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The town has changed almost beyond recognition, but the Abbey looks much as it did all those years ago. I turn towards Ophelia, who has been watching me from the opposite seat, and she offers me a small, rather uncertain smile.

“Just here, please!” she calls to the driver.

The carriage draws to a halt beside the churchyard, but I remain where I am as Ophelia steps out, my attention still fixed upon the Abbey. She leans back through the open doorway and offers me her hand, which I accept as I climb down beside her.

“Ophelia,” I murmur, looking towards the great tower once more. “Why have you brought me here?”

“You'll see,” she says softly.

Ophelia keeps hold of my hand as we pass through the churchyard gates and follow the narrow path beneath the ancient yews.

As we make our way between the weather-worn headstones, my unease grows until I can no longer bring myself to follow her in silence. Beneath the spreading branches of an old yew, I gently catch her arm, bringing us both to a halt.

“Ophelia,” I murmur, “will you please tell me why we are here?”

She worries her lower lip for a moment, then draws a deep breath and reaches into her satchel, rummaging until she pulls out a small bundle of papers tied with a faded ribbon.

“Now, it isn't everything,” she tells me rather hastily, clutching the bundle against her chest. “There are quite a few gaps, and trying to make sense of those old monastic records has been an absolute bloody nightmare. I just want you to understand that before you look.”

I glance from the worn papers to her face. “What records?”

“Mostly copies. A few transcriptions, some old land deeds. Whatever I could get my hands on, really.” She swallows hard and hands them over. “I tried to find everything, Iscairn. I really did. But there's only so much left after all these years, and I couldn't bear the thought of bringing you here only to discover I'd got it wrong. Please. Just read them.”

The ribbon comes loose beneath my fingers, and I carefully unfold the papers, their worn edges rustling in the morning breeze. Her familiar, untidy handwriting fills the margins, with little notes explaining where the original Latin has been damaged or proved difficult to decipher.

I turn to the first page, and my lungs falter.

Extract from a deed recorded at Tewkesbury Abbey.

Translated from the Latin, Anno Domini 1211.

Let it be known that Geoffrey of Ashchurch has granted unto William, son of Hugh, a parcel of meadow lying beside the millstream, bounded to the east by the old willow and to the south by the lands belonging to the Abbey.

The said land shall pass with all rights of grazing and passage, according to the customs of the manor.

This grant is made with the consent of Margery, wife of the aforesaid Geoffrey, formerly wife of Iscairn Gillard, physician of Winchcombe in the county of Gloucester.

I look from the paper to Ophelia, my throat tightening as I read Margery's name again. She had married another man. I am glad of it. Truly. I hope Geoffrey was kind to her, that he cared for our children and gave them the peaceful life they deserved after that dreadful winter.

“There's more,” Ophelia whispers. “Keep going.”

I turn to the next page.

Extract from a marriage settlement recorded at Tewkesbury Abbey.

Translated from the Latin, Anno Domini 1219.

Let it be known that Geoffrey of Ashchurch has granted unto Edmund, son of Walter of Bredon, two acres of arable land lying within the manor of Ashchurch, together with the rights and customary privileges belonging thereto.

The said land is granted upon the marriage of the aforesaid Edmund to Avis, daughter of Margery, wife of the said Geoffrey, and of the late Iscairn Gillard, physician of Winchcombe.

The paper trembles between my fingers.

My little Avis.

I stumble backwards against the trunk of the yew, staring at her name through gathering tears. I try to imagine her on her wedding day, perhaps with flowers in her hair, as Margery did when we married, but the only face I can summon is that of the little girl I carried through the rain.

I blink the tears from my eyes and turn through the remaining papers, following Ophelia's little notes in the margins as they lead me from one record to another, until I reach a transcription from an old manorial roll.