‘What are our chances, do you think, Catchpoll?’

  ‘About even, my lord, no more ’n that, since Selewine knows this land and is ahead of us.’

  ‘Walkelin has got us his young ferryman, so I hope his knowledge will even things up a little, though they must come swiftly with the horses.’

  ‘Aye, my lord.’

  Selewine the Reeve tried to think clearly, but it was increasingly difficult. His justifiable aim of recovering ‘The Priest’s Treasure’, which was assuredly his by right, since he had worked its resting place for most of the last five years, and was the head of the village to boot, had seemed so simple but had thus far proved impossible to achieve, and had resulted in deaths which had not been planned, though they had become unavoidable. A small voice of conscience, almost smothered by his growing obsession with the silver, murmured that if anyone he approached and pressured to reveal the whereabouts of the treasure had then to be silenced forever, the trail of corpses could not but lengthen.

  ‘The Priest’s Treasure’ had fascinated Selewine since he was a child, when he had first heard the story around the hearth fire of a winter’s evening. It gave him a sense of pride that Ripple, the village of which his father was reeve, was so special, and had such a history. When his son Osberht had told him about Thorgar turning it up with the blade of the plough from earth he, Selewine, had planted and tended over several years, he had been outraged. It felt like theft.

  The priest, barely returning to consciousness, even after being shaken, had denied ever having any of it except the chalice, which he no longer had in his possession, and had done so even as he begged to be allowed to live, which was why he had been believed, though he could not be left alive to tell of it. Selewine’s first thought thereafter was that Thorgar had kept all but the church treasure in his home, but if he had done that his mother would know of it, and Win knew nothing. She had never been a woman of guile, and he had seen no attempt at concealment. It was then that the odd incident of Father Edmund taking that wretched cat back to Oldmother Agatha had grown into a clear indication that he had quietly hidden it where none would seek it, in Oldmother Agatha’s home. It was devious, and the priest had ever been a bit weasel-like. It had seemed obvious, right up until the old woman’s home had nothing of value in it and she had spoken to him by name. That had made him jump, for he could not imagine how she might be able to know it was him when her eyes were so milky and her ears often needed a cupped hand to even make out what her grandsons said to her. He certainly could not trust her to keep quiet about his intrusion. It followed that if his treasure was not there, then it must have been moved, and Agnes the Healer was the one who went in and out each day, and was the sort of woman who always nagged, niggled and enjoyed doing both. He recalled how she had treated him no better than a servant when both his first and second wives had been ailing, telling him to do this and fetch that, and be swift about it. And after all that they still died. No, Mother Agnes liked to meddle, and stealing The Treasure just to spite him would be in character. Catching her off guard and felling her with one sweet blow from a stout stick with a hefty root-ball end, had given him satisfaction, even if the ensuing search had been fruitless. He had been so sure each time and yet his treasure eluded him still. He had even wondered if it was his wyrd that he should not have it at all, and then, when he saw Osgyth too distracted by worry even to snap at him, he knew the answer had been in Thorgar’s house all along. Baldred the Ox Leader! Why had he not thought of it? Or at least asked Osberht who had told him of it? Of course, the lad Baldred would have been with his brother when the treasure was ploughed out of the earth, and it followed that brother told brother where it was secreted, even if with the injunction to ‘tell nobody’. He had been distracted from one person to the next, as though taking stepping stones across a brook, when he could have leapt over it in one jump!

  Where would the child go? Winflæd had sobbed of him drowning himself in the river because of his grief for his brother, but Selewine could not imagine the boy doing that unless … If he had run away to hide and be found and fussed over afterwards, he might have gone in any direction, but what if the boy blamed himself? Then he would run away for ever. The river as an end was a possibility, but more likely he would ‘exile’ himself and head to where he would not be found but could find shelter and work. That meant he was heading up to Worcester or down, not to Tewkesbury, where Ripple folk went often enough for him to be seen, but Gloucester or even eventually Bristow. So north or south? Selewine stood still for a moment, for this was an important decision. A swan flew overhead. It happened to be flying south and it was a water bird. It felt a sign and so he went not in the direction of the road but the river and determined to follow it southward. If Baldred was on foot he would have to detour to cross the Avon by the ferry, so would he try and take a boat? The boat the villagers used to cross over would be too heavy for him to manage, but … Selewine smiled to himself. He had fished for years from the coracle he and Tofi shared, but now it might well be that what he wanted to catch was already in it.

  Merewin had never been on a horse before and clung tightly to Walkelin as they trotted from the ox stable to the churchyard. He watched the lord Bradecote mount the big, steel grey horse, which he considered rather terrifying, and Catchpoll, hissing as his knee objected to him hopping to give himself the impetus to mount the third horse.

  ‘Now Merewin, you say where we go. Think as if you were Baldred, trying to hide, or even run away. Where would you go?’ Bradecote was brisk.

  ‘Them’s two different things, my lord.’ Merewin was flustered, not least at being addressed by anyone as important as the lord Undersheriff. ‘There’s places the village little’uns has used from our oldfathers’ time, but those are for avoidin’ tasks we doesn’t want, or playin’ games. If Baldred does not want to return, then the river is the answer, and a craft to take ’im downstream, even mayhap all the way to The Sea.’ This last was said in a voice that held awe. ‘The Sea’, unseen, but spoken of by the shipmen that plied the Severn, was a thing so vast and unknown it was almost nightmarish, aided by the tales of serpents and storms that grew in the telling.

  ‘So we have to decide which we think he has done.’ Bradecote frowned.

  ‘My lord, we knows Baldred has pined since Thorgar died, more ’n would be usual, even for a brother. Thing is, guilt would make it worse, and if Baldred feels all the deaths are his fault, then returnin’ is not an option.’ Walkelin was now wondering whether the boy had indeed put an end to himself rather than run away for good.

  ‘This is true and fits better than just running off to return and be fussed over. He has seen how the loss of Thorgar has affected his mother. He would not increase her distress lightly. We look to the river. Whether that is for a craft, or just signs of Baldred, remains to be seen. We also need to consider whether Selewine will have come to the same conclusion.’

  ‘Best we assume yes, my lord.’ Catchpoll looked grim.

  ‘Then take us along the riverbank, at the places most likely, Merewin.’ Bradecote beckoned Walkelin to lead the way, and under Merewin’s direction they headed to the Severn bank, a little upstream of the village. Merewin dismounted and went to the reeds.

  ‘My lord,’ his voice was urgent and excited. ‘There is usually a coracle kept ashore ’ere. It belonged to Selewine and Tofi’s father and they fish from it. It is gone.’

  ‘Well done, Merewin. A coracle is light enough for a lad to turn over and push to the water.’

  ‘But if it was Selewine’s, my lord, it would also be a place he would look.’ Catchpoll pulled a face.

  ‘And if he found it missing—’

  ‘He would go to the village ferry boat, my lord, south o’ the mill.’ Merewin, feeling very much part of the chase, was eager.

  The lord Sheriff’s men encouraged their mounts and cantered along the riverside to where Walkelin had been ferried across the river. The little ferry craft was not upturned on the bank.

  ‘If any are to use it to cross, they tells folk,’ declared Merewin.

  ‘Well, we knows that Selewine is on the way downriver, and after the lad. My lord, our problem is we are bank-bound.’ Catchpoll did not look happy.

  ‘But a horse can go faster than a man in a small rowing boat, Catchpoll, and—’

  ‘Seek you a child?’ A boat came round the slight bend of the river, being rowed upstream by a crew of sturdy men. The captain, a man with but one eye, hailed them with his hands cupped to his mouth.

  ‘We do,’ cried Bradecote in reply.

  ‘Then I am to tell you the lad was plucked from the river by a boat going down to Gloucester, and is safe in Tewkesbury. I told his father the same when we passed him rowing downstream, so no need is there for further search. No doubt the father will bring him home by eventide.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bradecote did not think they had time to waste explaining that they now needed to move with even greater urgency. He turned to Merewin.

  ‘You have been most useful, but now we ride to Tewkesbury at speed. Your task is to return to Ripple and tell everyone you can find that they need not keep searching, and go also to Baldred’s mother and tell her that Baldred is in Tewkesbury.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Merewin slipped, a little relieved, from Snægl’s back. He did not like the idea of riding at speed.

  ‘And thank you.’ Bradecote nodded his thanks and dismissal, and Merewin began to run back towards the village.

  ‘You kick that beast of yours so hard your heels meet in the middle, if necessary, Walkelin, for if you do not keep up, we will leave you behind.’ Bradecote was very serious. ‘We ride to the Avon ferry and hope Selewine has not yet persuaded whoever holds Baldred in Tewkesbury that he has the right to take him,’ He touched heel to flank of his own horse and it set off eagerly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Swein Olafsson, whose craft it was and who had spotted the coracle, its capsize, and the drowning boy, looked at the shivering scrap of frightened life before him, and folded his arms.

  ‘Bit young to fish alone, lad. I am guessing you took that coracle without permission, and there will be a mighty search once you are missed. Where are you from?’

  Baldred did not reply, and just stared wide-eyed at the big riverman, with his tow-fair hair, muscled arms and piercing blue eyes that bored into him. Swein did not press for an answer, but had two empty sacks brought to rub some warmth into the child, and a cloak to wrap him in thereafter. Going back upriver was not an option, for he needed the tidal flow and the river’s natural pace to get him and his goods to Gloucester without delay, but he could come alongside briefly in Tewkesbury, at the confluence of the Avon with the Severn, and set his ‘catch’ ashore there. By his guess, the boy had not come very far downriver, and kin would naturally search that way once the coracle had been missed. In time, there would be a reunion, and a mixture of admonition and relieved tears. Foolishness and daring were at their peak in the young, and a parent’s role was to ensure that was kept in check enough for age to bring a little sense. Had it been his son, he would set a hand to his rump the once as he reminded him thieves were hanged and he was getting off lightly, offer to teach him how to wield a paddle better, and then hug the breath out of him.

  Just before they reached Tewkesbury another vessel passed them, heading up the Severn, and Swein hailed it, and told them to tell any seeking a missing boy that he was safe and would be landed in Tewkesbury. That would be enough to allay worst fears and have kin swiftly in the town to find him. Then he ordered the steersman to bring the vessel alongside the Tewkesbury quayside.

  As they threw a line ashore to tie up, another craft was in the process of unloading, and the quay busy. Swein ignored those with bent backs and loads across their shoulders and hailed a bearded man in a red, woollen cap, who was directing operations from the far end of the quay. The man turned and walked towards them, raising a hand in acknowledgement, but frowned also.

  ‘Not expectin’ you, Swein. Thought you was for Gloucester this downriver.’

  ‘And I am, but I picked up a small cargo best set ashore as soon as may be.’ Swein took Baldred, dwarfed by the riverman behind him, by the shoulders and pushed him a little forward. ‘Found the boy in the water, drowning, and an upturned coracle. Must be from somewhere upstream, but not far by my reckoning. Not an experienced riverman, this one. I passed word to Hereward One-Eye, on his way upriver, to let any he sees searching the banks that the barn is well and will be found in Tewkesbury.’

  ‘Fair enough, but what am I to do with ’im meantime?’

  ‘Feed him, and give him a bed if none come for him before nightfall. He does not look as if he slept or ate for a while. I doubt you will need look after the lad for long.’ Swein clearly thought his act of charity was complete.

  ‘I doesn’t know who … wait now. Yes, just the person. You give the child to me, and set that coracle ashore, and I will take ’im to Oldmother Holeway. She will keep ’im and fuss over ’im until kin come seekin’ the lad.’

  ‘Then I am for Gloucester, and mayhap a cargo down to Bristow. Do not look for me until a week is past.’ Swein gave orders to let go fore and aft, and the steersman guided the craft gently out into the flow of the river.

  The man in the red, woollen cap looked down at the child. Perhaps it was the recent brush with death which made the grey eyes look so haunted. He judged he could leave the unloading safely enough for as long as it would take him to get the boy to Oldmother Holeway, and it was not such fair weather as would find her out washing.

  ‘Come with me, lad, and we will see you safe and warm.’ He set a hand to the child’s shoulder and felt the flinch at the contact. For a moment he wondered whether the child had run from a heavy-handed father, but it was no business of his, and if the old woman made it hers, then more the fool her.

  Oldmother Holeway was a woman about whom all Tewkesbury had an opinion. An independent soul, long widowed, she had no time for fools or for gossip and little for the clergy or authority, but nothing was too much effort if it helped a child. Her own sons were gone from Tewkesbury, one as a man-at-arms in the service of Earl Robert of Gloucester, another gone from plying the Severn as a steersman to the bigger challenge of the Bristow Channel trade, and a third had married a girl she described as ‘too mild and mousey’, a tailor’s daughter from Gloucester, and moved there to take up her father’s craft and eventually business. If she regretted the lack of grandchildren in Tewkesbury to play about her skirts, she never spoke of it, and got on with living, mending clothes for pennies from those who could not afford new but wanted the repairs to be near invisible, for none plied a better needle in the town, and doing extra washing for folk in the summer months. Whilst she charged for these things, she was free with her advice, whether it was sought or not, which meant that she was revered, feared or loathed, but always respected.

  Her cott was the last dwelling on the east side of the street that headed north to the crossing of the Avon to Mythe and up the hill towards Worcester, and stood barely a hundred paces from the junction where the markets were held. It was more modest in scale than its neighbour, or the new burgage plots on the west side that gave onto the channel that brought the Avon’s waters to the abbey mill. Burgeoning wealth surrounded it, but did not touch it.

  Baldred, cold, hungry, miserable and confused, did not register where he was led, until a door was opened and he looked up at an old lady with weathered skin, bright, twinkly brown eyes and a slightly hooked nose, whose challenging expression softened as she beheld the damp little boy set before her.

  ‘One of the Severn boats picked this little sailor up out o’ the river, Oldmother, from an upturned coracle. No name do we ’ave from the boy, and we thought of you afore the monks.’

  ‘Good thing too. What he needs is warmth and food and motherin’, not prayin’ over in a tongue ’e cannot understand. Name and kin will come later. Just you make sure any who asks is directed to me.’ She beamed at the boy and held out a hand whose finger joints were gnarled and arthritic.

  The townsman smiled inwardly. He had guessed that any mention of otherwise taking the boy to the Benedictines would be sure to make the cantankerous old widow take him in without a thought. He pushed the child forward, and left for the riverside, firm in the belief that he had done a Christian deed that would offset a few minor sins.

  ‘Now then, you come on in and let Oldmother find you a good, wool blanket and wrap you up better than those rivermen will ’ave done, by the looks of things, and a drop of mulled mead will do no harm either. Poor little soul, what made you leave hearthside and kin I wonder?’ The old woman took the child’s hand. She could see that though the boy was damp and cold his garments were not tattered, and he had been cared for, even if now he looked wraith-white and had dark rings beneath haunted eyes. She did not expect an answer and did not press for one, for that was a confidence that had to be won with kindness. She did as she had said and brought a blanket, poked her small hearth fire into a better glow, and left the poker in it to heat. She brought the beaker with a little mead in it, and then sat upon her stool and took up the blanket, opening it wide and invitingly, and smiled at Baldred.

  ‘Come to Oldmother.’

  It was a soft command he could not resist, and he came to be enfolded and pulled into the old woman’s warm hold. Her voice soothed and cosseted, and he relaxed. The mulled mead was not to his taste, and he choked over it, but the afterglow warmed him from within, and that and his exhaustion eased him into a better sleep than he had enjoyed for days.

  ‘Poor lamb.’ The old woman smiled, and held him rather than attempt to lift him to the bed.

  Selewine was confident that Baldred would be easy to find. He might even be still on the quayside, if nobody knew what to do with him, and he would have no reason to fear his village reeve, other than being cautious and respectful. He would accept returning to Ripple without question, and none would question Selewine’s right to take him back to his worrying kinfolk. It had been his original intention to force Baldred to give up the location of Thorgar’s hiding place for the silver and then drown the boy, so that he might say he had been unable to find him, but since folk in Tewkesbury would be able to say he had been there with the child, he would have to adapt that plan. He would say he had discovered the boy, and begun to row upstream to bring him home, which would be a tiring endeavour, even though it was little more than three miles down the Severn, but Baldred, fearing he was in great trouble for running away, was not thinking clearly and had stood up in the boat too early as they came towards the shore and then lost his footing, fallen in and drowned in the Severn, despite his own best endeavours. It would be annoying, since he would have to get wet, and it would mean a damp and cold return to Ripple, and carrying the weight of the body, but he would be thanked for trying his best and for at least bringing Baldred home. He might even be treated as a hero. He would then wait a couple of days before locating his prize, after the lord Sheriff’s men had gone away. If they had not conclusively found Father Edmund’s killer, why they had Wilf the Worrier, who had murdered his wife and owed a life for it, so, by Selewine’s reckoning, they might as well put the blame for the other deaths on him. It was what he would do in their situation.