggle their loyalties to stay on the side that was most likely to give them power and wealth – should they win. And if they seemed less likely to win? Change loyalty quickly!
From this house, with its massive walls and tiny windows, the occupant could not only see for miles along the track, a view unhindered by trees for most of the way, he could also put up a spirited defence. As with many of the older properties, the old farm had one large door to give access. To attack it would be foolhardy, and probably costly, as the defenders could use the windows as bow-slits.
