At last his brother Erman said: “Look—isn’t that Edgar’s boat, on the other side of the river?”

Dreng said sourly: “It’s not his boat, it’s mine.”

“But what’s it doing there?”

Degbert said: “It looks as if she sailed this far, then for some reason she decided to continue on foot on the far side.” He had abandoned the theory of the alternative route, Edgar noted with satisfaction.

Cuthbert was sweating and panting: he was too fat for this kind of work. He said: “How are we going to get across? The boat is on the other side.”

Dreng said: “Edgar will go and get it. He can swim.”

Edgar did not mind, but he pretended to be reluctant. He took off his shoes and tunic slowly and then, naked, he slipped shivering into the cold water. He swam across, got into the ferry, and poled it back.

He put his clothes back on while the group boarded. He ferried them across then tied up the boat. Degbert said: “She’s on this side of the river, somewhere between here and Combe.”

Combe was two days from Dreng’s Ferry. The hue and cry would not get that far.

At midday they stopped at a village called Longmede, which marked the southeast boundary of the hundred. No one there had seen a runaway slave, as Edgar already knew. They bought ale and bread from the villagers and sat down to rest.

When they had eaten, Degbert said: “There’s been no trace of her since Theodberht’s sheepfold.”

Cuthbert said: “I’m afraid we’ve lost the scent.”

He just wanted to give up and go home, Edgar guessed.

Dreng protested: “She’s a valuable slave! I can’t afford another. I’m not a rich man.”

“It’s long past noon,” Degbert said. “If we want to be home by dark we have to turn back now.”

Cuthbert said: “We can go back to the ferry and return in that.”

Dreng said: “Edgar can pole us.”

“No,” said Edgar. “We’ll be going against the current.” He could do it if he had to, but he saw no reason to. “It will take two men poling at the same time, and they’ll tire after an hour. We’ll have to take turns.”

Dreng said: “I can’t do it, I’ve got a bad back.”

Degbert said decisively: “We’ve got enough young men to manage it easily.” He glanced up at the sun. “But we’d better get started.” He got to his feet.

The group began its return journey.

Blod had escaped, Edgar thought jubilantly. His ruse had worked. The hue and cry had wasted its energy in a futile journey. She was halfway to Trench by now.

He looked down as he walked, hiding the smile of triumph that kept rising to his lips.

CHAPTER 13

Late October 997

ishop Wynstan was going to be furious, Aldred knew.

The storm broke the day before the wedding. That morning Aldred was summoned by the abbot. The novice who brought the message added that Brother Wigferth of Canterbury had arrived, and Aldred knew right away what this must mean.