The Ripple party set off back the way they had come, though Osgyth was persuaded to ride up behind Serjeant Catchpoll on the return journey, for now that nothing more could be done, the strain of the last days began to take its toll, and she looked suddenly more the girl and less the woman. As they reached the last houses of Tewkesbury, Bradecote glanced to the right as a door opened. An old woman with twinkling brown eyes and hooked nose, and carrying a basket, bent her knees and head, just a little, and Bradecote acknowledged Oldmother Holeway with a small smile and the hint of a nod.

  It was towards the latter end of the afternoon when they reached Ripple at last, and the men dispersed to their homes. Bradecote was mulling over something, and also wanted to speak to the whole village, which would either mean them leaving their labours early or the shrieval trio riding back to Worcester in the dark with very little moon to guide them, which he did not want to do, so he decided that they would stay in Ripple one last night. He apologised to Father Ambrosius for the inconvenience caused, but the priest just smiled and shook his head.

  ‘I am happy enough, my lord, though I do fear Osberht will still be a resentful presence. Little Frewin will do well with Tofi’s wife to mother him, and he is in his poor mother’s mould, not Selewine’s. Osberht’s mother was more mettlesome, and Osberht has had his father’s influence far longer. I think he will resent his uncle being reeve, even though he knows he is too young by many years for the role. He needs a little time and patience, and perhaps being shown that kindness and charity are not weakness. Then I will take him to Tewkesbury, not to the Brothers, but to see if one of the craftsmen will take him as an apprentice. There is a saddler, a good but firm man, whose apprentice died at Candlemas as I recall, and he would be glad of a replacement. Tofi is inheriting enough to give a little, even if it is just to get the boy off his hands and away from Ripple. My new house companion, the little black cat, does not approve of Osberht, nor he her, alas. I hope she does not scratch him.’

  Bradecote had come to a decision, and it was one which sat well with both his subordinates when he revealed it. They arose with Father Ambrosius at his first prayers, and Walkelin was sent to knock upon every door, before they headed to their labours in field or mill, telling them to gather before the oak where Thorgar had been hanged. The tree, barely a week after its unfurling leaves had dripped tearfully over Thorgar’s hanging, now wore its fresh green mantle with pride, the youthful leaves susurrating in the morning breeze, making it even more alive. It had been ‘The Village Oak’ for centuries, had been a strong tree before any treasure of greater value than its acorn-children had been buried in the parish. Looking at it, Bradecote was struck by the thought that it would be unfortunate if it was now renamed ‘The Hanging Tree’. A stronger gust made it rustle its agreement. He sat astride his big, steel grey horse to address the village before the Law departed. Walkelin had Wilf the Worrier, hands bound, tied at the end of a length of rope, which a few murmured would be the rope he dangled from in Worcester, though in fact it was just a length of rope that Catchpoll had nigh on insisted upon so that he would be led from the village in a way they would all remember.

  ‘Once up on the Old Road, we can put Wilf the Worrier up behind Walkelin, since otherwise we would take twice as long to reach Worcester, and the man will be no bother. Always best to leave a memory of power, one that says that the Law does not tolerate bein’ broken and finds them as does it. Makes folk think a little afore they does somethin’ that brings us back, and I prefers my own wife’s pottage and my own bed of a night.’

  Catchpoll was right about Wilf the Worrier. The man was no problem to bring in. He had made a long confession to Father Ambrosius, and seemed eased by it. In fact, he seemed without worry, which struck Bradecote as odd until he thought about it and realised that the man’s life had been one of expecting the worst and worrying about the possibilities, and now there was just one certainty and no new things to worry over. In a strange way, Wilf the Prisoner was a free man.

  Surveying the faces before him, Bradecote saw the ‘flock’ of Ripple, though now he could identify many by name, and also those who were no sheep at all, such as the maid Osgyth with young Wystan just behind her shoulder, very slightly protective, Agnes the Healer, arms folded to show she would listen, but grudgingly, and Dustig the Miller, with his family called from the mill. This was just a small community where the seasons passed and regulated their lives by sun, rain and frost and antagonisms between neighbours were no greater than grumbles and the occasional hunched shoulder. The majority of these simple-living people were easily led, but not fools. They made decisions, important decisions, about whom they wed, when they sowed and when they harvested their garden produce, but the scope of their lives never needed them to think beyond such things, and, when faced with questions outside their experience, they did not know how to find answers and would agree with anyone who voiced an opinion with conviction. It was, again, something which set himself, Catchpoll and Walkelin apart from the majority, for they spent much of their time seeking answers and making decisions that affected life and death very literally.

  Just under a week ago these people had listened to their reeve, a murderer, and collectively condemned an innocent man of whom they knew no ill. Realisation of that was visible on some faces, combining regret and guilt. What they needed now was an end to the fear, confusion and distrust of the last few days, and indeed an absolution. For the latter they would have Father Ambrosius, who had been right to worry over the effect of ‘The Treasure’, but for the rest it was up to him, the lord Undersheriff, to return them to their safe and mundane world. He spoke authoritatively.

  ‘What has happened cannot be undone, but some of the damage can be lessened. Thorgar, a godly and innocent man, has gone at the last to the monks of Tewkesbury as he was called by God to do, and will be prayed for as they do for all the Brothers now departed. The lord Bishop will decide who will be reeve, but since it has run from father to son for some generations it is most likely that Tofi, who will act as reeve in the meantime, will be confirmed in Selewine’s place. To him I advise learning from his brother’s mistakes in the way he led the community, and to listen to Father Ambrosius. Ulf Shortfinger’s loss is great, but the family will not face hardship because of it. Thorgar’s family have lost the man of the house, and would face a difficult future but for the kindness of Wystan, so treat him as one of you, not an outsider.’ Bradecote paused for a moment and let that sink in.

  ‘It was also Thorgar’s plan that when he left his family to join the Benedictines the part of the hoard that was not the Church’s would go to his mother. The Law, which he did not know, says that all treasure that is buried to be retrieved and not then collected by those who buried it, belongs to the King, unless it is proven to belong to kin of whoever owned it. The chalice went rightly to the lord Bishop, as successor to the bishop who gave it to the parish, and the King could claim all the rest. However, the King’s Justice was not served when Thorgar was hanged, and therefore it is my ruling, as his representative, that the items of silver that were adornment should be presented to the lord Sheriff for King Stephen, but the silver pennies should go to Thorgar’s mother, Winflæd, as compensation, wergild. It is not a great deal, but will buy geese and fowl, or other livestock, which is probably what Thorgar expected. This is not her gain, for her loss far exceeds it, and nobody will begrudge it.’ His eyes fixed on Tofi first, and then ran over the others. There were nods, and even a hesitant cry of ‘’Tis right’.

  Bradecote made no mention of Father Edmund. He was forgotten by all but those who could not forget, at least not yet. Time, their mothers, and perhaps Agnes the Healer’s balm of gentle good sense, would help that particular healing.

  ‘That is all I have to say. It is spring, and planting time. Return to that, and do not let these events taint Ripple.’ As a valediction, Bradecote did not think it inspiring, but it was enough. He felt the collective breath taken by the crowd as he released them from listening, and, glancing at Catchpoll and Walkelin, turned his horse about and set it walking out of the village.

  The Ripple folk did not move or speak, as they watched the three riders, with Wilf the Worrier trailing behind, head towards the Old Road, and only when they were lost to sight did Tofi call them to take up their bags of seed and their tools, and head to the field.

  About the Author

  Sarah Hawkswood describes herself as a ‘wordsmith’ who is only really happy when writing. She read Modern History at Oxford and first published a non-fiction book on the Royal Marines in the First World War before moving on to mediaeval mysteries set in Worcestershire. She also writes Regency romances under the name Sophia Holloway.

  @bradecote

  bradecoteandcatchpoll.com

  By Sarah Hawkswood

  Servant of Death

  Ordeal by Fire

  Marked to Die

  Hostage to Fortune

  Vale of Tears

  Faithful unto Death

  River of Sins

  Blood Runs Thicker

  Wolf at the Door

  A Taste for Killing

  Too Good to Hang

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  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

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  This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2021.

  Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Hawkswood

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–2933–3

 

 

  Sarah Hawkswood, Too Good to Hang

 

 

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