Den was surprised. “He’s reliable . . .”

“And as mean as a starving cat. But I need you here. They’ll do a lot of things, but they won’t actually murder me if you’re in town. They know you’d go after them, and you’re the king’s man.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Wigbert is more than capable of leading a hue and cry. He’s done it many times.”

“Where might Carwen have gone?”

“West, presumably. I imagine she wants to go home to Wales. Assuming she left here around midnight, she will have walked at least ten miles along the Glastonbury road by now.”

“She might take shelter somewhere near Trench, perhaps?”

“Exactly.” He glanced through the open door. “First light. Time for them to get started.”

“I hope they find her.”

Wynstan was satisfied with the progress. His plan had gone not perfectly but well enough. It had been a nasty shock to find Bern outside Wilf’s door, alert and sober, but Wynstan had reacted quickly and Wigelm had known what to do; and after that everything had happened as intended.

The story that Carwen had killed both Bern and Wilf was a good deal less plausible than Wynstan’s original, which was that she had cut Wilf’s throat while he slept; but people were fools and they seemed to believe it. They were all frightened of their slaves, Wynstan thought: the slaves had every reason to hate their owners, and if they had the chance, why would they not kill the people who had stolen their lives? A slave owner never slept easy. And all that stored-up fear burst like a boil when a slave was accused of murdering a nobleman.

Wynstan was hoping that the hue and cry would fail to find Carwen. He did not want her to tell her story in court. He would deny everything she said, and swear an oath, but a few might believe her rather than him. Much better if she vanished. Runaway slaves were usually caught, betrayed by their ragged clothes and their foreign accents and their pennilessness. However, Carwen had good clothes and some money, so she had a better-than-average chance.

Failing that, he had a contingency plan.

He was at the house of his mother, Gytha, with his brother, Wigelm, and their nephew Garulf late in the afternoon, waiting for the search party to return, when Sheriff Den appeared. With mock courtesy Wynstan said: “It’s an honor to receive a visit from you, sheriff, and all the more prized for its rarity.”

Den was impatient with facetious banter. A gray-haired man of about fifty, he had probably seen too much violence to be baited by mere jeering. He said: “You understand, don’t you, that not everyone is fooled?”

“I have no idea what you can be talking about,” said Wynstan with a smile.

“You think you’re clever, and you are, but there’s a limit to what you can get away with. And I’m here to tell you that you’re now perilously close to that limit.”