‘We are hoping those good eyes may be of use to us.’ Bradecote sounded equally unthreatening. ‘And we would like to know if any of your tools are missing, or were out of place when you returned to your work yesterday.’

  ‘Why would anyone ’ere steal my tools, my lord? None in Ripple could use them so—’

  ‘We doesn’t think it was theft, Pryderi, more a sort of borrowin’,’ interrupted. Catchpoll. ‘Was anythin’ not quite as you would expect it?’

  Pryderi frowned, and looked at his bench as if recalling how it had appeared to him the previous morning. Bradecote and Catchpoll could almost see his mind working. Eventually he spoke.

  ‘No, Serjeant Catchpoll. Gwydion was ’ere first, for I was delayed by an old dame who asked in charity for me to help her with her water pail from the well. Slopping it so much her skirts was wet, she was. In Christian charity I could not refuse ’er. My boy did not mention anything not right. Has this to do with Father Edmund?’ Pryderi’s brows gathered in a worried frown.

  ‘Turns out that for all the blood and beating, he was stabbed to death, and not with a knife blade. It was a thin, sharp instrument, such as an awl, that killed him.’ Bradecote looked at the treewright a little more intently.

  ‘Diw!’ Pryderi crossed himself. ‘Upon my good oath, my lord, I knew nothing of the death until everyone gathered with the man they hanged for it. I came out of Tofi’s house at the shouting, I did, and it was said Father Edmund was beaten to death then.’ He paused. ‘Do you mean they hanged the wrong man? There’s bad.’ He shook his head. ‘If you wants to look at my tools, ’ere they be, but if any hand used one in murder it was not mine.’ It was less an offer than a challenge.

  ‘Well, we will, in case somethin’ was put back neater than expected. We wants to know exactly what it was that was used.’ Catchpoll stepped forward, and took up a likely looking awl, peering close at the haft and at where the steel met wood. If thrust in hard, such a weapon might well sink in that far and leave a trace of blood, even if wiped clean.

  ‘Everyone knew we was working and in the church, Serjeant Catchpoll. Anyone might have taken one of my tools, seeing nobody by ’ere, with Gwydion up that hill there, proving his courage to that daughter of Tofi’s. Time is come where I must speak with the lad about maids.’ This was said in a reluctant tone and accompanied by a sigh.

  ‘You said before that you had been here for only a week. Had you ever worked on Ripple church before?’ Bradecote thought it worth asking.

  ‘Never, my lord. I came downriver with all that I needed other than the wood, and with permission to fell two oaks if needed for the work. Thankful I am that the lord Bishop has the right to take timber from the Chase for repairs. As it stands, I think the tree we took is a fine one and I will not need more. I think that was the problem when the treewright who first made the trusses in the porticus did the work. If ’e worked with what there was and no more, well, by the end the timber was not so suitable. We works with fresh timber, still with sap in it, see. It makes it easier to work, but over time it dries out and in places there are shakes, splits, formed. My guess is the man knew that they would need replacing, but it would be long after he was in the earth. Not ’is problem, and not really judgement on ’is skill.’

  ‘Ah.’ Catchpoll, now inspecting a second awl, exhaled not with relief but satisfaction, and held it up like a prize. Bradecote and its owner both gazed at it, not quite sure what they were missing.

  ‘This would be the thing, my lord. Whoever used it did wipe it, but in haste. There is a mite of dried blood right up close to the haft, and the haft itself is slightly darker where a bloodstained finger left a mark. You can just about make out the little lines. That would most like be blood from the beatin’ wounds as spread about so much. Hard it would be to avoid gettin’ any on you. I wonder if Thorgar had it on the knees of his braies?’

  ‘Had what, Serjeant?’ Gwydion, screwing up his eyes a little as he adjusted to the better outdoor light, had turned the corner from the west door, and approached. He looked curious rather than cautious.

  ‘Bydd yn ofalus,’ murmured Pryderi, but with an urgency that gave away he was uttering a warning, even though the sheriff’s pair could not understand the words.

  Gwydion stared at his father for a moment, blinked, and then looked questioningly back at Catchpoll.

  ‘You did not tell us yesterday that you helped the women take up Father Edmund’s body, lad.’

  ‘No, Serjeant, but … but everything was over then. The man as did it was hanged, and one of them, the women, came out and asked if I would help. It was the scraggy one as is the healer in the village. I was just tidying away as the light went. When it gets to sunset it is foolish to keep working with sharp tools. I could not say no to ’er.’

  ‘You sure about that, lad?’ Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘The healer came and asked for aid? Strange that, for she is a very independent soul, and the other woman said as you offered to assist. Tell things true now. Was it that you went in to them?’

  Gwydion looked guilty and nodded.

  ‘I sort of wanted to see …’ His voice trailed off. It made sense, a youth’s curiosity.

  ‘Were there plenty of candles lit in the church, so the women could strip and wash the body?’ This was Bradecote’s question.

  ‘Aye, my lord.’

  ‘And did they ask for trestles from you?’ He wanted to see if the truth was now being given.

  ‘No, for there are two, and a broad board also, kept in the south porticus for funeral use. I was showed them by Father Edmund himself, for I was told, and twice, not to use them instead of a ladder. Not that they would have raised me high enough.’

  ‘So the light was good, and your father here says you have keen eyes. When you went into the nave and saw the body, what exactly did you see? Describe it to us.’ It was a command, but gently given.

  ‘There was the other woman by the body, and she was crying sort of soft and quiet, which made the thin one tell her not to be foolish. The body, well it was strange to think it ’ad been Father Edmund, always nosing about and telling us our craft as though ’e was in charge. Even said that as Bishop Simon appointed him, we must answer to him in the lord Bishop’s place. You told him, tad, what you thought of that.’ The lad smiled, briefly. ‘No more words would come from that mouth. The face was all colours ’cept normal – purple and blue and bloodied and sort of grey, and sort of out of shape a bit. I saw a fight in Worcester once where two men hit each other till one lay senseless, but neither of ’em looked as bad as Father Edmund.’ Gwydion seemed caught between horror and a ghoulish fascination. It seemed a natural mix of emotions in a youth of his age. ‘Not a big man, Father Edmund, and I thought it would be easy for three of us to lift ’im, though the crying woman did not aid us in the end. Thing is, somehow the priest seemed heavier, dead.’

  ‘When you lifted the body, was anything else visible on the floor other than the blood?’

  ‘No, my lord, the floor showed the blood, that is all.’

  Catchpoll noticed Gwydion’s momentary glance downwards, and a hint of relief in his voice, as though that question was easier to answer than others that might have been posed.

  ‘So where was it?’ Catchpoll’s weary voice sounded as though he was bored with waiting for the information he needed, though in truth he was making a guess, but Gwydion gasped.

  ‘I found it. That is all. It ’ad rolled against the base of the tall stand for a big candle. I thought it a silly place for it, and then wondered why Father Edmund ’ad taken it into the church. I suppose it was just another little thing to complain about. If it was put away and then he “found” it next day, he could say we disobeyed the order not to keep any of our tools in the church. Very strict he was about that. And it would get me in trouble for not putting everything away tidy. I picked it up as I left, when the thin woman thanked me and told me I was not needed more.’

  It was a logical answer if Gwydion had no knowledge of the stabbing, and had not caught Catchpoll’s comments on the awl, but it was also interesting to hear that the apprentice thought the priest might do something mean-spirited. It added to the less than pleasant picture of his character that was appearing. Of course, there was the small chance that Gwydion’s hearing was as acute as his sight, and he had heard what Catchpoll had said and concocted a story that did not lie about the awl being picked up and returned, but made it innocently done. One of the two women might have caught his action out of the corner of their eye and reported it, which would be how Catchpoll was able to ambush with his question. All this was being worked through in Catchpoll’s mind, until he was distracted by Bradecote’s blunt question.

  ‘Father Edmund does not appear to have been a – charitable priest. Are you sorry he is dead, both of you?’ Bradecote looked from son to father and back. ‘It is an honest answer I want, not to say it means guilt.’

  Gwydion shuffled his feet and looked at the ground. Pryderi folded his arms and looked boldly at the undersheriff.

  ‘Did I want the man dead, and would I ’ave done the deed? No, my lord, for such a thing is a mortal sin as I cannot think Heaven would ever forgive, but am I glad Father Edmund is not ’ere any more – I am. Met a lot of priests I have over the years, in my craft, and none was as plain full of sly malice as that man.’

  ‘Fair enough. And you, Gwydion?’ Bradecote pressed for the son’s answer.

  ‘Like my tad says, my lord. We can work without being prodded with a sharp stick, so to say. I-I think I am more glad he is dead, for think what the lives of all the folk of Ripple must ’ave been like with it all the time. Mean and nasty, I call it.’ Gwydion managed to look Bradecote in the eye and held the gaze firmly.

  ‘Thank you. One question more. How much longer will you be working on the church?’

  ‘I reckon as another three or four days, my lord. I told the lord Bishop’s clerk as directed me that it depended upon the number of trusses that were like to give way. From what was reported to me, I thought there might be more. The average man, or priest for that matter, does not see what a treewright sees, and only those timbers worst affected might be noticed. If there were joints set to fail in the next year or so, well, they ought to be replaced also. That is just what I found, too, and it makes sense, if they came from the same tree.’

  ‘Well, I would rather you remain until we have taken who killed Father Edmund, in case we have any other questions to ask, but I hope that will not mean keeping you beyond the conclusion of your work.’ Bradecote saw Catchpoll’s flicker of a questioning look and explained as they walked away and left the treewright and his lad to their labours.

  ‘I know, Catchpoll, but, if we are fortunate, what I said is true, and if we are not, well, it was a less harsh way of telling Pryderi to stay put until given leave to go and it means he has an interest in this being over soon. If he hears anything, he would bring it to us the faster.’

  ‘True enough, my lord.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth. ‘What we heard does not mean either of ’em could not ’ave done it, but on balance I think what was said was honest, and it was their awl but not the hand of father or son that thrust it into the priest’s chest. Which leaves us with our two reasons why ’e was killed, and I am not happy with the death, my lord, not happy at all. What I means is that the killin’ wound and the beatin’ does not work as one thing and whether you wanted to beat a man to a bloody mess for a daughter’s lost innocence, or to get a man to reveal the hidin’ place of silver, pushin’ an awl between his ribs as well seems – disconnected. Once the priest is dead you cannot try again to make the man give up the secret, and if you has nigh on killed a man with fist and foot, why stab ’im after?’

  ‘Because you want him dead and that makes it beyond doubt, and also makes it harder to untangle if we arrive.’ It was the best answer Bradecote could think up.

  ‘But most folk who kill in the moment does not think of afterwards. Father Edmund’s death was not long planned; no, I would swear a good oath this was not planned days afore the deed, mayhap not even many hours.’ Catchpoll was not convinced.

  ‘And we have to consider how they thought the death would have been discovered and what done, since they could not have guessed that Thorgar would happen to go to the church and be found, apparently, to those who do not really consider possibilities, guilty.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord. So our killer was lucky. Yet they were also unlucky, for so far none ’as said a bad word about Thorgar, which means sayin’ nothin’ and watchin’ a rope go about ’is neck would not sit easy with a man as only killed in mad rage and feelin’ justified by the priest’s foul actions. Might make it easier to get a confession if a conscience is sore pricked by that.’

  ‘We can hope so, Catchpoll. Now let us go and speak as we planned with Thorgar’s mother and learn what we can not only about her son but about her neighbours.’

  Chapter Six

  When they knocked upon the door of the ploughman’s home they were not called to enter, but had to wait until the door was opened, and were met with apologies from the crippled woman within. She was not alone, for the sickly-looking boy was curled up on the bed, his arms wrapped about his body in a self-embrace.

  ‘My lord, I is sorry, but I did not want to let anyone else in, unless it be Mother Agnes for our poor Baldred, and I am slow of tread. Almost a stream it were, last eve and this morn also, first thing afore everyone went to the field, all folk sayin’ as they never thought Thorgar could be guilty and how it were such a shame. Not one of ’em opened their lips when it mattered, though, and oh, I so wanted to throw that back at ’em, but without their aid this family may starve if we cannot grow enough to keep us and pay our due portion to the lord Bishop as overlord.’ Thorgar’s mother put her good hand to her cheek. ‘What did I do so wrong that God ’as punished me with takin’ a good ’usband and a good son and afflictin’ me so as I is but of little use?’

  ‘No cause is there to think that any of it is a punishment.’ Catchpoll never thought that deaths were brought about by the ‘guilt’ of the victim’s nearest and dearest, though sometimes it was true that it was through their foolishness.

  ‘But Father Edmund said as my weakness of limb were a punishment and a sign from God to be more obedient to Him.’ Her voice trembled a little, and Catchpoll gently pressed her to sit upon the bench that was placed against the wall. There was no fire, though it was laid, and the dark chamber was cold.

  ‘From what we are hearing, mistress, Father Edmund said a lot of things that were just to make him feel more important and others unhappy.’ Bradecote paused for a moment and then continued. ‘Had Thorgar spoken to him about his calling to become a monk?’

  ‘Yes. He said at first Father Edmund said that wanting to become a choir monk was pride, and sinful, and he ought to think only of doin’ what he was bred to do, and be a lay brother. He did stress that to labour within the community of the brethren was itself prayer and of value.’ The proud mother smiled, a twisted, sad smile. ‘He wavered when Thorgar spoke of the shepherd who wrote a famous poem and became a saint at Whitby, centuries ago. Never thought Thorgar would know of that. Thorgar’s belief in his callin’ was so strong, it sort of lit ’im up inside, if you understands. Father Ambrosius told me few men are granted the joy that such a God-given command creates.’

  ‘But he was going to leave you and yet said you would be provided for. How could that have been, since now you are in such straits?’ Bradecote wanted to find out if Thorgar had been as open with his mother about the treasure he had found as he had his calling to the Benedictine life.

  ‘I-I knows not. He was sure of it, and I cannot think what he meant. He would not ’ave abandoned us to beggin’ the aid of our neighbours.’ The woman got up as the boy on the bed groaned, and went haltingly to sit upon the edge, caress his brow and murmur soft words, though she attended to Catchpoll when he spoke again.

  ‘And afore all this, would you say your neighbours was good folk?’ enquired Catchpoll, casually. ‘Who lives next to you?’

  ‘Oldmother Agatha, and ’er blessed cat as uses my garden for its needs. She is a good, kind woman, but is now near-sightless and ’erself aided by family. Ulf, the eldest son, fathered eight, and the oldest two lads live with ’er. They say ’tis to make more room, though all but the poor old soul knows it is to look after ’er.’

  ‘A man of many sons, eh?’ The question was a leading one, and drew forth just what Catchpoll hoped for.

  ‘Indeed, though there’s the three girls, or was. One died last autumn and one ’as gone to Ruyhale as wife to a fine young man with five good sows worth the keepin’ over winter, but there is still little Emma to be a boon to ’er mother and old enough to be useful. There’s room for the boys now, at ’ome, but I thinks Ulf Shortfinger fears ’is mother will knock over a lamp and set all aflame, or fall over that cat and not be found for a forenoon.’

  ‘And on the other side?’

  ‘Wilf the Worrier. Always fears the worst even when things is goin’ well. If’n the harvest is good, Wilf will be tellin’ all as the next year will see the crops ruined and no bread from June. Not surprised ’is wife went off last Michaelmas, only that she stayed with ’im so long.’

  ‘Went off? Ran off with another man?’ Catchpoll sounded suitably shocked and intrigued in one. It was, as he revealed to his superior afterwards, a very good way to get women to gossip.

  ‘Well, not with any man of Ripple, that is for sure. Wilf said as she was always sayin’ she wished she ’ad gone with her sister as went to Worcester to find work in a burgess’s house about the year afore the old king died, and said life would ’ave been easier than livin’ with ’is worryin’ all day, every day. There’s truth in that, though Eadild and her sister, Leofcwen, was ever dreamin’ fanciful things, and I doubts livin’ in Worcester is any better ’n Ripple. Tewkesbury be too big and noisy for me. Wilf is convinced she went to Worcester.’