“She stabbed my father in the heart!” Garulf shouted hysterically. Wynstan had instructed him to say these words, but his grief-stricken rage seemed genuine—which was strange, for Wynstan had told him who had really killed Wilf.

“Go!” said Wynstan. In a low voice he added: “Not too slow, not too fast.”

Garulf turned his horse then looked back. “Justice has been done!” he cried. He left at a trot, heading back toward Shiring.

Wynstan adopted a calming tone. “This should not have happened,” he said, although in fact all had gone exactly as he intended.

Wigbert was furious, but all he could do was protest. “He has murdered the slave!”

“Then he will be prosecuted in the shire court, and will pay the appropriate fine to the slave’s owner.”

Everyone looked at the girl bleeding to death on the ground.

Wigbert said angrily: “She knew what happened last night in Wilwulf’s house.”

“So she did,” said Wynstan.

* * *

Edgar’s canal was a success. It ran dead straight from the Outhenham quarry to the river, and was three feet deep for its entire length. Its clay sides were firm and slightly sloped.

He was working in the quarry today, using a hammer that had a short handle for accuracy and a heavy iron head for impact. He placed an oak wedge into a crack in the stone then hammered it with quick, powerful strokes, forcing the wedge deeper, widening the crack until a slab of stone fell away. It was a warm summer day, and he had taken off his tunic and wrapped it around his waist to be cooler.

Gab and his sons were working nearby.

Edgar was still mulling over Ragna’s visit to Dreng’s Ferry. “Sometimes it’s a comfort to be loved,” she had said, and he was sure she was speaking of his love for her. She had let him hold her hands. And afterward, she had said: “Will they know what we’ve been doing?” and he had asked himself what, exactly, they had been doing.

So she knew that he loved her, and she was glad that he loved her, and she felt that in holding hands they had done something that she would not like others to know about.

What did all this add up to? Could it possibly be that she returned his love? It was unlikely, almost impossible, but what else could it mean? He was not sure, but just thinking about it gave him a warm glow.

Edgar had won a large order for stone from Combe Priory, where the monks had royal permission to defend the town with an earth rampart and a stone barbican. Instead of carrying each stone half a mile to the river, Edgar had to transport it only a few yards to the head of the canal.

The raft was now almost completely loaded. Edgar had laid the heavy stones one deep on the deck, in order to spread the load and keep the vessel stable. He had to be careful not to overload the raft, otherwise it would sink below the surface.

He added one last stone and was getting ready to leave when he heard the distant drumbeat of fast horses. He looked to the north of the village. The roads were dry and he could see a cloud of dust approaching.

His mood changed. The arrival of a large number of men on horseback was rarely good news. Thoughtfully, he hooked his iron hammer into his belt, then locked the door of his house. He left the quarry and walked briskly to the village. Gab and his family followed.

Many others had the same idea. Men and women left the weeding of their fields and returned to the village. Others emerged from their houses. Edgar shared their curiosity but was more cautious. As he approached the center he ducked between two houses and took cover, creeping between the henhouses and the apple trees and the dunghills, progressing from one backyard to the next, listening.

The sound of the hooves diminished to a rumble then stopped, and he heard men’s voices, loud and commanding. He looked about for a vantage point. He could watch from a roof, but he would be noticed. At the back of the alehouse was a mature oak tree in full leaf. He scrambled up the trunk to a low bough and pulled himself into the foliage. Careful not to reveal himself, he climbed higher until he could see over the alehouse roof.

The horsemen had reined in on the green between the tavern and the church. They wore no armor, evidently feeling they had little to fear from peasants, but they carried spears and daggers, clearly ready to inflict violence. Most dismounted, but one remained on horseback, and Edgar recognized Wilwulf’s son Garulf. His companions were herding the villages together, an exercise in control that was superfluous since they were all pressing into the center anyway, anxious to find out what was going on. Edgar could see the gray hair of the village headman, Seric, speaking first to Garulf then to Garulf’s men, getting no responses. The shaven-headed village priest, Draca, was moving through the crowd looking fearful.

Garulf stood up in his stirrups. A man standing beside him shouted: “Silence!” and Edgar recognized Garulf’s friend Stiggy.

A few villagers who carried on talking were tapped on the head with clubs, and the crowd went quiet.

Garulf said: “My father, Ealdorman Wilwulf, is dead.”

There was a murmur of shock from the villagers.

Edgar whispered to himself: “Dead! How did that happen?”

Garulf said: “He died the night before last.”

Edgar realized that Ragna was now a widow. He felt hot, then cold. He became conscious of his heartbeat.

It makes no difference, he told himself; I must not get excited. She is still a noblewoman and I’m still a builder. Noble widows marry noble widowers. They never marry craftsmen, no matter how good.

All the same he did feel excited.

Seric voiced the question that had occurred to Edgar. “How did the ealdorman die?”

Garulf ignored Seric and said: “Our new ealdorman is Wilf’s brother Wigelm.”

Seric shouted: “That’s not possible. He cannot have been appointed by the king so soon.”

Garulf said: “Wigelm has made me lord of the Vale of Outhen.”

He was continuing to ignore the headman, who spoke for the villagers; and they began to mutter discontentedly.

“Wigelm can’t do that,” said Seric. “The Vale of Outhen belongs to the lady Ragna.”

Garulf said: “You also have a new village headman. It is Dudda.”

Dudda was a thief and a cheat, and everyone knew it. There were sounds of indignation from the crowd.

This was a coup, Edgar realized. What should he do?

Seric turned his back on Garulf and Stiggy, a deliberate act that repudiated their authority, and addressed the villagers. “Wigelm is not ealdorman, because he has not been appointed by the king,” he said. “Garulf is not lord of Outhen, because the valley belongs to Ragna. And Dudda is not headman, because I am.”

Edgar saw Stiggy draw his sword. “Look out!” he yelled, but at that moment Stiggy ran his sword into Seric’s back until it stuck out the front of his belly. Seric cried out like a wounded animal and collapsed. Edgar found himself breathing hard, as if he had run a mile. It was the shock of such a cold-blooded murder.

Stiggy calmly drew his sword out of Seric’s guts.

Garulf said: “Seric is not your headman now.”

The men-at-arms laughed.

Edgar had seen enough. He was horrified and frightened. His first instinct was to tell Ragna what he had seen. He climbed rapidly down from the tree. But when he reached the ground he hesitated.

He was close to the river and could swim across and get on the Shiring road in a couple of minutes. That way he would have a good chance of getting away without being seen by any of Garulf’s men. He could leave his raft and his load of stone at the quarry: Combe Priory would have to wait.

But his horse, Buttress, was at the quarry, and so was Ragna’s money. Edgar had almost a pound of silver for her in his chest, the proceeds of sales of stone, and she might need that money.

He made a snap decision. He had to risk his life by staying in Outhenham a few minutes longer. Instead of heading for the river he ran in the opposite direction, toward the quarry.

It took him only a few minutes to get there. He unlocked his house and retrieved his money chest from its hiding place. He tipped Ragna’s money into a leather purse that he attached to his belt, then locked up his house again.

Buttress stepped onto the raft willingly, being used to sailing. Brindle jumped on, too, eager as ever despite her age. Then Edgar untied the raft and pushed off.

He had never before noticed how slowly the raft traveled along the canal. There was no stream to drive it, so the only impetus came from the pole he wielded. He pushed with all his might, but his speed barely increased.

As he passed along the ends of the backyards, the noise from the village green increased in volume—and, he thought, anger. Despite the murder of Seric, the villagers were courageously protesting against Garulf’s announcements. There was going to be more violence, he had no doubt. Could he bypass it?