“No, he don’t,” Will said with satisfaction. “I told Wolf as she come from Wells.”

“I killed him.” She, whose oath was to preserve life, had taken life. Didn’t they realize it?

“You saved Alf,” Will pointed out. “He was a-goin’ to do Alf.”

Alf.

Here, at least, was somebody she could help. They’d laid him down on the grass. The skin of his throat was raw and swollen where the stake had been struck against it. She tore a strip off the hem of her green tunic, soaked it in the cold water of the spring, and applied it to the bruising. She tried to get him to drink some water, but swallowing was too painful for more than a few sips.

“Can you talk, Alf?” she asked with tenderness.

He huffed a response.

“Is he going to be all right?” Will asked her.

“I think so. His voice should come back when the swelling goes down.”

“Pity,” Will said savagely. “He talks us into more fuckin’ trouble than he’s worth… Him an’ his bloody truth. Everyone got to keep their word… Pain in the arse, Alf is.”

Adelia looked up, angry. Then she saw that Will was ashamed of his and the others’ cowardice in the glade, humiliated that it had been Alf, not him, who’d come to her aid.

“He can’t help it, Will,” Ollie said.

That’s the extraordinary thing, she thought. He can’t.

Smoothing the greasy hair back from Alf’s young, pockmarked face, she thought what a jewel was here. The Lord only knew how, petty thief that he was, the truth flamed bright in Alf’s soul-not honesty, not regard for other people’s deer, but the truth. It had dragged him, unwilling, moaning with fear, back to her side in the glade from outrage that Wolf had broken his oath to the tithing. He’d tried to save her life and, if she had then saved his, it was something to set against the fact that she’d had to kill to do it.

By the time Toki came back, dawn had broken. They gave Adelia some dried meat that she chewed on without identifying it, and she accepted a harsh but invigorating drink out of a filthy bottle. But when, having cleaned it, Will threw the sword down beside her, she saw only the image of Wolf’s lung and the rupture this blade’s tip had made in it so that air had escaped into the pleural cavity.

“I don’t want it,” she said.

“You bloody keep it,” Will told her. “And pray God as you won’t need it.”

This was such unusual piety for Will that she asked, “Who is Scarry?”

Will shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. Wolf, now, he come from the Quantocks, always mad, he was. Strangled his mother when he were still a lad, so the story goes, and lived wild in the forest ever after. Chancy, Wolf was, and no loss, so don’t you go frettin’. World’s a better place with that bastard gone.”

Perhaps it was, but remembering that it was she who’d sent him out of it put a weight on her that would never be lifted. She shivered. “And Scarry? He could speak Latin.”

Will nodded, and Adelia noticed that he, too, had a momentary coldness and drew his cloak around him. “Educated, Scarry is. Nobody don’t know for sure where he come from, up north as like as not. I heard his name was Scarlett or Scathelock, summat like that. Some say he was a priest and done wicked things so’s the Church chucked him out. Or he was a noble and done wicked things so’s he was outlawed. Joined up with Wolf, what, three, four year ago. Fish divin’ into water that was for Scarry. Loved it, liked the killing. Don’t know which of ’em was chancier, him or Wolf.”

“He cried for love of Wolf.” That dreadful scream: Te amo, te amo.

“Yeah, well.” Will shifted uncomfortably. “The pair of ’em was funny like that. What?” Alf was tugging at his elbow and croaking.

“He wants as you should tell her the rest of it, Will,” Toki explained.

Will spat. “Gor bugger, Alf, you want me to lose me best customer?”

It appeared from an indistinct whisper that Alf did.

Again, Toki translated. “Alf says as you’m a prize baker and don’t need to work for that old bitch.” He paused. “Maybe as we owe it to the missus, Will. She ought to know.”

“What old bitch?” asked Adelia.

“All right, all right.” Will sat down beside her, pulled up a piece of grass, and chewed savagely on it. “ ’S like this. See, Wolf knew as your lady’d be on that road. He was a-waiting for her, like.”

“How did he know?” God, it was becoming hot; the air was accumulating weight and making her gasp for breath.

Will sucked on his grass. “See, the big manors round here, they used to suffer something terrible from Wolf. He raided their beeves, sheep, barns, nothing safe from Wolf. And that weedy old sheriff not doin’ anything proper to stop un, nor Glastonbury, nor Wells.”

“So?”

“Well, so the lords and ladies as was suffering, they came to an arrangement, like. With Wolf. Payin’ him to stay off their land, see?”

Danegeld. The manors had paid Wolf to procure their peace and safety. At this moment, a disgraceful history seemed irrelevant, but Alf, in whom truth spouted like clear water from a fountain, thought it necessary that she should know it. “I see,” she said.

“So that night, the night as your friend was turned away from Wolvercote…” Will paused.

The air became heavier, suffocating.

“Well, that night Wolf got a message from there a-saying as there’d be a rich lady and party a-leavin’ of Wolvercote. Nice pickings for him, it said. They’d be taking his road, it said.”

“A message?” Adelia said stupidly. Alf was nodding. Then it came to her. “She sold them? She sold them?”

“Don’t know about that,” Will said, getting up. “I’m just saying as what happened.”

She’d sold them. The mistress of Wolvercote Manor had looked on Emma and the child, seeing only a threat to her position. And wanted them dead. And set the wolves on them.

“No need to worry about Eustace,” Will said, looking down at her. “He’s a-laying in Street Church and, when we’re off the hook for the fire, we’ll bury the poor bastard, with his fingers, the which is still by the abbey bloody wall.”

But Adelia wasn’t worrying for Eustace. It was the betrayal of Emma that had wiped everything else from her mind. And the bodies in their shallow grave in a lawless forest, killed twice-once by a woman who’d turned them from her door with murderous intent, and once by an animal. And who was the guiltier? The animal? Or the lady in her velvet manor?

Adelia’s mouth moved. “She sold them.”

Emma, Roetger, and Pippy. The souls of the dowager’s victims called out to her. Where were they?

She looked out toward the blue-and-green pattern of the marshes to clear her mind-an anatomist’s mind so clinical that it could not bear untidiness, whatever jumble of monstrosity had been fed into it.

Surely they are dead, she thought. They sustained wounds in the battle with Wolf and died of them. But Lord in heaven, did all bodies vanish in this godforsaken country? Was there some hole that sucked people into it without a trace?

Clear as clear, over and over, she watched Emma on the cart lash its horses into a gallop, saw Roetger flailing at their pursuers, heard Little Pippy screaming… a pack mule cantering behind them.

And then nothing. They vanished. She couldn’t see them anymore.

She raised her head. “ Glastonbury, Alf? You said they were last seen galloping in the direction of Glastonbury. My friend and the cart.”

Alf huffed his assent.

“They didn’t get there.”

Will said, “Horses veered, maybe. Crashed ’em somewhere ’mongst the trees. Killed ’em.”

Yes, that might be the explanation: three more corpses rotting in that hellish forest, noticed only by the wildlife feeding on them.

Gently, because it was unbearable to envisage otherwise, Adelia’s mind gathered the bodies up and laid them in the trench that held their companions, folding their poor hands, pleading for rest to their souls…