‘And what are you doing here, Underserjeant?’

  Walkelin ran forward, half stumbling on the cobbles, and grabbed the woollen cap from his head as he made a deep obeisance.

  ‘My lord, I was sent back yesterday afternoon to speak with the lord Bishop and to find the priest of Ripple.’ Remembering he was now an underserjeant, Walkelin controlled the urge to rush his words.

  ‘But he is dead.’ De Beauchamp’s scowl deepened.

  ‘Ah no, my lord, the other priest, for there are two in the parish.’

  ‘And he, the second one, is in Worcester?’ William de Beauchamp’s annoyance and eagerness to depart were curtailed by curiosity.

  ‘My lord, he returned a silver chalice to the lord Bishop, one that the man as was strung up, wrongly, dug out of the ground with the plough.’

  ‘The lord Bishop’s chalice was buried in a field? Were you ale-sodden last night?’ It all sounded ridiculous to de Beauchamp.

  ‘Oh no, my lord, oath-truth I was not. The chalice was the gift of a Bishop of Worcester ’undreds of years ago and was buried to keep it from an army of pagan Danes, and never found after, not till Thorgar’s ploughshare turned it up from the earth again. The lord Bishop, way back, had replaced the lost one, so the priests saw it belonged to Bishop Simon as is lord Bishop of Worcester now.’

  William de Beauchamp grunted his comprehension, but his mind was assessing whether the find might in fact belong to the King. However, the idea of going to Bishop Simon and asking for it back sounded petty, and a succession of bishops probably counted the same as descent by blood. For the sake of one piece of silverware it would be best to leave things as they stood. He moved on to the next piece of information.

  ‘So the sister was right, was she? The hanged man was not the killer?’

  ‘My lord, we thinks so indeed.’

  William de Beauchamp noted the inclusive ‘we’ and the scowl lifted a little. His horse was led out from the stables and he waved it away, as if the groom were a summer fly, telling him to walk the beast up and down.

  ‘I will not be long.’ The lord Sheriff looked again at Walkelin. ‘I will not stand and get cold while you tell me what advances have been made. Come.’ He crossed the bailey to the guardroom, and, upon entering, demanded that everyone else be about their duties and get out, then removed a leather gauntlet and held a hand to take the warmth that came from the still-glowing brazier that had been a source of warmth for the night watch, in between their shifts upon the chill battlements.

  ‘So?’

  ‘The ploughman, Thorgar, did not kill the priest, and there is two reasons why someone did kill Father Edmund. Either they thought ’e knew where the chalice and other treasure was, or—’

  ‘There was more than the chalice?’ This sounded much more clearly treasure trove, and de Beauchamp, who was by nature avaricious, instantly began to wonder how much of the treasure might not actually be sent to the King’s treasury. ‘What else is there?’

  ‘I does not know all, my lord. The only two as did is dead now, but the lord Bradecote was told at Tewkesbury Abbey it was arm torcs and silver coin.’

  ‘Tewkesbury Abbey?’

  Walkelin explained Thorgar’s desire for admission to the abbey.

  ‘Well, Abbot Roger could not accept the gift, because it belongs to the lord King.’

  ‘It does, my lord?’ Walkelin voiced his surprise. He had never heard of the law of treasure trove, and doubted Serjeant Catchpoll or the lord Undersheriff knew of it either.

  ‘Yes. If it was buried with the intent to retrieve it later, and was lost, then unless the owners are known and can prove their right, it is the property of the King. So when the items are found, Underserjeant, make sure they are brought to me.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Privately, Walkelin thought that King Stephen did not need a few more pieces of silver, since kings must have whole rooms full of it, but accepted the ruling.

  ‘You said there was a second reason. That was …?’ De Beauchamp moved on.

  ‘Ah, that, my lord, was they found out what the priest ’ad done.’ Walkelin looked severe, and far less ‘Walkelin-like’ than usual.

  ‘Which was?’ Walkelin’s demeanour meant that de Beauchamp did not think it was getting merry on the wine for the Sacrament.

  ‘Takin’ advantage of little girls, my lord. My lord Bradecote and Serjeant Catchpoll are discoverin’ more, but the village healer knew things and Father Ambrosius, the priest I came to find, would not give details as came to ’im from Confession, but was deeply troubled and reported it to the lord Bishop.’

  ‘I would have liked to see the look on Bishop Simon’s face when he heard.’ De Beauchamp gave a small smile. ‘He appoints the priests to Ripple so he sent a wolf among the lambs.’

  ‘Well, he looked mightily unhappy when I spoke with ’im, my lord.’

  De Beauchamp’s smile lengthened for a moment, then he was deadly serious once more, and grim of visage. ‘This is messy and unpleasant and … I will be back in Worcester in two or three days. I hope this is cleared up swiftly, though the Law will seem on the wrong side to many if the latter is the reason for the death. Off you go.’

  ‘At once, my lord.’ Walkelin went to fetch his horse, and was still able to be outside the priory gate before Father Ambrosius emerged, looking doubtfully at the animal upon which he was to be a second burden.

  Bradecote and Catchpoll were saddling their own horses at first light, keen to establish the veracity, or otherwise, of Agnes the Healer’s story before confronting the men who would have had cause to attack Father Edmund. Bradecote’s steel grey greeted him with a whinny, which made Catchpoll laugh and say that the animal was clearly unimpressed sharing the stable with the ox team. It fidgeted as it was saddled and gave a half-hearted buck when Bradecote mounted, but a firm hand and gentle words calmed it, and Catchpoll did not get the chance to see his superior cast ignominiously into the damp, red-brown earth.

  There was a chill in the air, but also the freshness of spring, and Bradecote rejoiced in it, in a way he knew Catchpoll, a townsman born and bred, could not. Hugh Bradecote was as connected to the seasons and the land as those who worked it with their labour, and as aware of the importance of weather suited to that season. There was so much that was finely balanced in the rural life, rather more than the urban one, and Bradecote gave up a heartfelt thanks that the spring, despite a few days of heavy rain, was unfurling the first leaves and warming the earth for planting.

  The pair cantered up the gentle incline towards the Old Road, and received a raised hand of acknowledgement from the shepherd, who was now aware of who they were. Bradecote dropped his horse’s pace and turned to call to Catchpoll, who, having to ride Snægl in the absence of his own horse, was lagging behind.

  ‘Catchpoll, we could speak with the shepherd as we return, if we need further confirmation of the healer’s timings.’

  ‘Aye, my lord, that is true, though I am hopin’ as we will get all we needs in Naunton.’

  They reached the Old Road, and before the turning to Naunton there stood a lone dwelling with a large, open-fronted workshop next to it, and a wheel attached to the outer wall on the south side, advertising its purpose.

  A voice raised in loud complaint from within made Bradecote’s horse jib.

  ‘If’n I told you once I told you endless times, not that way, boy. Are you sure you is a son of mine?’ This was followed by a loud, hissing sigh. ‘Never a wheelwright will you make, Wystan, and glad I am to possess other sons as loves the wood. Why your brother needs must go—’

  ‘Mornin’,’ Catchpoll interrupted the wheelwright’s complaints quite casually.

  The wheelwright looked up from the part-repaired cartwheel, having mentally ignored any hooves not accompanied by the sound of rumbling wheels. His eyes narrowed a little as he saw the man who had spoken was at the side of a well-dressed and mounted man who was obviously lordly. He gave a nod and pulled the green, woollen cap from his head, nudging the lad at his side to do likewise.

  ‘Mornin’.’ The wheelwright was cagey, since these men would clearly not be requiring a wheel made or repaired.

  ‘This is the lord Undersheriff of Worcestershire, and I am the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant, come to look into the death of the priest in Ripple.’

  ‘Be that so? None ’as come our way and spoken of it, though we is part of the parish. Which priest? Not Father Ambrosius, I hopes.’ The wheelwright frowned.

  ‘No. It was Father Edmund.’ Bradecote noted the slight relaxation in the wheelwright’s shoulders. Not popular even in the wider parish, then, Father Edmund. ‘A man was hanged for the murder, but Thorgar the Ploughman was not the killer, and we seek who was.’ Bradecote was a little surprised that news had not reached thus far from Ripple itself, since it had gone south to Tewkesbury swiftly enough, but if none had reason to leave the village in this direction the gossip was yet to spread. His surprise increased as the wheelwright’s son paled, and actually gasped in shock.

  ‘Thorgar? But none would think Thorgar could kill. Big he is – was – but gentle of spirit and kind also.’ Wystan was clearly stunned.

  ‘You knew him well, then?’

  ‘Not so very well, my lord, but whenever the ox cart came for repairs or any handcart from Ripple, it were Thorgar who came with it. Laughed, ’e did, sayin’ as when the cart were too small for the oxen, ’e acted their part. Not a steep way up from Ripple, but not easy for the weak or women. I like the beasts,’ the lad cast a swift sideways glance at his father, and Bradecote surmised this was seen as wayward by the wheelwright, ‘and we got on well. I would say we was friendly. I will pray for a good soul lost.’ The lad crossed himself.

  ‘We are on our way to see the smith in Naunton,’ Bradecote did not make it clear whether this was to nail a loose horseshoe or ask questions, ‘but you must see most who pass this way.’

  ‘If I am at my work but not so lost in it as to be “passer-blind”, my lord.’ The wheelwright did not wish to be thought obstructive if he could not answer the question that was obviously coming.

  ‘Have you seen the healer of Ripple come this way in the last few days?’

  ‘Not comin’, my lord, though come she must ’ave, for I saw ’er on the way back to Ripple three days past now, good hours after noontide. Looked tired, poor woman. If Father Ambrosius is good for our souls in this parish, it is Mother Agnes as cares for our bodies, right enough. There be no other healer this side of the river even to Croome. Not soft of word, oh no, but none better ’earted nor swift of mind is there from Worcester to Tewkesbury. Fixed my arm, she did, five years back, and if the mend ’ad been poor I would not be at my craft now. Never say she be missin’!’ The wheelwright looked genuinely concerned.

  ‘Oh no, but we is just seein’ where all the folk of Ripple was if not in the Great Field the day Father Edmund died.’ Catchpoll made sure the enquiry sounded of mild interest not major importance.

  ‘Hmm. I takes it bad, as any in the parish would, that a question be asked over Mother Agnes, even if’n it comes from you, my lord.’ The wheelwright nodded respectfully as he said this.

  ‘Which is to the healer’s credit, but we are the Law and do not know her character as you all do, so the question was asked.’ Bradecote took no offence, for none was intended. This man was just speaking up for someone held in high regard by the locality. ‘We will not keep you from your work further.’ Bradecote’s own nod indicated the interchange was ended, and he set his heels gently to the grey horse’s flank and trotted away, with Catchpoll half raising a hand as his own farewell. They did not hear Wystan beg leave to abandon his ham-fisted woodworking and go down to Ripple before the sun dipped behind the Malvern Hills to the west.

  Cerdic the Smith’s strength lay in his arm not his brain. He took things day by day, and was thus often taken by surprise the way matters turned out. At present he was a harassed man, for his wife was still weak and bedridden, and her sister had taken over the home and care of his brood of young children. What with the different bustle and the mewling of the babe in the crib, the only place he felt any peace was by the inferno in his forge and with the steady ‘breathing’ of his bellows as he tended the fire, his fire. His fire was his companion who never judged, berated or pleaded with him, but was always there for him. He fed it, and nurtured it, and it rewarded him. The scorched hairs on his forearms and the scattered, white scars were as the marks from an overeager hound whose play had become too boisterous, except his beast was a dragon. When his name was called by an authoritative male voice, he turned from it, felt its heat upon his back, and his stance looked to Catchpoll as though the man was protecting the glowing red behind him.

  Catchpoll did not ask the man’s name. He was clearly the smith, and there would not be two in a small village that was not much more than a cluster of homes, huddling together as if for warmth.

  ‘This is the lord Undersheriff of Worcestershire, and I am the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant. We—’

  ‘’Tis not my fault,’ cried Cerdic, and dropped the heavy pincers that had been in his hand.

  ‘What is not your fault?’ Catchpoll could not resist asking the question, even though he knew it might lead them far from the path of questions about Agnes the Healer.

  ‘Anythin’.’ Cerdic’s eyes rolled like those of a frightened horse.

  As an answer it was at least comprehensive.

  ‘Ah.’ Catchpoll gave a small sigh. ‘Well, you will be glad to know we is not come to drag you off in chains, but to ask a simple question of you.’

  ‘Ask. Ask and I will answer true, my lords.’ Cerdic elevated Catchpoll, which was not entirely to that worthy’s taste, but he let it pass.

  ‘You called upon the services of Mistress Agnes, the healer in Ripple, a few days past, when your wife was in travail.’ Bradecote spoke up.

  ‘I did, my lord.’ Cerdic now sounded amazed, as though they had discovered this fact through some augury.

  ‘We want to know when she came and when she left. That is all.’ Bradecote’s voice was very calm and even.

  ‘Oh.’ The man before them sagged with relief, rather like emptying bellows. For a moment he gathered what wits he possessed, and then he spoke, and it was in a more normal voice.

  ‘My wife never finds it easy, come her time, though you would think it would be easier when six ’as come that way afore. All day and night it went on, and I went to Ripple even afore it were light, good husband that I am. Not that I were praised for it. Three times I near broke bones, fallin’ over in my rush in the bare light. My wife is lucky all I did were twist an ankle and not break my neck and leave ’er a widow with seven mouths to feed, but no credit did I get for it from Old Bony Elbows, nor did she offer anythin’ for my ankle, despite ’er craft. Praised all over she is, but I wonder what it is they does when it comes to babes. I mean, babes just – comes. For all anyone knows, she just sits and watches and says soothin’ words.’ Cerdic was clearly not of the local majority. Whilst neither of his auditors had watched a midwife at work, they knew there was more to it than patting hands and bathing foreheads, and wives would not treat such women so reverentially if their services had not been greatly valued in the most trying circumstances. However, Agnes the Healer was not a woman who pandered to the male of the species, and especially foolish ones. From what she had told them, Cerdic had probably been berated at length on the way to Naunton, and he felt mistreated.

  ‘So you came home and then how long was it afore the babe arrived and Mistress Agnes set off back to Ripple?’ Catchpoll decided to give the healer a respectful title, just to show the Law also accorded the woman that respect.

  ‘Child arrived about noontide, but it were some hours after that she left. Do you know, the woman brought the afterbirth out and cast it into my forge fire.’ This was obviously tantamount to sacrilege to the smith. ‘Didn’t burn well for two days after, and I does not blame it.’ He shook his head.

  ‘So how many hours before sunset did she leave you?’ Bradecote wanted the most accurate guess of time.

  ‘Enough that there were no fear she might fall as I did. I would say less than two but more than one, my lord.’

  ‘Thank you. And how does your wife and child?’

  ‘Fair, my lord. The babe is much stronger, but my wife is weak still.’ The smith looked taken aback that a lord had asked such a question, and decided he would tell his wife later. That must surely make her feel better.

  Undersheriff and Serjeant left the man to his glowing fire and mounted to trot back to Ripple, aware that their next interviews would be far from easy.

  It was only just after they had taken the Ripple track off The Old Road that Bradecote and Catchpoll were hailed from behind and turned to see Walkelin trotting towards them. As he drew close they saw that he had a cleric up behind him, one whose bony white shins showed where his habit had ridden up as he sat astride the horse’s hindquarters. He had clearly been successful in locating Father Ambrosius.

  ‘I has spoken with the lord Bishop, my lord,’ announced Walkelin, with just a hint of pride at having managed this when alone, ‘and told all that is now known, or leastways was when I left Ripple. Father Ambrosius ’ere did take the chalice to the palace and returned it to the lord Bishop, but only that. The other things must still be in Ripple, somewheres.’

  ‘Good. That helps us a little,’ Bradecote responded, then addressed the priest. ‘We would speak with you, Father, before you go about your flock.’

  ‘I hope that it does not take long, my lord, for I would visit Thorgar’s family and give what comfort I can in their grieving.’

  ‘All but his mother are likely in the fields until eventide.’

  ‘Let me see.’ The priest closed his eyes, though it did not seem he prayed. ‘No, my lord, for this is not one of the days when all work under the eye of the reeve and upon the lord Bishop’s holding. This early in the year, many will tend their gardens for at least part of the day. There is a good chance all are about their home.’