“What do you want?” Wigbert said suspiciously, then added as an afterthought: “My lord bishop.”

“I will take charge of the prisoner now.”

There was a mutter of resentment from the group. They had captured the miscreant and they were looking forward to returning to the city in triumph. They would receive the congratulations of the citizenry and free drinks all evening in the alehouses.

Wigbert said: “My orders are to hand the prisoner over to Sheriff Den.”

“Your orders have been changed.”

“You must speak to the sheriff about that.”

Wynstan knew he was going to lose this argument, but he continued anyway, because it was merely a distraction. “I have already spoken to Den. His instructions are that you must hand over the prisoner to the victim’s brothers.”

“I can’t accept that from you, my lord bishop.” This time there was a distinct irony in the way he said my lord bishop.

Suddenly Garulf seemed to lose it. He yelled: “She killed my father!” then drew his sword and spurred his horse forward.

Those on foot scattered out of his way. Wigbert snarled a curse and drew his sword, but too late: Garulf was already past him. Carwen gave a cry of terror and cowered back, but she was roped to Wigbert’s saddle and unable to get away. Garulf was on her in a flash. Her hands were tied and she was defenseless. Garulf’s sword gleamed in the sunlight as he stabbed her in the chest. The momentum of man and horse drove the blade deep into her and she screamed. For a moment Wynstan thought Garulf would lift the girl and carry her away spitted on his weapon, but as his horse passed her she fell on her back and he was able to pull the sword out of her slender body. Blood spurted from the wound in her chest.

Amid howls of protest from the hue and cry, Garulf turned his horse, came back to where Wynstan was, and reined in, facing the crowd with his bloodstained sword held upright as if ready for more carnage.

Wynstan spoke loudly and insincerely. “You fool, you should not have killed her!”

“She stabbed my father in the heart!” Garulf shouted hysterically. Wynstan had instructed him to say these words, but his grief-stricken rage seemed genuine—which was strange, for Wynstan had told him who had really killed Wilf.

“Go!” said Wynstan. In a low voice he added: “Not too slow, not too fast.”

Garulf turned his horse then looked back. “Justice has been done!” he cried. He left at a trot, heading back toward Shiring.

Wynstan adopted a calming tone. “This should not have happened,” he said, although in fact all had gone exactly as he intended.

Wigbert was furious, but all he could do was protest. “He has murdered the slave!”

“Then he will be prosecuted in the shire court, and will pay the appropriate fine to the slave’s owner.”

Everyone looked at the girl bleeding to death on the ground.