Chapter Fifteen

  Wystan the Wheelwright’s son was a young man who took his duty seriously, but waiting as guard over Wilf the Worrier felt more like idleness and a dereliction, when Osgyth’s little brother was missing. Without even thinking, what Wystan had taken on out of kindness and friendship with Thorgar had transformed overnight into a desire to do whatever he could to ease Osgyth’s burden, though he realised that telling her so would not be wise.

  Wilf just sat and looked as though he had stopped everything but breathing.

  After what seemed an age, there was a knock at the door, and Father Ambrosius came in. Wilf got up so suddenly he staggered, and Wystan rose also, in alarm, but Wilf cast himself down at the priest’s feet and begged to make confession. Father Ambrosius looked down upon him and smiled sadly.

  ‘Of course, my son.’

  Wystan could not remain, he knew that, but he made the priest promise not to leave until one of the lord Sheriff’s men returned, and to tell them why he, Wystan, had left his post, and that he was going to find Osgyth and help her look for Baldred. Hearing the touch of eagerness in the young man’s voice, Father Ambrosius hid a small smile and promised faithfully to remain.

  Eventually it was Walkelin who came, and with the news that caused the priest to raise his hands in jubilation and give praise to Heaven, though it was tempered by the explanation of what had happened, and Selewine’s death.

  ‘That his life would end soon, by the Law, was inevitable, but this, with no chance to confess and repent, is sad news.’

  Next door, there were more tears than hallelujahs. When Bradecote opened the door, Baldred just stood on the threshold and stared at his mother.

  ‘My baby! Oh, my Baldred!’ cried Winflæd, standing and holding out her good hand. The twins, huddled together for comfort, began to cry, and then Winflæd began to sob in great gasps, her fallen face distorting the more.

  ‘I had hoped all the searching parties would have been stood down and returned, mistress, but Osgyth is not here. Do you know which direction she took?’ Bradecote had to repeat the question to get an answer.

  He rode, for the light was still good enough and he could both see further and be seen. He found one group still calling Baldred’s name and sent them home rejoicing, if tired, and then found Osgyth and Wystan in the reed beds some way north of the mill. She looked very cold. Her cheeks were pinched, her nose scarlet, and when she came to dry land her feet were white. When she looked up at him and he smiled, she gave a soft gasp and simply fell to the ground in a faint.

  ‘Osgyth!’ Wystan stumbled in the muddy ground as he rushed to her side.

  ‘It will be a mixture of the cold and the shock,’ remarked Bradecote calmly, dismounting and removing his cloak from about his shoulders. ‘Here, wrap her in this, and then let us waken her and get her up onto my horse.’ His boots squelched in the mud. ‘Do not forget her shoes.’

  The pair patted her hands and cheeks in a restrained and self-conscious manner, and Bradecote was struck by the thought that Agnes the Healer would have shaken her head at their ineptitude. However, the girl did stir, and between them they got her up behind Bradecote and persuaded her to hold on. He did not think that she would manage at anything faster than a walking pace, so they returned her home so slowly that by the time they got there she was asking questions and urging him to go faster, without any thought of sounding deferential or even respectful. He smiled at that. When they reached the door, Wystan held her at the waist as she slid down from the big grey, to which she did not object, and Bradecote trotted off to stable his mount before returning to ask the important question that remained to be asked.

  Bradecote let the sister make much of the prodigal’s return, but when the tears and exclamations quietened a little, he spoke.

  ‘Baldred has told us he saw the silver Thorgar dug up in the field, and revealed to Osberht, when goaded, that Father Edmund had it for safekeeping. But we know that Father Edmund only had the cup.’

  ‘It came out that way and I did not want to make it seem I was not sure. Osberht would not have believed me.’

  ‘But you know where the other part of the hoard has been hidden?’ Bradecote made the question one that expected a positive answer, and posed it gently.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘So where will it be found, Baldred?’

  ‘In the ox stall. He hid it in a cloth hung on the wall behind the harness. Nobody ever goes in with them, only us.’

  Bradecote said nothing for a moment. The silver that had brought death and injury had been within feet of them every time they attended their horses.

  ‘Well I never.’ The voice was Agnes the Healer’s, and she had entered quietly. A bandage showed about her brow from beneath her coif, but she looked strong enough. ‘I decided I was in no greater danger ’ere than at home, and more use,’ she explained. ‘And the mists are cleared a bit more from my poor head too. Selewine it were as came to my door this morn, and Selewine as tried to do away with me.’

  ‘He is dead.’ Bradecote said, simply.

  ‘And no loss,’ was her response. ‘Now, what can I do for Baldred?’

  Whilst Bradecote took Baldred back to his mother, Catchpoll went to knock upon Tofi’s door. He could not remember whether Tofi’s wife had been one of the searchers, but some folk had to remain and look after the younger children of the village, and he was in luck. The door was opened with some caution, for as far as the woman knew, there was still a murderer in Ripple. Catchpoll saw the subtle change in her face when she saw it was him. He was more used to the reverse in Worcester.

  ‘Serjeant? What news?’ She sounded tired, but there was compassion in her voice. She felt for Winflæd in her distress, her own mind reaching out and touching, then recoiling from, the known depths of fear and panic that she had felt as a mother when a child was lost, even for a short time.

  ‘Baldred is found, and is back safe with his mother.’

  ‘God be praised!’

  ‘Your husband’s brother, Selewine, is dead, however, and it was he who killed the priest and Oldmother Agatha, and tried to kill your healer and Baldred also.’

  ‘Selewine?’ The woman crossed herself, not thinking of his soul, but that he had lived right next door and might have harmed Mildred or even her younger siblings.

  ‘It means his boys are orphaned.’ Catchpoll kept it to that, in part to see how she reacted.

  ‘I have Frewin here with mine.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘I do not know what Tofi will say, but in this I will prevail. Frewin can stay with us. He is kin and a sweet child, gentle as his poor mother was, and never seemed happy once she was gone. Not surprising, when you look at Selewine, or his half-brother Osberht, who is his father’s image by Selewine’s intent. A hard lad, and I would not take him, not him, for he has bullied not just his little brother but the other younger ones of the village. He thinks himself near a man, since he comes to the tithing by year’s end, and went with Alsi Longshanks and Tofi, in the search.

  ‘Do you want me to tell Frewin?’ Catchpoll accepted the woman’s reasoning and did not think it foolish. It was good enough of her to take the younger child; another mouth to feed, clothe and raise, though kinship would play a part. It would be that, he guessed, that she would use first with Tofi.

  ‘No, I will do it. It will upset ’im a little, because he cannot imagine any other life than the one that ends now, but he will not grieve much, bless ’im.’

  Catchpoll simply nodded, and then thanked her, though she raised her hand to halt him and shook her head.

  ‘’Tis what any would do.’ She was wrong, but it showed her character. Catchpoll felt she deserved better than Tofi as a husband. It did leave the issue of Osberht, but that was solved, unexpectedly, by Father Ambrosius, who volunteered to look after the lad for a while, since he was kindred.

  It could not be said that the men Catchpoll detailed next morning to go up to the Old Road and disinter Thorgar’s body from its dishonourable grave looked happy. He made sure Tofi was one of them, since it was known that he had ‘encouraged’ his brother to act and hang the man, though Catchpoll had no doubt this had been simply to pressure the reeve, and the others were those who had made up the original burial party. They would know how deep to dig, and when to dig gently so as not to damage the body further, for the sake of their own stomachs rather than the good of the deceased ploughman.

  ‘But Thorgar’s been in the ground the better part of a week,’ complained one man, looking a little green.

  ‘Well, you be thankful you is not Wilf the Worrier, for Eadild was put underground last autumn.’ Catchpoll had no sympathy. He had already decided he would oversee Wilf’s digging, and leave Thorgar to Walkelin’s supervision, since Walkelin was not so hardy of stomach.

  At the thought of this, two of the men crossed themselves, and no further complaint was made. He sent them with spades and shovels, a length of cloth, a plank provided by Pryderi, and a handcart. Walkelin led the way, looking sombre but not worried, since he had been told he was not going to find anything worse than he had seen in his time as serjeanting-apprentice.

  The grave, with the noose still pinned to it with withy pegs, was not a full-depth grave, having been dug in some haste towards the end of a day, and without ceremony. It was little more than three feet deep, and the men were cautious after three spade spit depths, feeling the division between the natural compacted soil and the disturbed earth that had been thrown back over Thorgar and not yet settled. When they felt they were deep enough to be close to touching the body they halted and looked at Walkelin.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘You put ’im in, so you get ’im out.’ Walkelin, trying his best to sound like Serjeant Catchpoll, schooled his features into a mixture of grim and unconcerned.

  ‘What if we digs too deep with our spades?’ The least happy man whined.

  ‘A spade cannot feel. Get down on your knees and dig by hand, and in that position you can pray for Thorgar the better as you goes.’ In truth, Walkelin felt for the ploughman he had never met. He was an innocent victim in all this, yet had been sent unshriven to an unconsecrated grave. Now he was to be restored, if not like a Lazarus, then at least to a grave where he would choose to be, and with many godly brothers who would pray for his soul.

  ‘We will feel the skin.’ The man was horrified.

  ‘You felt it but a few days past, and it won’t be much changed. Now get on with it, since the lord Undersheriff will be accompanying the body to Tewkesbury and will not want to spend all forenoon waitin’.’ Mentioning the lord Bradecote ought to speed things up, Walkelin thought, and he was right.

  Very carefully, and initially working down where the arms were judged to be, the men began to scoop away the earth. Cotte and then the hands came to light, the skin greyish-pale and dirty, but not the nightmare the men had conjured up for themselves. Nobody wanted to uncover the face, but eventually Tofi, feeling that, as at least acting-reeve, he should show courage, gently wiped away the earth as if drying soil tears. The eyes had been closed, so Thorgar did not stare at them, but they stared at him, remembering that he had said his death was upon their souls.

  ‘Will Thorgar haunt us?’ whispered one man, crossing himself.

  ‘Not the sort of man to do that, not Thorgar. Forgivin’, that is what he were.’ It was more an expressed hope than a strong belief, but it gave the diggers a little impetus to take up the body carefully and lay it on the plank. Walkelin shrouded it with the cloth and then it was placed on the handcart.

  ‘Tofi. You go to Thorgar’s family and tell Osgyth we is ready. You will find the lord Bradecote there also. We will await him.

  Tofi obeyed the command without a word, and Walkelin, who had expected some demur, wondered if his air of authority was more impressive than he thought.

  Wilf the Worrier’s garden was not so large a space that Catchpoll could not have eventually studied it enough to make a good guess as to where the body would be found, but Wilf was almost eager to show the place. Catchpoll looked carefully at the earth before spade was set to it, in case the knowledge would ever prove of use in the future. There were cabbages planted close by, but upon close inspection the earth was slightly domed for the length of the grave location, and there seemed a few more small stones. That made sense, since the underlying land was gravelly. The cabbages did not seem to have suffered from what lay beside them.

  The digging up of Eadild was done without conversation, though Wilf the Worrier was repeating the Nunc Dimittis over and over under his breath as he dug as though the prayer would protect him from seeing what was to come. Catchpoll instructed him to dig wider than the grave cut, which took longer but would enable the board, made by Pryderi chopping the legs off the table from Wilf’s home, to be slid under the remains. The bed coverlet would keep all but Catchpoll and Wilf from seeing the body, and the sexton and his lad, who had been very busy these last few days, had begun digging a grave in the churchyard at first light so that the committal could take place immediately.

  Serjeant Catchpoll had a fair idea what he would encounter, but Wilf gasped and then wept when the corpse was revealed. The shape was Eadild’s, the clothing was Eadild’s, but the skin was dirty grey where it remained at all on cheek and chin, and the lips had receded a little to show the teeth in a macabre grimace, though she did not stare up at him, for the eyes were but voids. There was nothing that reminded Wilf of her person other than the plait of hair that curled from under her coif and lay upon her breast.

  ‘I deserve what is comin’ Serjeant,’ confessed Wilf, between sobs. ‘God will be merciful to my wife, and I can but pray that my remorse is known. Father Ambrosius says as where it is true and deep, God may yet not send a soul into the Eternal Fire.’

  ‘Well, let us take your wife to a decent grave in holy ground as a mark of that remorse. You lift the foot end and I will take the head end.’ Catchpoll grunted as he bent to lift the tabletop, but the body was not heavy, and the two men made their way slowly from the garden patch to the churchyard, and the sexton went to fetch Father Ambrosius. It had been agreed that after the burial, Wilf would remain in the church with the priest. Catchpoll stood at the graveside for the words to be said over the woman, and then went to Thorgar’s house to report to the lord Undersheriff.

  When Tofi arrived with news of Thorgar, his mother covered her face and hugged her remaining sons close. Osgyth, grim-faced and controlling her emotions, insisted that she would follow her brother to the monks.

  ‘I promised I would see justice for my brother. This is the end of it, my lord. My first steps was to Worcester, and my last shall be to Tewkesbury.’

  ‘I have no right to prevent you, and would not if I did, Osgyth.’ Bradecote gave her what was her due. ‘You have done as much, if not more, than any brother could have asked of you.’

  The lord Sheriff’s men rode at the walk behind the handcart that was pushed to Tewkesbury, while the men who had dug the grave took it in turns to do the pushing. It was a little over four miles, and took till noontide, but luckily for them it was downhill for much of the way to Mythe and the ferry crossing, and the ferryman, who removed his cap as a mark of respect as he took the cart across the river, would not take payment for it, or Osgyth.

  ‘A good man, Thorgar. Nothin’ I can do for ’im but this, and I is glad to do it.’

  The solemn cortège was viewed with mild curiosity by those of Tewkesbury who saw it pass and who crossed themselves piously. When it reached the gate of the abbey, Brother Porter bade them wait, and sent a young novice to inform Father Abbot and the Master of Novices of the arrival.

  Abbot Roger came with measured tread, and an expression that was both sorrowful but also welcoming. Osgyth, presented to him, dipped low, but was surprised when he stepped closer and offered his hand as she rose back up.

  ‘My daughter, I can see that you grieve, and understand that grief, but let your heart rejoice, for your brother is completing the instruction he had from God to come and join us here in this House. He had hopes of singing in the choir with his brethren, but it is the will of God that he sings rather with the angels in Heaven. His earthly remains will be laid alongside those of our community who have already left this imperfect world and journey to Glory, and we will hold him in our prayers as if he had been with us from novitiate to final profession of vows. I can tell you, truthfully, that I have rarely met a man whose being was lit by the Holy Spirit as much as your brother. Tell this also to your mother.’

  ‘I will, Father. I promise.’ Osgyth, whose eyes were wet, managed a whispered response.

  ‘Then will you trust him to us now, and return home with hope instead of misery?’

  ‘Yes, Father, and I will try.’

  ‘Good,’ Abbot Roger looked then at Bradecote, who had dismounted at the gate and was holding his own horse.

  ‘My lord, the innocence of Thorgar, whom you bring home to us, is obviously proven. That is no surprise to me, but I am glad, nonetheless. I prayed for your endeavours.’

  ‘Thank you, Father. It is proven, and the man who killed the priest and an old woman in his greed, and tried to kill another and a child, is himself dead. It was the village reeve, Selewine.’

  ‘Pity it is that a man can be dragged so deep in sin by Satan.’ The churchman sighed. ‘We will pray in Christian charity for his soul also, for he is one for whom many, many prayers are needed.’

  Tofi, who had opened his mouth, thinking to announce his kinship and hope of elevation to his brother’s position, thought the better of it, hearing these words.

  ‘And the silver that proved the temptation, my lord? Is it still sought?’

  ‘No, Father. It is found and will not cause further sin. Ripple seeks it no more.’

  ‘That is good. I would have you give my respects to the lord Sheriff, and I will give thanks that all has been resolved.’ Abbot Roger bowed his head, and then directed two Brothers, who had appeared from the infirmary with a stretcher, to take Thorgar’s body to the mortuary chapel.