And then he recalled the stories he had heard about Monck tittle-tattle from the clerks in the chancery, fragments of gossip around the court.

'The man's mad!' Ranulf muttered.

'Perhaps.' Corbett replied.

Master Joseph came back, leading a donkey pulling a flat two-wheeled cart. Maltote and Ranulf placed the girl's body gently on the cart. Gurney sent the huntsman on into the village.

'Tell them what has happened,' he ordered. 'Father Augustine will take the body to the church.'

The sad little procession made its way back, the cart bumping and jolting along the trackway that led down to Hunstanton. They skirted the manor and, a short while later, entered the village. The main thoroughfare was broad and rutted. The cart jolted, giving a strange life to the corpse which lay sprawled under the blanket. As they entered Hunstanton, Corbett saw a small crowd gathering. The women and children were first, then men came running from the fields, their tunics and breeches stained and heavy with dark clay. Small boys, carrying the slings they used to drive away marauding crows, trotted behind. Corbett looked at their red, raw faces, bruised by the cold, salty wind. He felt a pang of compassion at the fear in their faces. They wordlessly gathered around the cart and looked askance at their lord. Gurney pulled his hood back, shook his head and dismounted. He raised his hand, stilling the low moans and muttered curses.

'Marina, God rest her,' he announced, 'has been foully murdered out on the moors. I swear, by God and the king, her murderer shall be found and hanged!'

'What was she doing there?' someone shouted.

The question went unanswered as a heavy, thickset man, an anxious-faced woman in tow, hurried up and pushed his way through to the cart. He took one look at the body and turned away, clutching his chest, his fingers pressing deeply into the leather apron he wore.