Wulfric said: “We’ll be needing our wages for the week so far.”

“You’ll be paid on Saturday as usual,” Nate said dismissively. “Hitch that nag.”

Wulfric did not move towards the horse. “I’ll trouble you to pay me today,” he insisted. “I know you’ve got the money, you’ve sold all that timber.”

Nate turned and looked directly at him. “Why should you be paid early?” he said irritably.

“Because I shan’t be returning to Wigleigh with you tonight.”

Nate was taken aback. “Why not?”

Gwenda took over. “We’re going to Melcombe,” she said.

“What?” Nate was outraged. “People like you have no business travelling to Melcombe!”

“We met a fisherman who needs crew for two pence a day.” Gwenda had worked out this story to throw any pursuit off the scent.

Wulfric added: “Our respects to Sir Ralph, and may God be with him in the future.”

Gwenda added: “But we don’t expect to see him ever again.” She said it just to hear the sweet sound of it: never to see Ralph again.

Nathan said indignantly: “He may not wish you to leave!”

“We’re not serfs, we have no land. Ralph cannot forbid us.”

“You’re the son of a serf,” Nathan said to Wulfric.

“But Ralph denied me my inheritance,” Wulfric replied. “He cannot now demand my fealty.”

“It’s a dangerous thing for a poor man to stand on his rights.”

“That’s true,” Wulfric conceded. “But I’m doing it, all the same.”

Nate was beaten. “You shall hear more of this,” he said.

“Would you like me to put the horse to the cart?”

Nate scowled. He could not do it himself. Because of his back, he had difficulty with complicated physical tasks, and the horse was taller than he. “Yes, of course,” he said.

“I’ll be glad to. Would you kindly pay me first?”

Looking furious, Nate took out his purse and counted six silver pennies.

Gwenda took the money and Wulfric hitched up the horse.

Nate drove away without another word.

“Well!” said Gwenda. “That’s done.” She looked at Wulfric. He was smiling broadly. She asked him: “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I feel as if I’ve been wearing a collar for years, and suddenly it’s been taken off.”

“Good.” That was how she wanted him to feel. “Now let’s find a place to stay the night.”

The Old Oak was in a prime position in the market square, and charged top prices. They walked around the little town looking for somewhere cheaper. Eventually they went into the Gate House, where Gwenda negotiated accommodation for the four of them – supper, a mattress on the floor and breakfast – for a penny. The boys would need a decent night’s sleep and some breakfast if they were to walk all morning.

She could hardly sleep for excitement. She was also worried. What was she taking her family to? She had only the word of one man, a stranger, for what they would find when they reached Outhenby. She really ought to have sought confirmation before committing herself.

But she and Wulfric had been stuck in a hole for ten years, and Harry Ploughman of Outhenby was the first person to offer them a way out of it.

The breakfast was meagre: thin porridge and watery cider. Gwenda bought a big loaf of new bread for them to eat on the road, and Wulfric filled his leather flask with cold water from a well. They passed through the city gate an hour after sunrise and set off on the road south.

As they walked, she thought about Joby, her father. As soon as he learned that she had not returned to Wigleigh, he would remember the conversation he had overheard, and he would guess she had gone to Outhenby. He would not be fooled by the story about Melcombe: he was an accomplished deceiver himself, too experienced to be taken in by a simple ruse. But would anyone think to ask him where she had gone? Everyone knew she never spoke to her father. And, if they did ask him, would he blurt out what he suspected? Or would some vestige of paternal feeling cause him to protect her?

There was nothing she could do about it, so she put him out of her mind.

It was good weather for travelling. The ground was soft with recent rain, and there was no dust; but today was a dry day with fitful sunshine, neither cold nor hot. The boys quickly grew tired, especially David, the younger, but Wulfric was good at distracting them with songs and rhymes, quizzing them about the names of trees and plants, playing number games and telling stories.

Gwenda could hardly believe what they had done. This time yesterday, it had looked as if their life would never change: hard work, poverty and frustrated aspirations would be their lot for ever. Now they were on the road to a new life.

She thought of the house where she had lived with Wulfric for ten years. She had not left much behind: a few cooking pots, a stack of newly chopped firewood, half a ham and four blankets. She had no clothes other than what she was wearing, and neither did Wulfric or the boys; no jewellery, ribbons, gloves or combs. Ten years ago, Wulfric had had chickens and pigs in his yard, but they had gradually been eaten or sold during the years of penury. Their meagre possessions could be replaced with a week’s wages at the promised Outhenby rates.

In accordance with Harry’s directions they took the road south to a muddy ford across the Outhen, then turned west and followed the river upstream. As they progressed, the river narrowed, until the land funnelled between two ranges of hills. “Good, fertile soil,” Wulfric said. “It’ll need the heavy plough, though.”

At noon they came to a large village with a stone church. They went to the door of a timber manor house next to the church. With trepidation, Gwenda knocked. Was she about to be told that Harry Ploughman did not know what he was talking about, and there was no work here? Had she made her family walk half a day for nothing? How humiliating it would be to have to return to Wigleigh and beg to be taken on again by Nate Reeve.

A grey-haired woman came to the door. She looked at Gwenda with the suspicious glare that villagers everywhere gave to strangers. “Yes?”

“Good day, mistress,” Gwenda said. “Is this Outhenby?”

“It is.”

“We’re labourers looking for work. Harry Ploughman told us to come here.”

“Did he, now?”

Was there something wrong, Gwenda wondered, or was this woman just a grumpy old cow? She almost asked the question out loud. Stopping herself, she said: “Does Harry live at this house?”

“Certainly not,” the woman replied. “He’s just a ploughman. This is the bailiff’s house.”

Some conflict between bailiff and ploughman, Gwenda guessed. “Perhaps we should see the bailiff, then.”

“He’s not here.”

Patiently, Gwenda said: “Would you be kind enough to tell us where we might find him?”

The woman pointed across the valley. “North Field.”

Gwenda turned to look in the direction indicated. When she turned back, the woman had disappeared into the house.

Wulfric said: “She didn’t seem pleased to see us.”

“Old women hate change,” Gwenda commented. “Let’s find this bailiff.”

“The boys are tired.”

“They can rest soon.”

They set off across the fields. There was plenty of activity on the strips. Children were picking stones off ploughed land, women were sowing seeds and men were carting manure. Gwenda could see the ox team in the distance, eight mighty beasts patiently dragging the plough through the wet, heavy soil.

They came upon a group of men and women trying to move a horse-drawn harrow that had got stuck in a ditch. Gwenda and Wulfric joined in pushing it out. Wulfric’s broad back made the difference, and the harrow was freed.

All the villagers turned and looked at Wulfric. A tall man with an old burn mark disfiguring one side of his face said amiably: “You’re a useful fellow – who are you?”

“I’m Wulfric, and my wife is Gwenda. We’re labourers looking for work.”