This recital had been listened to with some awe by the older men there, some of whom had been to Rutherford church and recognized the description of the wall painting.

‘Did St Christopher really carry the Christ Child over our stream at Rutherford?’ one of the children had asked.

‘Surely, boy, he did,’ Chris said. ‘Between his bare legs and the pole you can see the river bank behind him and there are willow trees on the bank just like there are in Rutherford, so that’s where he carried the Child across. Of course, that was before they built their stone bridge there.’

But today Chris Foxcap was in the village to work. Ingratiating himself with all, master of the situation, he was unloading the willow panniers from his donkey and Tom was helping.

‘There we go, easy does it, now this one, wo-oh-steady-Caesar, there we go, there’s the water trough, Caesar, so have a good drink, and if you have such a thing, Tom, as a manger of oats and a nice straw bed in your stable? It’s a long time since Caesar had a good rest.’

Chris unpacked his long iron pincers, his hammers, his long-handled bellows, his iron brazier and bags of charcoal. Sir Hugh and Dame Margaret appeared, with Magda unwillingly carrying her struggling terrier, and Chris bowed to them in a way they would have laughed at had he not been so self-assured.

‘Good day, m’lord, God keep you, m’lady, good day, miss, pots to mend, pots to mend, you know the old song,’ (they did not) and when Joan brought out a jar of the best ale and he had drunk it and complimented her on it (compliments were rare in Joan’s life), and praised Milly for keeping her iron pots so clean inside (they were not), everyone around had succumbed, unwillingly, to his exotic charm.

Joan brought from the Hall’s fire a burning log on a shovel and dropped it into the brazier. Chris’s charcoal was heaped on it and with Ed-me-boy bellowing steadily the charcoal became red-hot. One by one the cracked iron pots that the villagers had brought were made to glow on the brazier, lifted in the long tongs to the mounting block stones along side to be hammered, back on the charcoal for reheating and so on for hours, and most of the time Chris kept up a running commentary.

‘Keep bellowing, Ed, not quite hot enough – stand back, children, you don’t want a face like mine, do you – there we go … ’ much hammering, ‘that should do it, keep steady with the bellowing – no, not enough yet … keep that dog away, Miss Magda, no – can’t do anything with that pot, good lady, that’s not a crack, bottom’s nearly through all round, no, sorry, mend I can, not remake. Mind the sparks, get back, m’lord, you don’t want your good cloak burnt, whew – any more of that good ale, Dame Joan? Yes, you’re Peter Carpenter, aren’t you? I remember you – nails all bent? Not a difficult job, hand them over – yes, good lady, I’ll do a handle for your pan next … ’ and so on and so on with pauses now and then to concentrate on the work, to drink and to whistle.