Men and women from all five villages came, including children and slaves, some on horseback but most on foot. Everyone showed up if they possibly could, because the court made decisions that affected their everyday lives. Even Mother Agatha was there, though not any of the other nuns. Women were not allowed to testify, at least in theory, but strong characters such as Edgar’s Ma often spoke their minds.

Edgar had attended court many times in Combe. On several occasions his father had been obliged to bring suit against people who were slow to pay their bills. His brother Eadbald had gone through a phase of minor delinquency and had twice been charged with fighting in the street. So Edgar was not unfamiliar with the law and legal proceedings.

Today there was more excitement than usual, because an accusation of murder was to be heard.

Edgar’s brothers had tried to talk him out of bringing the charge. They did not want trouble. “Dreng is our father-in-law,” Eadbald had said, watching Edgar trimming a rough-hewn stone into a neat oblong shape, using his new hammer and chisel.

Anger made Edgar’s arm strong as he struck flakes off the stone. “That doesn’t mean he can break the law.”

“No, but it means my brother can’t be his accuser.” Eadbald was the more intelligent of Edgar’s two brothers, capable of a persuasive, rational argument.

Edgar had put down his tools to give Eadbald his full attention. “How can I keep silent?” he had replied. “A murder has been done, here in our village. We can’t pretend it never happened.”

“I don’t see why not,” Eadbald had said. “We’re just getting settled here. People are accepting us. Why do you have to make trouble?”

“Murder is wrong!” Edgar had said. “What other reason should I need?”

Eadbald had made a frustrated noise and walked away.

The other brother, Erman, had accosted Edgar that evening outside the tavern. He had taken a different tack. “Degbert Baldhead presides over the hundred court,” he had said. “He will make sure the court doesn’t convict his brother.”

“He may not be able to do that,” Edgar had replied. “The law is the law.”

“And Degbert is the dean, and our landlord.”

Edgar knew that Erman was right, but it made no difference. “Degbert may do what he wants, and answer for it on the Day of Judgment, but I won’t condone the killing of a child.”

“Aren’t you scared? Degbert is the power here.”

“Yes,” said Edgar. “I’m scared.”

Cuthbert had also tried to dissuade him. Edgar had made his new tools in Cuthbert’s workshop, which was the only forge in Dreng’s Ferry. There was more sharing here than there had been in the town of Combe, Edgar had learned: a small place had limited facilities and everyone needed help sooner or later. As Edgar was shaping his new tools on Cuthbert’s anvil, the clergyman had said: “Degbert is furious with you.”

Edgar guessed that Cuthbert had been told to say this. The man was too timid ever to venture a criticism on his own initiative.