Bradecote inwardly chastised himself for not considering this. On his own manors, at least at Bradecote, his steward was not rigid in the days when the villagers toiled on the lord’s land, but judged it by weather and Holy Days, so that it never fell that no work could be done on one or the other for more than five days in a row. Such an arrangement was not universal.

  ‘Well, we have no desire to delay you, Father, just to add more things to our store of knowledge that will discover who killed your fellow priest.’

  ‘Of course, of course. We could begin even now, yes?’

  ‘Indeed. I am sure you have told much of this to the Underserjeant, but I wish to know when you found out about the treasure that Thorgar found, where you yourself found the chalice, and how much you knew, or suspected, of Father Edmund’s wrongdoings.’

  ‘The first is easier to speak of, my lord,’ admitted the priest, heavily. ‘I knew nothing until Father Edmund told me that Thorgar had brought a thing that was “most precious” to him for safekeeping. He always liked to feel superior, not just over those in his parish, but me as well. At the first I put it down to him being new and unsure, and I had the advantage of being born in Ripple and being part of it all my life, excepting the cloistered years leading to my ordination. We are all of us sinners, my lord, and listing the sins of another is uncharitable, even if they are no longer living, but Father Edmund – I could not like the man, though I tried hard to be in charity with him. He used people to his own ends in so many ways, and I came to fear, rather late, that the worst of them were terrible sins, not just encouraging the poor Widow Reed to bring him her baking. He wanted everyone to know he was better than they were, more elevated. A parish priest is, on one level, different, but as a man no better or more important than any soul within his pastoral care. We serve them, not they us.’ Father Ambrosius sighed. ‘Father Edmund did not see that.’

  ‘So did you ask him what the “important thing” was or discover it by other means?’ Bradecote was less interested in hearing all Father Ambrosius’s views on his brother priest’s pastoral abilities.

  ‘Ah, well I just waited.’ Father Ambrosius gave a small, tight smile. ‘You see, if you did not rise to the bait and looked eager, eventually he just had to give more. After Vespers, the night before I was called to Queenhill, he told me it was a silver chalice of some antiquity. I knew what it must be, since the tale has been told around the hearths of Ripple for the better part of two hundred and fifty years, and in the telling it grew. I remember hearing it as a child, and there were descriptions of such things as only a king would possess, even a crown on one evening, though that was laughed at. The thing is, what was imagined was far more valuable than simple folk would ever have owned. As such it would give rise to covetousness, jealousy and other evils. I feared what it might do, and I told him so, also that it had been a gift to the parish from the lord Bishop of Worcester, and thus belonged to our bishop now. This pleased him mightily, and he smiled, his thoughts showing. He would take it and present it as though he had been vital in its restoration, and put his name in the lord Bishop’s mind in a good way.’

  ‘And this led to you taking it, to prevent both the sin in your parish and the craftiness of Father Edmund. I see. Now tell us how you did so.’ Bradecote guided the man’s thoughts.

  ‘I knew not how, until I was sent for to go over to Queenhill, where it might be that I was needed to administer the Last Rites, and immediate baptism of an infant that would not take more than a breath or two, though God be thanked both mother and babe are with us still. Father Edmund was about to collect our bread from the morning baking and then visit Oldmother Agatha, and I told him I would likely be away over the night. When he went out, I took my chance, thinking it most likely he had hidden it in our home, for none would steal from us. I found the chalice beneath his bed, in the far corner, and wrapped in a dark cloth. I took it, not counting it as theft because it did not belong to Father Edmund, nor even to poor Thorgar, and I took it with me over the river and placed it in the church until my duty there was done. Then I took a boat upriver and – you know all, my lord.’

  ‘Which leaves the other matter,’ growled Catchpoll.

  ‘Nearly all of that is not for any man to hear, for it came within the sanctity of Confession, and not from he who committed the great sins. At first it was just vague odd things that hinted at something I dare not imagine, but then they gathered as the storm clouds do before a downpour and I was deeply troubled.’

  ‘But did not go to your bishop.’ Catchpoll was still grim.

  ‘No, for I had no proof, and I could not break the Confessional even to my superior. All I would be doing was accusing a man who could deny all.’

  ‘Yet you did speak of it when you took the chalice to the lord Bishop.’ Bradecote wondered at this.

  ‘Yes. It had been a long night with the woman in travail in Queenhill, and I fell asleep in the boat so that the master of it had to shake me awake at Worcester. When I slept, I had a dream, and it was Father Giraldus, who was my mentor and priest with me before Father Edmund. He was weeping and holding the hand of a child, a little girl, whose face I could not see. When I went before Bishop Simon, I felt good Father Giraldus was with me in spirit and urging me to speak, so I did.’

  They were now passing the first squat homes of the village, and Father Ambrosius let out a sigh that was not so much sadness as relief to be home, among those he knew as if one wide kindred.

  ‘I will go to the church first, my lord, and pray for guidance in what I say to poor Thorgar’s family. The Welshman and his son must have nearly finished the repairs, and the quicker for not having everything watched over and no doubt complained about.’

  ‘Father Edmund found fault with their work?’ Bradecote frowned.

  ‘I think so, from the tone, my lord, but I could not say for sure, since he used his mother tongue with them and I could not understand a single word of it.’ Father Ambrosius shook his head.

  ‘Father Edmund was Welsh?’ Walkelin, who had been silent throughout, spoke out so suddenly and loudly that Father Ambrosius let go of his hold about Walkelin’s waist and slipped unceremoniously off the hindquarters of the horse, landing in a heap. ‘I am sorry, Father.’ Walkelin dismounted swiftly and helped the man to his feet.

  ‘Why did we not know this?’ demanded Bradecote.

  ‘Most like ’acos nobody thought it mattered, my lord, and bein’ Welsh is no reason to kill a man.’ Catchpoll said this with a hint of reluctance, but then Catchpoll distrusted all things Welsh on principle. ‘Mind you, I consider it a mite strange that neither Pryderi nor his lad mentioned it.’

  ‘My lord,’ interrupted Father Ambrosius, hurriedly. ‘Father Edmund was not Welsh, except when he wanted to be, for his father was English and it was his mother as was Welsh. His English was as fair as mine, but he was able to slip into the tongue he learnt at his mother’s knee if he wished. I am not sure anyone in Ripple even knows, other than myself, who heard him with the treewright. They could not have told you.’

  ‘I see. Well, there is no reason why the pair would have wanted him dead, and many others whose reason was strong, so it matters not. Father, we will not keep you from your prayers.’

  The priest, dusting earth from his habit, nodded his head as acknowledgement of dismissal, and took his leave. Bradecote and Catchpoll also dismounted, and the three sheriff’s men led their horses to the ox stable. In its peaceful gloom they discussed how to proceed.

  ‘I would not have us ask our questions with the children involved present, and we are not trying to find out exactly what they endured. We ask nothing of them.’ Bradecote felt to do so would be cruel and unfair.

  ‘Aye, my lord. So we asks the fathers to speak with us in the priests’ house, where nobody else hears.’ Catchpoll saw this as a simple solution. ‘Which means sending Walkelin to the church to ask Father Ambrosius to knock and not enter unless bidden.’

  ‘But Serjeant, would the fathers like it even less, speaking in the very place that the man one of ’em killed used to live?’ Walkelin realised as he spoke that his choice of words would not please Serjeant Catchpoll.

  ‘Whether they “like it” matters not.’ Catchpoll did indeed correct him, but sounded grumpy, which was unusual when about to speak with those suspected of crime. Bradecote correctly surmised that he had little liking for what they had to do, and he felt the same.

  ‘Tofi’s is the nearest house. We will begin with him, and at least we have the easier introduction of asking him why Father Edmund was banging upon his door and shouting on the morning of his death.’

  Chapter Nine

  Selewine the Reeve had been patient. He told himself so, and believed it. To have visited Thorgar’s family immediately after the hanging would have seemed callous, since his was the word that had confirmed the sentence and he had overseen the carrying out of it. He would, he knew, have met with a swift rejection of his offer. Now several days had passed, and the reality of their situation would be taking hold in minds at first overwhelmed by grief. Yes, he had been wise.

  It was in confident mood that he told his older son to keep an eye on his sibling and went to hammer upon the door of a house in mourning. Osgyth opened the door, already frowning at the vehemence of the claim to be admitted, and as soon as she saw who it was, tried to shut the door in the reeve’s face. He was too swift for her and, with foot and outstretched arm, thwarted her attempt.

  ‘Now then, Osgyth, remember who I am.’ He tried to make it sound a mild reproof rather than a threat, but failed.

  ‘Oh, I remember who you are Master Reeve, which is just why I wants to shut this door,’ Osgyth spat back at him, eyes flashing. He laughed, which he knew would annoy her the more. He had no illusions that the girl would welcome him with open arms, but this would be a decision made upon the grounds of good sense, not emotion, and it would be her mother who would persuade her to accept.

  ‘I can stand here all evenin’, and all you is doin’ is losin’ what warmth you can afford on that there fire. Now, let me in, like a good girl, that I might speak with your mother.’ He was intentionally patronising, reducing her from woman to child, diminishing her importance. Osgyth fumed, but stepped back.

  ‘The reeve is come, Mother, to tell us what we knows already – that he condemned Thorgar, an innocent man, to a death unshriven and a grave unconsecrated.’

  ‘You has more sense than to believe that, Win.’ Selewine addressed Thorgar’s mother.

  A flicker passed over the woman’s face. Since her widowhood she had somehow become ‘Winflæd’, and the diminutive, used in her youth and always by her husband, Alvar, had been buried also. She had sense enough to know that Selewine used it with intent, but the sound of it rippled through her as a tingling shudder.

  ‘Do I?’ The words were just to buy her a few moments to calm herself.

  ‘You do. Sorry I am as it were done, but from what was known, was seen, was said, there was no other way. The laws is clear.’

  ‘What were said by my brother, a man who nobody ever said a bad word about, were that ’e swore he were unscyldig, and he were ignored, not given time for other things to come to light. It was a death in haste, and at your biddin’.’ Osgyth clenched her fists and her face contorted in anger.

  ‘Not as pretty when you look like that. Careful it does not stay on you.’ It was a taunt.

  ‘I would rather be ugly than have a man like you lust after me,’ she threw back at him.

  The three younger children cowered, the twins instinctively drawing together until shoulder touched shoulder. Their older brother, who was laid upon the bed, still sickly and pale of face, gripped the worn sheepskin that covered him and pulled it right over his head. Their sister Osgyth was known to have a temper, and they were used to it, but the reeve, as well as being the most important person they knew, was now the most threatening, even though no threat had been spoken openly.

  ‘You say that, Osgyth, but would you see your mother and brothers starve because you could not find a husband to see them safe and fed?’ Her silence at that pleased him. He turned back to her mother. ‘The girl possesses spirit, too much mayhap, but time softens such things. She speaks all thoughts and keeps none close. You keeps an older and wiser head on you, Win. Life is not as we wants it, but as it is. Otherwise I would not be seekin’ a third wife but be very content with my first, God rest ’er soul.’ Selewine crossed himself. ‘You are crippled and cannot manage as other widows manage. There are the three little ’uns, and I knows what it is like with young boys to keep under control.’ There was a pause, and he said, more slowly, ‘Unless you keeps treasure beneath that bed, to buy both food and a man’s aid, you knows what lies before you all – the gripes that comes when no food lies in the belly, cold when there is not even the strength to scour the wood for kindlin’. You and I both know it be a path with one end, and mighty difficult to turn about on. If there was a choice, I am sure you would choose different, but there is not, and you do not need to part with your flesh and blood treasure,’ he pointed at Osgyth but kept his eyes on her mother, ‘for there is room in my house for all, and your boys can join mine and you can be spared work.’ He was watching her closely, exclusively. ‘I will not press you now, for I understands you must think on it, talk about it, but give me your answer in a few days. If you do not, or it be nay, then I will find a wife elsewhere, in Saxon’s Lode or Uckinghall, and will not lift a finger when the worst befalls the family of Alvar.’

  ‘It will be nay,’ shouted Osgyth, ‘though you wait till the Day of Judgement.’

  ‘Hush, Osgyth.’ Her mother’s reproof was soft, but effective. The girl was shocked that it had passed her lips at all. Was her mother even considering the match? She paled.

  Selewine did not smile outwardly, and left sombre-faced, but once outside he nodded, approving his own words and demeanour.

  ‘I wonder if the girl makes a decent pottage?’ he murmured to himself, rubbing his hands together, and then frowned as a thought struck him.

  The door of Tofi’s house was opened by Mildred, whose welcoming look froze on her pretty face. Catchpoll guessed quite a few of the local young men knocked upon Tofi’s door with messages they were happy to bring from their parents in the hope that they might exchange smiles with the local beauty, or just stare at her in awed silence. Some women just had a certain something beyond mere good looks, but it was better if they did not acknowledge it, since it made them the teasing sort, as Mildred clearly was.

  ‘Mother, ’tis the lord Undersheriff,’ she called out, even as she bowed her head and dipped in a curtsey, and it sounded a warning. Perhaps it was just because of his elevated rank, but neither Bradecote nor Catchpoll believed that was the case. She stepped back, but not too quickly.

  The chamber, when their eyes accustomed to the low light, was occupied only by the worn-looking woman who was Tofi’s wife, and the mouse-like Mald, who now almost enveloped herself in her mother’s skirts so that only the top of her head and her fingers gripping the cloth were visible. It made an obeisance almost impossible.

  ‘My lord?’ The woman sounded nervous.

  ‘We seek your husband, mistress.’ Bradecote did not say why and saw the colour fade from her face and her body stiffen, and that in turn made the little girl, aware of the tension in her mother, begin to whimper. ‘Is he perhaps in your garden?’

  She nodded, and laid a hand on top of the little girl’s head. It was probably just an instinctive act, but it felt more significant.

  ‘Thank you.’ Bradecote was courteous. He did not have to be so, but felt this was a woman accorded little courtesy in life, and whom he had frightened. Catchpoll would, he knew, tell him not to be a fool and feel sorry for folk, and it struck him less often these days. He acknowledged to himself that he was hardening, which was both a good thing as an undersheriff, and perhaps a bad thing as a man.

  The trio went around the building to the garden at its rear, agreeing that as long as the boys were not present, there would be no need to take Tofi to the priests’ house. In fact, all three children were working. The eldest boy was raking a strip of earth to a tilth as the other two were pressing beans into the prepared surface, while their father dug the rougher ground. It was a scene of industry, though not peaceful, since the two bean planters were engaged in a heated argument on the verge of a fraternal fight. Catchpoll hailed Tofi, who was facing away from them. He turned quickly, a complaint ready on his lips, but at the sight of the lord Undersheriff this remained unvoiced, though his expression was not welcoming. His nod was respectful but wary.

  ‘We have questions to ask you, Tofi, and they are best asked without other ears to hear. The boys would be better indoors.’ Bradecote preferred to be slightly cryptic, so that it would be less likely the children would take notice.

  ‘I has them workin’, my lord, and I doesn’t want—’

  ‘They will go in to their mother,’ Catchpoll commanded, in a low growl that had all three youngsters look up, as they would if a bad-tempered dog approached.

  Tofi opened his mouth, and then, seeing the uncompromising expressions on the faces of the lord Sheriff’s men, shut it again, pursing his lips to show that he was obeying, but with extreme reluctance.

  ‘You lads go back indoors now, and be useful to your mother.’ He spoke gruffly, and when the eldest looked at him as though to question why, he repeated the command, louder. Only when he had seen them go round the side of the house and heard a door shut did he look at the three men before him.

  ‘What questions – my lord?’ It was not the voice of one who would divulge anything willingly.

  ‘Can you provide oath swearers that you did not go to the church around the time of None the day Father Edmund was killed?’ It was the easiest question to pose, though Bradecote doubted it would give the answer that meant any more were superfluous.