With four farthings in his belt pouch, Edgar took the remaining fish to the priests.

Degbert’s wife, Edith, was breastfeeding a baby outside the house. “They look nice,” she said.

“You can have all four for half a penny,” he said.

“You’d better ask him,” Edith said, with a jerk of her head toward the open door.

Degbert heard the voices and came out. “Where did you get those?” he said to Edgar.

Edgar suppressed a sarcastic answer. “The flooding has made a fishpond in our hayfield.”

“And who said you could take eels from it?

“The fish didn’t ask permission to swim to our farm.”

Degbert looked at Edgar’s stick. “You seem to have sold some already.”

Reluctantly, Edgar said: “I’ve sold eight.”

“You forget that I’m the landlord here. You rent the farm, not the river. If you want to make a fishpond, you need my agreement.”

“Do I? I thought you were lord of the land, not lord of the river.”

“You’re an uneducated peasant who doesn’t know anything. The minster has a charter that gives me fishing rights.”

“In the time I’ve been here you’ve never caught a single fish.”

“Makes no difference. What’s written is written.”

“Where is this charter?”

Degbert smiled. “Wait there.” He went inside and returned holding a folded sheet of parchment. “Here it is,” he said, pointing at a paragraph. “If any man take fish from the river he shall owe the dean one fish in three.” He grinned.

Edgar did not look at the parchment. He could not read, and Degbert knew it. The charter might say anything. He felt humiliated. It was true, he was an ignorant peasant.

Degbert said triumphantly: “You took twelve eels, so you owe me four.”

Edgar handed over his stick of eels.

Then he heard hoofbeats.

He looked up the hill, and Degbert and Edith did the same. Half a dozen horsemen thundered down to the minster and reined in. Edgar recognized their leader as Bishop Wynstan.

While Degbert was welcoming his distinguished cousin, Edgar walked briskly away. He passed the tavern and crossed the field. His brothers were tying reaped stalks of oats into sheaves, but he did not speak to them. He bypassed the farmhouse and quietly slipped into the forest.

He knew his way. He followed a barely visible deer track through stands of oak and hornbeam for a mile and came to a clearing. Sheriff Den was there with Brother Aldred and twenty men and horses. They made a formidable group, the men heavily armed with swords, shields, and helmets, the horses powerfully muscled. Two men drew weapons as Edgar appeared, and he recognized them: the short, nasty-looking one was Wigbert, the big man Godwine. Edgar raised his hands to show that he was unarmed.

Aldred said: “It’s all right, he’s our spy in the hamlet,” and the men sheathed their blades.

Edgar winced. He did not like to think of himself as a spy.

He had agonized over this. The forgers were going to be found out, and their punishment would be cruel. Degbert deserved everything he would get, but what about Cuthbert? He was a weak man who did what he was told. He had been bullied into committing a crime.