‘True enough, my lord, but it is good to know things before we is told, and very bad to be taken by surprise, as we was to hear there is more than one priest to this parish.’ This clearly rankled with Catchpoll.

  ‘In Worcester you might have reason to grumble but here, in a place we do not know, our ignorance is no shame upon us. And’ – the undersheriff added with a small smile – ‘we will sound very knowledgeable to the villagers when we ask about Father Ambrosius.’

  ‘There is that.’ Catchpoll looked visibly cheered. ‘You are right, my lord, and the dead will likely be of far more use to us than a cleaned floor.’

  They approached the shrouded corpse, laid upon boarded trestles before the altar, and Catchpoll uncovered the head, carefully drawing back the cloth. They looked into the face of Father Edmund, pinched and waxy in death, and were surprised for a second time that day, but this time by the degree of violence meted out to the priest. It was the face of a man of fewer than thirty years, at best guess, with chestnut hair ringing the tonsure, high cheekbones and what had been a straight, sharp nose, though it had clearly been broken before death and was freshly misaligned. Bradecote found himself thinking of a fox. Any blood upon the face had been cleaned away, but it was obvious that he had been badly beaten, for purple-blue bruises discoloured cheek and jaw. The stiffness of death was easing, and Catchpoll found no difficulty in parting the lips, naturally thin but puffed and split from a blow, revealing a missing lower tooth at the front, the gum raw and damaged.

  ‘Someone really did not like you, Father. I wonder why?’ Catchpoll mused.

  ‘Who would do something like this to a priest?’ Walkelin was shocked, not at the physical damage, but the idea of such a thing.

  ‘Someone who felt they had a very good reason, and I imagine who lost their temper when they confronted him.’ Bradecote was frowning. This was, to his mind, something that had been done in the red mist of anger.

  ‘Which makes us ask what that reason could be, even afore we asks who.’ Catchpoll was now uncovering the rest of the body.

  ‘But who should not be hard. No woman could do that, and the man that did will bear the marks upon ’is hands for sure.’ Walkelin sounded confident.

  ‘Ah, but look harder and you will see them bruises are not many of ’em from knuckles. Think of all the fights you have broken up in Worcester, Young Walkelin, and the faces of them as gets the worst of it. The broken lip and missing tooth, well them was a fist, quite possibly, but for the rest, no. Our angry man, and yes, it feels all wrong to have been a woman, felled him with that first blow, I should think, and then gave him a good kickin’, if you look at the marks on the body and arms as well. I think the arms was raised in defence of the face for a bit, but the attack continued even after all resistance ended. The face shows that.’

  ‘I suppose he stopped when Father Edmund was dead,’ decided Bradecote.

  ‘Ah.’ Catchpoll, studying the contusions upon the body more closely, pulled a face. ‘Now that makes things even more interestin’. You see there, my lord? It was neither fist nor foot that actually killed ’im.’ He pointed to a puncture mark between the ribs.

  ‘It makes no sense to beat a man to this degree and then stab him. And the beating was not after death, for that makes even less sense. So this means that we may have two people who wanted their priest dead, and on the same day. The second one came in, saw him senseless upon the floor and stabbed him.’ Bradecote looked puzzled and rubbed his chin, thoughtfully.

  ‘It would certainly give a good reason for the man who did the beatin’ to think that they were the killer, even if they did not stab him, and who is to say that the injuries within might not have killed him anyways, even without the stab wound.’ Catchpoll was also frowning.

  ‘Which means we have one soul who knows they did it, one who thinks they did it, and unless it was Thorgar as stabbed Father Edmund, a dead man who was wrongly believed to ’ave done it.’ Walkelin spoke assertively, and Catchpoll hid a smile. Coming along nicely, was Underserjeant Walkelin.

  ‘Which means two people knew Thorgar was innocent, if he did not do it.’ Bradecote folded his arms and sighed. ‘This becomes more tangled. Would the knuckle-skin of the man who attacked first be broken, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Not for sure, my lord, not if the man had wrapped a cloth about his fist a couple of times as well. If he planned the beatin’ he might ’ave done that, ’acos afterwards a bruised hand would show ’is guilt even to villagers who never thinks about hows and whys with crimes.’

  ‘I would say it was planned to a degree, because what could suddenly anger a man so much if he had an arranged meeting with his priest in the church, yet also the degree of violence looks uncontrolled. This is like – some boil that bursts. Whatever their reason, it had to be very, very strong.’ Bradecote tried to think of a reason and failed.

  ‘We is forgettin’ that whoever washed and shrouded this body must ’ave seen the wound.’ Walkelin was thinking his own way through events. ‘So they knew it was not the beatin’ as did for their priest. I wonder if they has already told everyone they made a mistake?’

  ‘Not everyone has eyes like ours, and mayhap with quite a lot of blood smeared about they did not make the connection, though I doubts it,’ Catchpoll cautioned. ‘We must speak with whoever came and made all tidy. We also needs to find out what was used to stab ’im. That is no knife wound. It is smaller and round—’

  ‘Like a treowwyrhta’s awl?’ suggested Walkelin.

  ‘Just like that. I wonder if Pryderi found an awl missing or out of place this morning?’ Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed. ‘If he did not know the priest died other than from being beaten, he would not connect the two, and probably just berate ’is son for not keeping all tidy.’

  ‘Do we say that there is no chance that it was he or the lad who killed Father Edmund?’ asked Bradecote, and raised a hand as Walkelin opened his mouth to respond. ‘Yes, I know the man was “ill” yesterday, but I doubt he was seen to be so every minute of the afternoon. It even means that the boy Gwydion might possibly have been involved. What if the father had beaten the priest and the son finished him off? Unlikely, yes. Impossible, no.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring true to me, though, my lord, ’specially the second part. I knows Pryderi in Worcester, and he is not a man of violence or swift to wrath, and what could have raised a killin’ passion against a priest he did not know in just a week?’

  ‘I agree, Catchpoll, but the thought has to be entertained, even if to be dismissed.’

  ‘If Pryderi’s awl was used and replaced, then surely it cannot have been Thorgar as did the deed, for why would ’e come back to the body afterwards?’ Walkelin was arranging his thoughts out loud.

  ‘You are right, Walkelin. It makes Thorgar look suddenly even less guilty to us, though most of the villagers would have still assumed death was from the beating.’ Bradecote wanted to be fair.

  ‘The thing is, if Thorgar did not kill the priest, then someone else did, and the chances of it being someone just happenin’ to be passin’ by and with a sudden urge to commit murder are as likely as me bein’ made Archbishop of Canterbury. It also means two knew they were hangin’ an innocent man and was prepared to watch it done to save their own necks. Now that is nigh as good as another murder, to my mind.’ Catchpoll looked grim.

  ‘It will be interesting to see the faces of the villagers when they realise what they have done, if Thorgar is shown to be innocent, not that it will do his family much good. I would also say that if he was found with the body, but not seen in any act of violence, then a summary hanging was not according to law, but a village reeve might not know the difference.’

  ‘Then best we speak with the reeve, the woman who raised the alarm, and also the washers of the corpse. Whatever their answers, I doubts we will be ridin’ back to Worcester tomorrow. A pity that is, for I will miss my fish for dinner.’ Catchpoll sighed.

  Since it was the sowing time and the weather was again clement, most of the population were in the year’s productive field, bent over with aching backs to dibble the peas into the earth or broadcasting the grains that would bring them wheat come late summer. This great field lay on the fertile land to the south and west of the village, though the border of osiers on the riverside spoke of the winters when flooding might conceal ridge and furrow beneath the rain-broadened Severn and duck and goose float serenely upon it. Catchpoll asked to ‘make the introductions’ because, he averred, he could make the lord Undersheriff sound even more important. Hugh Bradecote wryly commented that he had never felt ignored as an undersheriff, and always thought he looked suitably ‘lordly’.

  ‘Oh, there’s no doubt you do, my lord, and especially on that horse o’ yours. No amount of talkin’ could increase your importance if you rode that hair shirt of a beast that Walkelin bestrides.’ Catchpoll grinned.

  As if insulted by this, Snægl shook his head, and the tremor ran along his shaggy mane to the withers.

  ‘Ah, but that means I gathers up all as is afeard of a noble lord’s power, and afeard of Serjeant Catchpoll’s … er, bein’ ’imself, and so they tells things to me, Underserjeant Walkelin, who looks to be on their side and rides the “hair shirt”.’ Walkelin spoke not in jest but all seriousness, though he allowed himself a small smile.

  ‘That you do, Young Walkelin, that you do.’ Catchpoll nodded, approvingly. ‘Now, my guess is the reeve is the fair-haired man who is pointin’ a lot and bendin’ little. Shall we see if I am right, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, though I agree with you, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote smiled, then schooled his features into a suitably haughty ‘lord Undersheriff’ seriousness.

  The sight of three horsemen riding towards them along one of the ridges of earth caused heads to rise in a ripple effect as one alerted the next. They stared, and Catchpoll made a cursory assessment of them.

  ‘You, there, are you Selewine, the reeve of Ripple?’ Catchpoll sounded the voice of authority, and seeing he was in company with a lordly-looking man on a fine beast, Selewine did not respond with a question about who wanted to know, but nodded, looking cautious.

  ‘Then we needs to speak with you, aye, and all here, about the death of your priest, Father Edmund, and the hangin’ of Thorgar the Ploughman. I am the lord Sheriff’s Serjeant, come with the lord Sheriff’s Underserjeant, and the lord Bradecote, lord Undersheriff of the shire.’

  Bradecote thought Catchpoll had rather overstressed the ‘lord’ element, but the reaction was everything that Catchpoll could have wanted. Everyone stared at them with a mixture of awe and stupefaction. Not only had these important men come among them, but they knew everything that had happened only the previous afternoon.

  ‘Everything was done right and proper,’ declared Selewine, sounding defensive and wary. ‘Pity it was to ’ave to do it, but there, that is the Law.’ He paused. ‘Why should the lord Sheriff wish to learn more of a village matter that is dealt with?’

  ‘Suffice to say, he does.’ Something about Selewine annoyed Hugh Bradecote, so he played the autocratic lord who could not care less what menials might think. He looked down his long nose, and from the height of his big horse, at the reeve and made him feel small, just as he intended. If this was the dunghill cock hereabouts, then he needed to know his dunghill was barely worth stepping around.

  ‘I meant no discourtesy, my lord.’ Selewine took a step back and belatedly grabbed the woollen cap from his head to clasp between his hands, revealing thinning hair with a pink scalp just showing through. The action was submissive, but his look was still questioning.

  ‘The lord Bishop will also want to know all the details of the killing of a priest he himself sent to this parish,’ Bradecote continued.

  Walkelin felt something, as did Catchpoll, or rather an absence of something. What was it? Both made a mental note of it, whatever it was.

  ‘Well, that is easy to do, and could ’ave been told to a clerk.’ Selewine was still worried by the extent of shrieval power before him. ‘He was beaten to death in the church by Thorgar the Ploughman, who was hanged for the deed.’

  ‘So he was seen in the act of murder?’ Bradecote raised an eyebrow. ‘Did he attack the priest in front of the whole congregation at Mass?’

  ‘No, no, my lord, but as good as in the act. Widow Reed’ – the reeve pointed towards a woman who paled but bobbed a curtsey – ‘saw Thorgar kneeling over the body of poor Father Edmund and raised the alarm.’

  ‘And where was it that you finally caught up with him?’

  ‘Why, he did not run, my lord. We found him by the body.’ Selewine looked surprised.

  ‘So this violent killer just waited, nice and peaceable, to be taken, did ’e? Not common, that.’ Catchpoll sounded quite casual. ‘I wish as most of them we takes was as easy.’

  ‘Indeed, Catchpoll. And he admitted his guilt straight away?’ Bradecote once more addressed the reeve.

  ‘No, that he did not, my lord.’ Selewine responded, cautiously.

  ‘He cried that he was unscyldig right up to the moment the noose tightened,’ offered a male voice from among the villagers, who were now crowding together to hear what was said and in an unconsciously defensive act.

  ‘The Law does not allow for summary justice, just because you decide someone is guilty of a crime, and especially if they do not admit guilt. The correct action was to hold this man, and send to Worcester for me to bring ’im in, and for investigation to be made.’ Catchpoll looked grim.

  ‘How do you know he killed the priest?’ Bradecote kept up the questions.

  ‘Because ’is hands were bloody, and Father Edmund’s face were a mess, all bloody and broken.’ Selewine felt a bit more confident about this, and a murmur of agreement went round the crowd.

  ‘Where on ’is hands?’ Catchpoll’s voice was very even.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Selewine frowned.

  ‘It is a simple question, Master Reeve, so answer the serjeant. Where was the blood on Thorgar’s hands?’ Bradecote was as calm.

  ‘All over his palms and fingers.’ Selewine held up a hand and pointed, as though Catchpoll might not know what a hand looked like.

  ‘So you are saying the priest was slapped to death?’ Catchpoll pounced.

  ‘No, of course not but—’

  ‘And was Thorgar searched for any weapon other than these, er, vicious palms?’ Bradecote leant forward, one arm over his saddle bow.

  ‘What need was there, my lord? There was nothin’ on ’im when we stripped the body when it was taken down, other than his eatin’ knife in his belt.’

  ‘We have seen the body,’ declared Bradecote, ‘and Father Edmund died from a stab wound to the chest.’

  ‘Well, I does not know why Thorgar did that too, but he must have used that knife, then.’ Selewine held his ground.

  ‘Except that the weapon used was not a knife, but a thin sharp instrument.’

  ‘Mayhap he hid it?’ Selewine’s confidence crumbled.

  ‘And then went back to look long and lovingly at ’is handiwork? I thinks not,’ scoffed Catchpoll.

  ‘You mean we ’anged the wrong man?’ The voice was female.

  ‘Looks very like it.’ Catchpoll turned his gaze from the reeve to the crowd and could almost see the cloud of collective guilt descend upon them as the rain-heavy mist might smother the tops of the distant Malvern Hills.

  ‘Poor Thorgar.’

  ‘He was always a good and quiet soul.’

  ‘Helpful.’

  The mutterings grew into an encomium.

  ‘Yet you forgot all that and strung ’im up swift enough.’ Catchpoll did not disguise his disapproval. ‘And what we wants to know now is, since it looks very much as if Thorgar did not kill Father Edmund, who did?’

  It was then that the villagers of Ripple became fearful.

  It could not be said that Selewine looked fearful, but rather disbelieving.

  ‘But how could we …? We was sure enough … And who would want to kill Father Edmund?’ He turned to his neighbours, and what all three of the lord Sheriff’s men saw this time were quite a few faces that could imagine just such a thing. It was also interesting that Selewine did not seem to see it, or be of that faction. Finding out more about Father Edmund would be very useful, if folk would speak their thoughts.

  ‘We would speak with any who knew of a grievance against Father Edmund, and the Widow Reed and whoever it was who washed and shrouded the body must come forward. We needs to know how the corpse looked afore it was tidied.’ Catchpoll made it seem a small but useful detail.

  ‘If you think you know anything that will aid us you may speak with me, with Serjeant Catchpoll, or with Underserjeant Walkelin, and need not speak before all.’ Bradecote realised this opened them up to receiving not just gossip but malice between neighbours, but he could not see any of these people stepping forward to denounce the cleric before all and sundry. He noticed several glances towards Walkelin, and correctly guessed that the timorous would be approaching him rather than his superiors.

  ‘If it was a sharp thing, then the Welshmen did it.’ It was a young, male voice. ‘They has all manner of tools hard by the Church, and you know what they says about the Welsh.’

  There were several nods, but as many looks of puzzlement. ‘What they says about the Welsh’ was clearly not widely known. However, it clearly sounded a good idea to many that whoever did this was not from the village, and there were mutterings.

  ‘Well, I has ’eard many things said about the Welsh, and said some myself, but never have I ’eard that they kills priests for no reason, and the treowwyrhta is well thought of as a craftsman by the lord Bishop, so he would not risk losing ’is custom even by a suspicion of such a crime.’ Catchpoll did not discount Pryderi, not until he had more knowledge, but he did not want him hounded by the Ripple community, even if he was Welsh.

  ‘It looks very much as if one man has died unnecessarily because of leaping to conclusions. Leave this up to the Law.’ Bradecote sounded stern. Feet were shuffled in the damp earth. ‘And we would speak also with you, Master Reeve, alone. The priests’ house is, I take it, empty until the return of your other priest?’