He tried to stop his wife from seeing what he had seen, but the woman struggled free and stood for a long moment looking down at the body. Then she slumped on to the cobbles beside the cart, mouth open, and gave the most wretched cry Corbett had ever heard. 'My baby!' she moaned. 'Oh no, not my Marina!' The cry was all the more pathetic in its thick rustic burr. She began to bang her head against the wheel of the cart. Her husband tried to raise her to her feet but again she fought free of him, the hood slipping back from her wispy, grey hair. She flung herself at Gurney, grasping his robe.

'Who would do it?' she cried. 'Who would do that?'

Her terrible sobbing stilled all clamour. Gurney looked at her husband.

'It is Marina?'

The man nodded, tears streaming down his face. 'I want justice, my lord,' he whispered. 'You shall have it.'

He looked up at the priest. 'You'll bury her, Father?' 'Aye, Fulke, I will, in God's acre.'

Fulke pushed his way forward to where Master Joseph stood silently watching.

'You said you'd look after her,' he said bitterly.

Master Joseph stood his ground, ignoring the dark mutterings that had broken out around him.

'Fulke, I did. But Marina insisted on returning to the village last night. She had to see you, or so she told me. Perhaps she wanted to visit someone else? '

'Where's Gilbert, the witch's son?' someone shouted.

'He's not here,' someone else replied.

Corbett leaned over. 'Father Augustine, who is this Gilbert?'

'The girl's sweetheart. Or at least he was sweet on her. A simple lad, a woodcutter's son. He and his mother live on the edge of the village beyond the church, as you go out towards the headland. She's a wise woman. She knows simples and cures, remedies and potions.' Father Augustine lowered his voice. 'But you know how it is Sir Hugh – there's gossip that she dabbles in the black arts and, at night, rides the wind with other demons.'