There were few moments in a village more public than the reading of the banns.

Three Sundays.

Three opportunities for any soul to speak.

For most couples, it was little more than tradition.

For Thomas Rushworth, it marked the beginning of a week he would never forget.

The bells of Saint Michael's rang across Hall Green as families made their way through the lychgate into the churchyard. Men removed their caps, women gathered their skirts against the damp grass, and children hurried ahead until a sharp glance from their mothers restored a measure of order.

Inside, the familiar scent of old oak, beeswax and damp stone lingered beneath the timbered roof.

Thomas stood beside John Rushworth, his cap clasped tightly between both hands. Across the aisle sat Agnes Hargreaves with her mother. She looked ahead, her face calm, though Thomas noticed she held her prayer book rather more firmly than usual.

The Vicar closed the Book of Common Prayer.

The congregation settled into silence.

Opening the parish register, he looked over the assembled villagers.

"I publish the banns of marriage between Thomas Rushworth of this parish..."

Thomas felt every eye in the church turn towards him.

"...and Agnes Hargreaves of this parish."

A faint murmur drifted amongst the congregation before quickly fading.

"If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first asking."

The silence that followed seemed longer than the Vicar intended.

No voice was raised.

No objection came.

Thomas looked across the aisle.

For only a heartbeat Agnes met his eyes before lowering hers again, the faintest smile touching her lips.

Beside her, Mrs Hargreaves quietly reached for her husband's hand.

John gave Thomas the slightest nod.

The Vicar closed the register.

"Let us continue."

When the service ended, the congregation spilled into the churchyard beneath a warm autumn sun. Neighbours lingered beneath the yew trees exchanging news while children chased one another amongst the gravestones.

Thomas drew a long breath.

"It feels different somehow."

John smiled.

"It should."

He rested a hand upon Thomas's shoulder.

"Come along, lad."

Thomas looked towards the lane leading home.

"We're not going back?"

"Not yet."

"Where then?"

"The manor."

Thomas frowned.

"I thought the banns were the Church's business."

"They are."

John began walking.

"But there's the steward's business as well. The customary fee must be paid and the matter entered upon the manor roll."

Thomas nodded and fell into step beside him.

After a few moments John spoke again.

"And whilst we're there..."

Thomas looked across.

"...we'll report what happened on the road."

The smile left Thomas's face.

"Aye."

"I've been thinking on it every day."

"So have I."

The rest of the walk passed in silence.

The steward received them shortly before noon.

Sunlight streamed through the leaded windows of the great hall, falling across the long oak table where the manor rolls lay neatly arranged.

The steward looked up as they entered.

"Master Rushworth."

"Sir."

John removed a small leather purse from beneath his cloak.

"We've come concerning Thomas's banns."

"The first asking has been read?"

"It has."

John placed the customary fee upon the table.

The steward counted the coins without haste before opening the manor roll. Dipping his quill, he entered the details carefully, then dusted the fresh ink with fine sand.

"It is recorded."

John inclined his head.

"Our thanks."

The steward closed the roll.

"Was there anything further?"

John glanced towards Thomas.

"There is."

Thomas stepped forward.

"It concerns an assault upon William and me."

The steward folded his hands.

"Begin at the beginning."

Thomas told the story from the moment they left the village.

The lonely stretch of road.

The sudden attack.

William struck to the ground.

The threats made against Margery.

The money taken.

The steward interrupted only to clarify a distance or a direction.

When Thomas had finished, the hall fell quiet.

"You say there were two men."

"Aye, sir."

"And you saw them clearly?"

"As clearly as the moon allowed."

The steward studied him.

"Had thee ever seen either man before?"

Thomas opened his mouth to answer.

"No..."

He stopped.

Another memory surfaced.

The King's Arms.

The rat baiting.

The two strangers.

He looked at John.

"I believe I had."

John frowned.

"When?"

"The night of the rat baiting."

"The night I won the silver?"

Thomas nodded slowly.

"When everyone was leaving the King's Arms..."

"...I saw two men leave with you, sir."

The steward neither confirmed nor denied it.

"What did thee observe?"

"The older fellow wore a black patch across his left eye."

"And the younger?"

"Broad through the shoulders."

Thomas searched his memory.

"They weren't dressed alike, yet they moved alike."

"In what way?"

"Like soldiers."

The steward remained silent.

Thomas continued.

"The older one scarcely spoke."

"The younger watched everyone."

"I thought nothing of it then..."

"...but on the road..."

He shook his head.

"I knew I'd seen them before."

John looked at him carefully.

"Thee's certain?"

Thomas answered without hesitation.

"I'd swear before God they were the very same men who attacked William and me."

Silence settled over the hall.

The steward's expression never changed.

At length he rose from his chair.

"I see."

He walked slowly across the room towards the parlour door.

Resting one hand upon the latch, he turned back to face them.

"Master Rushworth..."

Thomas waited.

"If what thee says is true..."

A faint smile crossed the steward's face.

"...then I think it is time thee met Sergeant Richard Fawcett..."

He paused just long enough for the words to settle.

"...and Matthew Sykes."

The latch lifted.

The parlour door began to open.

To be continued...

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                                                             - XXIII -