There were mutinous sounds from the villagers. 'The business of this court is concluded,' Gurney said. He dug into his purse and placed two silver pieces on the table. 'This is for Fulke the tanner, to pay for his daughter's funeral Mass. I shall also give Father Augustine a chantry fee for Masses to be sung for the repose of her soul between now and Easter Day.'

The villagers, humming like an overturned beehive, swarmed around the jurymen, slapping them on the back as they left the church. Father Augustine, murmuring he had other business to attend to, left his record of the proceedings with Gurney and hurried after his parishioners.

Gurney beckoned Catchpole forward. 'Take some men,' he.ordered, 'and go and arrest Gunhilda and Gilbert. Pray God that we do so before the villagers, now thronging in the taproom of the Inglenook, become so full of ale they take the law into their own hands.'

Catchpole hurried off. Gurney rose, stretched and looked at Corbett.

'Well, Hugh, a bloody day's business.'

'Aye, and it won't end well.' Corbett pursed his lips and looked down at the door of the church. Your tenants, he thought, want justice and blood.

'Are you going back to the manor, Hugh?'

'Perhaps in a while. The day is drawing on. I would like to see more of the countryside before darkness falls.'

Corbett excused himself and, accompanied by a taciturn Ranulf and Maltote, collected the horses idly grazing in a small paddock behind the priest's house. They rode back through the village. Corbett, going ahead, stared around at the white-washed, thatched cottages, each standing in its own little plot of land. A prosperous, thriving place, he thought. Nevertheless, he felt the heavy hand of violent death. The place was deserted. The women were indoors with their children, the men in the tavern opposite the village green with its now ice-covered pond.