‘Yes. You are right, Osgyth. That must go before the whole village, but the aid with our land can be agreed now, and if everyone sees ’im and understands why Wystan is with us, that may sway them.’ Osgyth was never one to do other than face a challenge head on, but her mother had learnt with age that sometimes a more circuitous way reached the goal. Selewine might indeed say no, but those whose strips had not been ploughed might be grateful for another doing the work and not adding to their own workload.

  ‘Then I will be at the door by the time Ripple folk is ready to start the day’s work.’ Wystan stepped closer to the woman and held out his hand to shake the older woman’s as head of the household, though part of him felt it ought to have been Osgyth’s. The offer and acceptance were sealed by the handshake, and Wystan was slightly buoyed by the realisation that he was going to be valued far more than by his sire, as long as the oxen did not wander like a trickling stream. That part still left a niggling worry, but he would find out soon enough.

  Osgyth closed the door behind him, but not immediately. She stared after the young man with the broad shoulders and determined stride for a few moments.

  Wystan felt suddenly more of a man and no longer just the youngest brother, the family ‘spare’. It was like being admitted into the tithing, which all lads felt made them grown up, until they were grown up enough to realise that they had not been. He smiled to himself, and, still in a reverie of his own, raised a hand in vague acknowledgement to the man leaving the house next door and just closing the door of his home behind him, though nothing but a puzzled frown came in return.

  Chapter Ten

  The mill at Ripple was set back a little from the breadth of the Severn, concealed from the landward side by willow trees pollarded so many times they had formed into gnarled and twisted figures like ancient old men, and with its leat creating a little island between mill and the powerful river, though in the winter the islet was often lost beneath the water. Now, though, there were geese upon it, vying with the swans already building nests of straw and twig, claiming it as their own, and only the still boggy ground at the riverside showed the river’s encroachments the previous month. The miller’s family lived on part of the upper floor of the mill, adjacent to where the great stone querns crushed the grain, since it gave them protection in times of flood, and a set of steep stairs led up to the door. However, at ground level there were double doors standing open, revealing a man and youth moving sacks of flour. Both of them were sturdy, and broad in the shoulder, with the hair of old men, made pale with the dust from the flour, and both face and hands were likewise coated. The visitors were not noticed until Catchpoll hailed the miller.

  ‘Gives a man a dry throat, all that dust, eh?’ His tone was friendly enough, and the miller turned to respond.

  ‘That it do, right enough.’ The man now saw not only that there were three men before his mill, but that one wore good raiment and had the unmistakeable demeanour of a lord.

  ‘And what name do you have?’ Bradecote was less convivial, thinking that playing the lordly role and letting Catchpoll seem the understanding one was a good start.

  ‘I am Godebrand, my lord, though all about knows me as “Dustig” for the reason you can see.’ He spread his arms and then clapped his hands together, so that the dust came off him and played about him in a cloud. Catchpoll hid a smile. He would guess most of the millers of the shire answered to ‘Dusty’, at least to their friends rather than their mothers.

  ‘We are seeking the killer of your priest, Father Edmund.’ Bradecote wondered how the man would react to “your priest” and saw that he did indeed flinch a little and his convivial manner fell away.

  ‘A man were hanged for that.’ The miller was no longer open and approachable, but very careful.

  ‘Aye, “for it” but were not the one as did it.’ Walkelin spoke up, and it took Bradecote a little by surprise, for he sounded almost as Catchpoll would.

  ‘I did not even see the hangin’, bein’ as we was workin’ and does that wet or dry.’

  ‘We do not need any witness to the hangin’, not now. What we wants is to find out why a man beat a priest into a bloody mess.’ Catchpoll did not actually say ‘kill him’. ‘You see, that is not somethin’ as a man would do just ’acos the penance he got were a bit weighty. There would need to be a good reason – a very good reason.’ Catchpoll was now watching the miller as a cat does a mouse, and his voice dropped a little. ‘And I ain’t sayin’ as we would disagree with that reason, either.’

  Bradecote threw him a warning look, for whatever else, the Law could not ignore a killing, but Catchpoll did not see it, or chose not to see it.

  ‘Has the lad work to do upstairs?’ Catchpoll jerked his head towards the upper floor.

  ‘Aye. You go and prepare the next sacks of grain, son.’ The miller looked at the youth, who sensed something was not right and looked questioningly.

  ‘You sure, Father?’

  ‘Aye. There’s a good lad.’

  There was silence as the son turned and went to climb up the internal ladder-stair to the querns.

  ‘You have a daughter, a young daughter.’ Bradecote stressed the age.

  ‘And no word will I let ’er have with you, not even if you was the King of England.’ The miller’s hands went to his hips and his chest was thrust out. It was aggressive, but also protective.

  ‘We are not here to speak with her. We know enough of Father Edmund’s wrongdoings not to need to do so.’ Bradecote could almost feel the man’s admission of guilt exuding from every pore. ‘Tell us what happened, exactly as it happened.’

  The belligerent look slipped from Dustig the Miller like a dropped cloak. His shoulders sagged a little, but he held his head up proudly enough.

  ‘What I did I would do again, my lord. That’s truth. I cared not that ’e were a priest, in fact it made it worse. Not been right, our Berthe, all over the winter, and like a ghost she is now, ’ceptin’ she is the one as is haunted. I thought she were sick of body, and Mother Agnes comes often enough but will never say what ails the girl. Few days past I saw her, my little girl, step into the leat, not fall. She wanted the water to end everythin’ and she is but nine years old.’ The man’s voice had pain in it, a father’s agony. ‘Imagine that. I pulled ’er out, and the wife came at my cries and when Berthe were all dried and kept close and crooned over until she stopped weepin’ and slept, I found out why. That was why I went to the church, knowin’ Father Ambrosius was rowed over the other side and that animal would be alone. I wanted to kill ’im, I do not deny it. I beat ’im till he fell senseless and then I kicked ’im for good measure. I wanted to smear ’im over the flagstones, I did, until none would say there were ever a man there, for what I kicked were not fit to be called a man, let alone a priest.’

  ‘But you stopped?’ Bradecote raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’

  ‘My wife came in and begged me. She said as Berthe needed a father more than ever right now and if I killed the priest she would ’ave none, nor could the lad take on the mill alone. I told ’er I thought it were too late and he were dead already. We came away, over the churchyard wall so as not to go through the village proper, and came back to the mill. We did not know of Thorgar, and mighty sorry I am that the lad is dead, but once it were done, I could do nothin’ to get ’im back, and there be a family to feed.’

  ‘So you beat the priest but you did not stab him.’

  ‘Stab ’im, my lord? No. What need have I of a knife when I has these?’ The miller held out his big hands and muscled forearms. Lifting sacks of grain and flour gave a man strength. ‘And he were dead, as I saw it. Why say you he were stabbed?’

  ‘Because he was, and that killed him. I accept you might achieve the aim with your bare hands, but a woman is not as strong, and might be as vengeful. Did she play a part?’ Bradecote pressed him.

  ‘My wife did nothin’ but keep me from dealin’ further blows, my lord. I swear my oath on it. I did not kill the priest and nor did my wife.’

  ‘But we have to ask, for if you did not, who did?’

  ‘I did.’

  The lord Sheriff’s men spun round at the woman’s voice, which was very calm. Agnes the Healer stood straight, arms folded, the bony elbows sticking out at an angle.

  ‘This ends now. It ’as gone on too long and cost too much.’ Her voice commanded.

  ‘You said you did not kill him, when we asked before.’ Bradecote was not going to accept this admission without consideration.

  ‘Then there was no likelihood of another needless death.’

  The miller was staring at her, open-mouthed

  ‘How did you kill ’im?’ Catchpoll was as wary.

  ‘I stabbed ’im with an awl. You asked me if I came to pray in the church on my return from Naunton and I said no. Well I did, and I came in and saw the mess on the floor and found ’e breathed, sad to say. So I went to the treewright’s workshop, took an awl and ended ’im.’

  ‘Then what did you do?’ Bradecote sounded merely interested, but hung upon her answer.

  ‘I put the awl back on the bench, my lord, so none would know.’

  The representatives of the Law let out a collective breath. Since it was Gwydion who placed the awl back in the workshop, whoever killed Father Edmund, it was not Agnes the Healer.

  All four men stared at the healing woman for some moments in silence, the miller astounded that she had killed a man, and the three shrieval officers stunned that she had confessed to something which they knew she did not do. There was only one possible explanation for her act of altruism.

  ‘You would give yourself up to death to protect another?’ Bradecote looked at the woman with a mixture of respect and astonishment.

  ‘I did it, my lord. I killed Father Edmund.’ She stood a little straighter, almost proudly, and her voice was steady.

  ‘You can stand there and say that till dusk, woman, but it ain’t true, and we knows it.’ Catchpoll did not sound disappointed that the killer was not yet found out, but weary of tangles that led nowhere.

  ‘And I did not kill the man, my lord, though I would face the Justices and say why I tried, but for the shame on my girl from makin’ it known what was done, and I doubts she could bear it. Whatever the law says, what ’e got were deserved.’ The miller, whose mind had swiftly run through emotions from fear and desperation to shock and disbelief, pulled himself together. ‘I left ’im for dead, yes, but if’n there was breath still in the bastard, it was not me as killed ’im.’

  Bradecote was trying to assimilate everything and make sensible decisions.

  ‘I believe you. Now, neither of you is to speak of this to anyone. If the priest was stabbed by someone other than an avenger of little girls in the parish, they think they are safe. They are not.’ He looked severely at Agnes the Healer. ‘And offering yourself up as a sacrifice is no help to Ripple, because we know of one other possible reason that Father Edmund was killed, and if that is the reason, as I think, it means a killer is in Ripple whose motive was not righteous revenge, but simple greed.’

  ‘But priests takes a vow of poverty and none would steal from our church. It would be – wrong.’ The miller, a man who minutes before had admitted to wanting to kill a man, was all outraged decency.

  ‘He was given something for safekeeping. It is now safe and beyond their grasp, but his killer may well be seeking more – we shall see.’ Bradecote turned and began to walk back towards the village houses. Catchpoll and Walkelin followed.

  Once beyond even the keenest of hearing, Bradecote shortened his naturally long stride, so that his companions could walk alongside him, and then he voiced the most important question.

  ‘Since we now have the miller’s admission he attacked the priest, I simply do not think another avenger finished it. I think that all of this has been about Thorgar and the treasure.’

  ‘Aye, my lord. And do we take the miller for the attack?’ Catchpoll’s voice clearly wanted a negative answer.

  ‘No. As he said, he did not kill the man, and – no. Justice would not be served, and the Law would be at fault. It would have been different if the assault had been the end of it, and the priest had brought complaint, but taking a damaged child’s father, a family breadwinner and the village’s miller for an act any father would do, is not just or fair. Upon my decision, we leave it.’ Bradecote sighed, and felt a great burden lifted. When they hunted the killer now, for all that the victim deserved no tears shed over him, they could do so knowing they did what was right and also just.

  ‘Aye.’ Catchpoll said no more. The line of investigation was closed, and immaterial henceforth.

  The feeling of relief that flooded through the the trio of law officers that they were no longer seeking a man who had done what they themselves would have felt justified in doing in the same situation, was tempered by the fact that they now faced going back several steps in the trail of whoever killed Father Edmund, and the trail would be the colder for it.

  ‘Were we foolish to set aside the treasure as a reason to kill the priest?’ Bradecote felt he had to ask the question.

  ‘No, my lord, not once we knew what the bastard did, and the manner of the death. The beatin’ came first and the man were red-mist mad with anger. That was not from greed. Nor were we wrong, since the beatin’ was for just that reason. What we has to get our ’eads round now is that time after the miller and his wife left the church. We do not know if the priest were senseless for a few minutes or an hour. Did the killer come at that time by chance or plan?’

  ‘The miller went to the church ’acos it were about the time of the Office, surely, for ’e did not mention goin’ elsewhere. The killer surely thought the same, but mayhap saw the miller go in, and the wife after, so waited.’ Walkelin, whose mind seemed to store details so neatly, was mentally sifting the treasure ‘wheat’ from the vengeance ‘chaff’. ‘And it were to the killer’s advantage that the treewright were sick and the lad abandoned the bench to prove ’is courage to Mildred.’

  ‘Yes, very true, Walkelin. I would love to say that it narrows our search to any who at least knew Pryderi was sore of head and sick of stomach, and not fit to work, but it could just be that the killer decided to watch the priest and would have confronted him in the priests’ house had there been no opportunity at the church and father or son had been working.’ Bradecote set self-blame aside and looked cheered.

  ‘All very well, my lord, but we cannot just follow this trail earslings, starting at the death and endin’ back at a man, since it would offer us many who could, not just one as did.’ Catchpoll pulled a thinking face.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We starts at the beginnin’ as well. Thorgar ploughs up this treasure that all of Ripple has sat about their winter fires talkin’ over for generations till it has grown into a king’s treasure. Thorgar keeps quiet about it and gives it, at least in part, to the priest for safekeepin’, which shows sense. But someone did know, or found out. They might ’ave confronted Thorgar, but he were big enough to defend hisself and not reveal where it lay. The priest were neither big nor strong. If they found out about the ploughin’ up and watched Thorgar, and saw ’im with the priest more ’n usual, they might well decide to threaten the weaker man, or even guess the treasure had been given “sanctuary” with the priests.’

  ‘And the priest would ’ave to be killed after, in case Thorgar found out.’ Walkelin was following this carefully, and then stepping ahead. ‘The miller need not risk the priest speakin’ out, since that would also bring the evils to light. Other than anger, there was no need to kill ’im.’

  ‘And the killer must be a man, since a woman could not go to threaten the priest with violence and demand the hiding place, and when they entered the church, the killer could not know they would find the priest beaten more than half to death. He might have gone first to the priests’ house, knowing one was away and the other at the church for None. We saw the house showed signs that someone had been hunting for something, and I do not think that was Father Ambrosius, who sought and found the chalice, or Father Edmund—’ Bradecote suddenly realised they had all three been avoiding giving the man his name as if erasing him from existence, ‘finding it gone and then looking elsewhere in the chamber. That would be foolish.’ He frowned, thinking it through. ‘And the priest must have been at least part in his senses so that the killer could demand the treasure’s location. Only if he refused, would he then be silenced.’

  ‘But the priest was never described as at all brave, my lord, so would ’ave given up the treasure. He must have known that the chalice was gone with Father Ambrosius, and denied it bein’ in his possession ’acos it were true.’ Walkelin was methodical. ‘So the killer either did not believe ’im or went and killed ’im anyway so they could collect or keep lookin’ for the treasure.’

  ‘That would fit, but even if we take the killer, unless we discover the missing part of the treasure, I cannot see Ripple being at peace.’ Bradecote approved of Walkelin’s theory.

  ‘Small chance is there of us findin’ it, for Thorgar could ’ave buried it under a particular tree root or – anywheres. So we need not grab spades and dig up the parish.’ Catchpoll gave a small smile. ‘But if we thinks about the killer comin’ to know of the treasure it might give us fewer names.’

  ‘Fair enough, Catchpoll,’ conceded Bradecote. ‘If Thorgar, as has proved right, feared the treasure would lead to envy and trouble, and took the chalice to the priest, and let us remember he might have been just as happy giving it to Father Ambrosius, if not more so, then it would be strange for him to then tell someone else. The only obvious person would be his mother, and sense says if he revealed its existence he would say it was safe with the priest. I would swear she knows nothing, or she would have spoken of it to us, because it would be the one unusual thing that happened shortly before both deaths.’

  ‘Osgyth, the sister, my lord?’ Walkelin had had least contact with Osgyth.