“Exactly.” Ragna was pleased and relieved. Den had questioned her closely but had ended up coming around to her point of view. She moved on quickly. “If I am to defeat this coup, I need Carwen to tell her story at the shire court.”

“She may not be believed. The word of a slave . . .”

“Some people will believe her, especially when I explain what drove Wynstan to do this.”

Den did not comment on that. He said: “Meanwhile, you’re penniless. Your treasury has been stolen. You can’t win a power battle without money.”

“I can get more. Edgar will have money for me from the sale of stone at my quarry. And in a few weeks I’ll have my rents from Saint-Martin.”

“Presumably Wilf’s will was in the same chest?”

“Yes—but you have a copy.”

“However, the will has no force without the king’s approval.”

“All the same I’ll read it out in court. Wilf’s intentions prove Wynstan’s motive. The thanes will be influenced by that: they all want their dying wishes to be respected.”

“True.”

Ragna returned her attention to the day’s challenges. “None of this will matter unless you can catch Carwen.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“But don’t lead the hue and cry yourself. Send Wigbert.”

Den was surprised. “He’s reliable . . .”

“And as mean as a starving cat. But I need you here. They’ll do a lot of things, but they won’t actually murder me if you’re in town. They know you’d go after them, and you’re the king’s man.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Wigbert is more than capable of leading a hue and cry. He’s done it many times.”

“Where might Carwen have gone?”

“West, presumably. I imagine she wants to go home to Wales. Assuming she left here around midnight, she will have walked at least ten miles along the Glastonbury road by now.”

“She might take shelter somewhere near Trench, perhaps?”

“Exactly.” He glanced through the open door. “First light. Time for them to get started.”

“I hope they find her.”

* * *

Wynstan was satisfied with the progress. His plan had gone not perfectly but well enough. It had been a nasty shock to find Bern outside Wilf’s door, alert and sober, but Wynstan had reacted quickly and Wigelm had known what to do; and after that everything had happened as intended.

The story that Carwen had killed both Bern and Wilf was a good deal less plausible than Wynstan’s original, which was that she had cut Wilf’s throat while he slept; but people were fools and they seemed to believe it. They were all frightened of their slaves, Wynstan thought: the slaves had every reason to hate their owners, and if they had the chance, why would they not kill the people who had stolen their lives? A slave owner never slept easy. And all that stored-up fear burst like a boil when a slave was accused of murdering a nobleman.

Wynstan was hoping that the hue and cry would fail to find Carwen. He did not want her to tell her story in court. He would deny everything she said, and swear an oath, but a few might believe her rather than him. Much better if she vanished. Runaway slaves were usually caught, betrayed by their ragged clothes and their foreign accents and their pennilessness. However, Carwen had good clothes and some money, so she had a better-than-average chance.

Failing that, he had a contingency plan.

He was at the house of his mother, Gytha, with his brother, Wigelm, and their nephew Garulf late in the afternoon, waiting for the search party to return, when Sheriff Den appeared. With mock courtesy Wynstan said: “It’s an honor to receive a visit from you, sheriff, and all the more prized for its rarity.”

Den was impatient with facetious banter. A gray-haired man of about fifty, he had probably seen too much violence to be baited by mere jeering. He said: “You understand, don’t you, that not everyone is fooled?”

“I have no idea what you can be talking about,” said Wynstan with a smile.

“You think you’re clever, and you are, but there’s a limit to what you can get away with. And I’m here to tell you that you’re now perilously close to that limit.”

“It’s kind of you.” Wynstan continued to make fun of Den, but in fact he was paying close attention. This kind of threat from a sheriff to a bishop was unusual. Den was serious and he was not without power. He had authority, he had men-at-arms, and he had the ear of the king. Wynstan was only pretending not to care.

But what had prompted this display of menace? Not just the murder of Wilf, Wynstan thought.

In the next second he found out.

Den said: “Keep your hands off the lady Ragna.”

So that was it.

Den went on: “I want you to understand that if she should die, I will come after you, Bishop Wynstan.”

“How dreadful.”

“Not your brother or your nephew or any of your men—you. And I will never give up. I will bring you all the way down. You will live as a leper and die, as lepers do, in misery and filth.”

Despite himself Wynstan was chilled. He was thinking up a sarcastic riposte when Den simply turned around and left the house.

Wigelm said: “I should have ripped his guts open, the arrogant fool.”

Wynstan said: “He’s not a fool, unfortunately. If he was, we could ignore him.”

Gytha commented: “The foreign cat has got her claws into him.”

It was partly that, Wynstan had no doubt—Ragna had the ability to enchant most men—but there was something else. Den had long wanted to restrain the power of Wynstan’s family, and the murder of Ragna might provide him with a strong enough pretext, especially if it followed quickly after a power grab by Wynstan.

His ruminations were interrupted by Garulf’s bone headed friend Stiggy, who burst in, breathing hard, excited. He had gone with the hue and cry, under instructions from Wynstan, who had told him to race home ahead of the group if Carwen should be recaptured, a task so simple that even Stiggy could hardly fail to understand it.

“They got her,” he said now.

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“Shame.” It was time for the contingency plan. Wynstan got to his feet, and Wigelm and Garulf did the same. “Where was she?”

“In the woods this side of Trench. The dogs sniffed her out.”

“Did she say anything?”

“A lot of Welsh cursing.”

“How far behind you are they now?”

“At least an hour.”

“We’ll meet them on the road.” Wynstan looked at Garulf. “You know the plan.”

“I do.”

They went to the stables and saddled four horses, one each for Wynstan, Wigelm, and Garulf, plus a fresh mount for Stiggy; then they set out.

Half an hour later they came upon the hue and cry, now relaxed and triumphant. Wigbert, the sheriff’s quick-tempered captain, led the group, with Carwen stumbling along behind his horse, roped to his saddle, hands tied behind her back.

Wynstan said quietly: “All right, men, you know what you have to do.”

The four horsemen spread across the road in a line and reined in, forcing the hue and cry to halt. “Congratulations, everyone,” Wynstan said heartily. “Well done, Wigbert.”

“What do you want?” Wigbert said suspiciously, then added as an afterthought: “My lord bishop.”

“I will take charge of the prisoner now.”

There was a mutter of resentment from the group. They had captured the miscreant and they were looking forward to returning to the city in triumph. They would receive the congratulations of the citizenry and free drinks all evening in the alehouses.

Wigbert said: “My orders are to hand the prisoner over to Sheriff Den.”

“Your orders have been changed.”

“You must speak to the sheriff about that.”

Wynstan knew he was going to lose this argument, but he continued anyway, because it was merely a distraction. “I have already spoken to Den. His instructions are that you must hand over the prisoner to the victim’s brothers.”

“I can’t accept that from you, my lord bishop.” This time there was a distinct irony in the way he said my lord bishop.

Suddenly Garulf seemed to lose it. He yelled: “She killed my father!” then drew his sword and spurred his horse forward.

Those on foot scattered out of his way. Wigbert snarled a curse and drew his sword, but too late: Garulf was already past him. Carwen gave a cry of terror and cowered back, but she was roped to Wigbert’s saddle and unable to get away. Garulf was on her in a flash. Her hands were tied and she was defenseless. Garulf’s sword gleamed in the sunlight as he stabbed her in the chest. The momentum of man and horse drove the blade deep into her and she screamed. For a moment Wynstan thought Garulf would lift the girl and carry her away spitted on his weapon, but as his horse passed her she fell on her back and he was able to pull the sword out of her slender body. Blood spurted from the wound in her chest.

Amid howls of protest from the hue and cry, Garulf turned his horse, came back to where Wynstan was, and reined in, facing the crowd with his bloodstained sword held upright as if ready for more carnage.

Wynstan spoke loudly and insincerely. “You fool, you should not have killed her!”