What Selewine had not at first considered was what he might thereafter do with the silver. So convinced was he in his own mind that it was his by right, he regretted that he might not flaunt it openly before his neighbours. However, not only would it raise new suspicions, it would also create jealousy and the risk that he himself might be robbed of it. He realised, sadly, that he would have to keep it hidden and known only to himself, and then use it little by little, piece by piece. If he took a gilt to market in Tewkesbury, he could claim the pig sold for more than expected and buy himself a cap of stoat fur for next winter. He had seen several of the wealthiest burgesses in Tewkesbury with fur hats. That would mark him out as more important than the other villagers. Over time he would use up his hoard and find reasons why he had extra coin to spend. He felt happier when he thought of it as deceiving those who did not give him the respect he deserved. It was thus in a very positive mood that he shipped the oars and tied up the little boat in Tewkesbury, and as if to prove good fortune now shone upon him, a bearded man in a red cap strode towards him and actually asked if he was searching for a small, wet boy. This was so easy.

  The child smelt of the river, but yet also retained that child-smell that Oldmother Holeway had almost forgotten. Her left arm was going to sleep, but she did not want to move it and wake the boy. Her mind drifted, just for a little while, back to when she had rocked her sons to sleep after some bad dream in the night-time. It was so long ago, that happiest of times. She was in the half-awake and half-asleep state where time does not exist, when her door was opened and a big, fair-haired man whose hair was receding from the front, filled the doorway.

  ‘I am come to collect the child.’ He sounded important, or rather, to Oldmother Holeway, self-important.

  ‘Are you indeed. And just who might you be, Master Dunghill Cock?’ There was something about the man she did not like, on top of resenting that he had come into her home without so much as a knock and request to enter.

  Walkelin was sore of heel and hard of breath by the time they rode into Tewkesbury. Bradecote was focused on riding straight to the quay, but Catchpoll, whose serjeanting senses seemed to hear things others dismissed as ‘nothing’, pulled up short.

  ‘My lord, listen.’

  The first house to the left, a small and rather insignificant one, had the door half open, and there was an argument coming from within.

  ‘Not our prob—’ Bradecote began, thinking Catchpoll was simply alert to any domestic disturbance, but a determined female voice cried out very clearly.

  ‘I doesn’t care who you say you is, get out.’

  ‘That be no man and wife fight,’ Catchpoll growled, and dismounted.

  ‘No.’ Bradecote followed suit, and Walkelin was told to lead both animals to the abbey and return immediately.

  Catchpoll sidled in through the half-open door, followed by Bradecote. An old woman was stood a pace back from the hearth, with Baldred in front of her, held back close to her skirts with a bony hand. Selewine the Reeve was level with the hearth and facing her.

  ‘Afternoon, Oldmother,’ Catchpoll nodded affably, ‘We is come to relieve you of your unwanted guest.’

  Selewine’s head turned so fast it clicked.

  ‘And who might you be?’ Oldmother Holeway challenged the shrieval pair, though neither was looking at her, but rather at Selewine the Reeve. The way they did so meant that Selewine cast any thought of feigning innocence aside. His eyes did not move, but his hand did, and swiftly. There was a scrape of steel and he lunged, grabbing Baldred, waving the knife at the old woman’s face, and then turned to face Bradecote and Catchpoll, with the knife held pricking-close to the little boy’s white throat.

  ‘That’ll be far enough.’ He sounded calm, even confident. After all, he had a hostage.

  ‘No good will come of another death, Selewine. Let the boy go.’ Bradecote matched the calm tone.

  ‘“Another death”? So is this – this man, a murderer?’ Oldmother Holeway looked more disgusted than frightened. ‘And he comes over my threshold and spins lies, not that I believed a word. Hmm.’

  ‘Quiet, you old witch.’ Selewine did not look at her.

  ‘Well, you ain’t the first to call me that, but I am a good Christian woman, for all that that fat priest of the parish grumbles about me.’ Oldmother Holeway did not look chastened. She turned her gaze upon Catchpoll and made a shrewd guess. ‘You’ll be the Worcestershire serjeant and,’ she looked Bradecote up and down, ‘the lord Sheriff?’

  ‘Undersheriff, Oldmother.’ Bradecote would have smiled at her matter-of-factness had the situation not been as serious.

  ‘There’s a rope for you in Worcester, Selewine, and you will meet it, but there is still a choice.’ Catchpoll’s voice was silky soft, and the more threatening for it. ‘You can let the boy go, come in quiet, and walk to the noose, or you uses that knife and they will need to carry you to it, and you will be beggin’ them to get there faster.’ There was nothing at all in the laws that mentioned the mistreatment of the condemned, but the murder of small children by a man in cold blood was a crime that had those who witnessed the hanging angered if the condemned looked hale and hearty. In such cases it was not unheard of for the closest kin of the victim to be given time with the chained killer in the cells, with the proviso that that might not end the life. A guard was left just to make sure they did not go too far. If the man was lucky, it would be the father, who would use his fists and beat him. If he was unlucky, it was the mother. As a young serjeanting-apprentice, Catchpoll had seen a woman, a quiet soul who would not raise her voice to any, shred the back of the man who had raped and killed her little girl, using the comb she had used on her hair, with all the tines sharpened till they acted like a bear’s claws. She had screamed curses as she did so and for so long she lost her voice. Catchpoll was convinced that Hell was like that cell that night.

  ‘I will not go to Worcester.’ Selewine shook his head. ‘You will not risk the boy’s life.’

  ‘Why did you kill them?’ It was Bradecote’s question, for he did not think it likely Selewine would leave Tewkesbury alive, whether they managed to prevent him killing Baldred or not, and it was better to have the confession at least to present before William de Beauchamp.

  ‘It was mine by right, The Priest’s Treasure. On my land for years, and I am reeve. When I learnt it was found, from my Osberht, I knew I must act. Then I heard that Father Ambrosius was gone across the river and saw Thorgar leaving the village on a morning too wet for field work, and I knew it was my time. When Father Edmund went to the church in the afternoon, I slipped into the priests’ house and searched it, but there was nothin’, not a single piece of it. I went to find Father Edmund in the church, and feared some other had word of it and beat ’im for it, but he said the chalice were gone and he knew nothin’ of the rest. I believed that, but he would have told of The Treasure and everyone would know, so I ended ’im.’

  ‘And Oldmother Agatha? She was no threat.’

  ‘But she recognised me, even though I spoke not a word. I thought the bag of silver went there with the cat, but it were not there, nor with Agnes, as thinks she is more important than any man in Ripple. Turns out ’twere this one ’ere,’ and his knife pricked just enough for Baldred to whimper, ‘who knows where it is. Now, I has finished speakin’. You just step right back against the far wall, and me and the boy will leave. If you doesn’t do as I say, I will slit his throat, and you would not want to tell ’is mother you made that happen.’

  ‘If you harm the child, Selewine—’ Bradecote began.

  ‘The serjeant can keep ’is empty threats and you will be wantin’ to string me up for the priest and the old woman anyways, so that makes no difference. So move. There is no other way.’ Selewine exuded confidence. After all, he had the knife at the child’s throat, and nobody would risk him executing his threat.

  At this moment Walkelin arrived, slightly out of breath and fearing he had missed any excitement. His entry was a surprise, and drew Selewine’s focus a little from the two sheriff’s men. Both began to move, but were not fast enough. What all the men had done was completely forget the old woman, which any inhabitant of Tewkesbury would have told them was a mistake. In that instant, Oldmother Holeway was not a frightened old woman or a comforting grandmother, but an avenging angel armed not with a heavenly sword but a serviceable poker. Her aged bones did not normally permit fluidity in bending, but in this moment she bent, snatched up the poker and wielded it with all her power at the side of Selewine’s head, without so much as a pause. It felled him on the spot, the knife loosening from his hold and falling to the floor as he crumpled at the knees and tipped back to fall with his head cracking on the hearthstone.

  ‘There’s always another way.’ She then ignored the fallen man and stared at Bradecote. ‘No man stands in my home, at my fireside, and threatens a poor mite, and then gets away with it.’

  Catchpoll knelt by Selewine. The blow might have been enough to kill him, for the skull was clearly dented and the wound clear, but it was the hearthstone that had certainly been the end of him. His eyes stared to the rafters, and saw nothing.

  ‘He is dead?’ Bradecote did not really expect the reeve to have breath in him.

  ‘He is, my lord.’ Catchpoll sounded slightly regretful, for it had been a death too swift for one who had committed two murders, attempted a third and intended a fourth.

  ‘Well, ’twas God gave me the strength, assuredly, me bein’ but a poor, feeble old woman, in fear of ’er life and a poor child’s,’ declared Oldmother Holeway, still looking at the undersheriff, and so far from feeble or afraid that it was almost laughable. ‘Would the Law say as I could not defend myself?’

  Bradecote held the stare. She had not been afraid for herself, but she had acted to save Baldred, and whilst it was a pity Selewine would not face trial and hang, the child’s life was more important.

  ‘No, Oldmother, it would not. But this is Tewkesbury, and not our jurisdiction but the lord Sheriff of Gloucester’s, so if any ask, the Reeve of Ripple was killed by us as he tried to escape with the child as hostage. You understand this?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. I does.’ She nodded acceptance and perhaps, just perhaps, grudging thanks for preventing any repercussions.

  Baldred, who had remained standing stock-still even after the cold steel of the blade had been removed from his pale throat, now trembled, his eyes wide and staring, and then he began to sob. Oldmother Holeway, abandoning both poker and belligerent defiance, gathered him to her and stroked his head, murmuring soothing words, but the child was not calmed. Bradecote let him weep for a little while, and then spoke.

  ‘Why did you run away, Baldred?’ He asked, gently.

  Baldred twisted in the old woman’s tender hold and looked, not at Bradecote, who was too important a person to address, but at Catchpoll, who was dusting off his knees. Catchpoll was power Baldred could understand.

  ‘’Tis my fault, Thorgar is dead, all my fault. I killed my brother by disobeyin’ ’im. He said as I must not tell anyone of the treasure, but I did, I did. I was not goin’ to, but Osberht kept sayin’ as I were a nithing, and Father and Thorgar just ox followers, and he would be the reeve one day after his father and … and I told of the silver, and the cup, and Thorgar givin’ it to Father Edmund, because I’s not a nithing. Is I?’ He ended unsure, wondering if in part the fate of his brother had been a judgement for pride.

  ‘No, lad.’ Catchpoll’s face was very serious, and Baldred looked fearful, despite the answer. Catchpoll, reluctantly, adopted Bradecote’s way with children and crouched back down, groaning a little as his knees objected to the posture. Walkelin, being helpful, thrust Oldmother Holeway’s single stool forward so that Catchpoll could at least take the weight off them. He received a look that mingled thanks and annoyance. ‘You listen to me, for I have more years than you could even count, and I am the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant of the Shire.’ Catchpoll intentionally gave himself the grandest title that came to his mind. ‘First of all, you did not kill your brother. What killed him was wyrd, the malice of Selewine here, and a bit the foolishness of folk as forget to think like people and just think like foolish sheep. As for bein’ important, well you remember we all needs food, and without a ploughman to guide the oxen and the plough there is no sowin’ and no harvest. So a ploughman is just as important as a reeve, or even a serjeant. What is more, whatever you do, the thing is to try and be the best at it. You aim to be the best ploughman you can be, just as Underserjeant Walkelin here,’ he nodded towards Walkelin, ‘aims to be the best serjeant, and the lord Bradecote the best undersheriff of a shire.’ Both Walkelin and Bradecote noted that by omitting himself he was effectively saying he was already the best serjeant. ‘Now, this Osberht is Selewine’s son, yes?’ Catchpoll wanted it made absolutely clear. He did not want to discover there was some other lad of the same name in the village.

  ‘Aye. Two years older than me, and a bit more, and very proud. He is always laughin’ at me and my little brothers, and prods us with sticks, saying we is stupid oxen.’ Baldred’s sense of grievance was strong. ‘And oxen is not stupid.’

  ‘We will speak with Osberht, never you fear. But first we will take you home to your mother and sister, who are worried witless. They need you more ’n ever now Thorgar is gone.’ Catchpoll slapped his hands to his knees in a gesture, which might look as if a conclusion to his oration, but was actually to add support as he stood, grimacing as he did so. He looked at the old woman. ‘You heard none of that.’

  She gave him stare for stare, and a slow smile grew. ‘Old ’uns is deaf, and I possess many years, Serjeant, so I can be as deaf as needed with ease. I also possess good wits, which most do not. My question to you is what cause you would ’ave me give for that,’ she pointed at Selewine’s body, ‘comin’ in and seekin’ the child’s death?’

  ‘The tale you should tell to Tewkesbury, Oldmother, is that he came seeking the child so that he might stand in good stead with the boy’s sister, who he wanted to wed, and we found him here and confronted him over his killing of the priest and old woman. He took the child hostage simply to avoid being taken for those killings.’ Bradecote thought that close enough to the truth to work well, and had already decided that the best thing Ripple could do was never talk of treasure again.

  ‘Fair enough. The boy needs ’is mother most, and I wants the body off my hearthstone so I can scrub it. You’ll be goin’, my lord, yes?’

  ‘We will, once Underserjeant Walkelin fetches our horses.’ Bradecote turned to Walkelin.

  ‘I want you to go to the quay and tell whoever seems in charge there that the Ripple ferry and the coracle are to be put in the next boat going upriver, and set ashore where the boat normally lies, at the lord Sheriff’s command. The rivermen will all know the place. Then collect the horses and meet us back here.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ There was just a hint of feeling hard done by in Walkelin’s voice, for he had only just come from leaving the horses at the abbey stables and was going to feel a fool going straight back to collect them again, but left immediately. There was a slightly awkward silence, for everything that was needful had been said. Then Oldmother Holeway remembered Baldred had not eaten, and busied about finding him a rind of cheese and a hunk of reasonably fresh bread, which she pressed upon him and encouraged him to eat, cajoling him when he looked reluctant, for he was at the stage where he was ravenously hungry and yet felt sick at the thought of eating. She eventually persuaded him by dint of saying how upset his poor mother would be if he fainted from sheer hunger on her doorstep. He was finishing the crust when Walkelin knocked and announced that all was arranged at the quay, and that the horses were ready outside.

  ‘Remember what I said about what happened, Oldmother, and … ’ Bradecote paused for a moment, ‘the Law thanks you.’

  ‘Never thought I would hear those words, and no mistake. Pity they cannot be known by them as thinks themselves so high and mighty in this town.’ The old woman gave a twisted smile and an obeisance, which was far less grudging than she usually showed to any in authority.

  Bradecote took Baldred and set him upon the big grey horse, climbing into the saddle behind him, and Walkelin and Catchpoll dragged Selewine’s body from the hearth and outside to sling over Snægl’s back and tie in place, and then Walkelin threw Serjeant Catchpoll up into the saddle and was given a hand to climb up behind. They wanted to be back in Ripple before eventide, but they would not be travelling at speed.