Cuthbert said: “We can go back to the ferry and return in that.”
Dreng said: “Edgar can pole us.”
“No,” said Edgar. “We’ll be going against the current.” He could do it if he had to, but he saw no reason to. “It will take two menpoling at the same time, and they’ll tire after an hour. We’ll have to take turns.”
Dreng said: “I can’t do it, I’ve got a bad back.”
Degbert said decisively: “We’ve got enough young men to manage it easily.” He glanced up at the sun. “But we’d better get started.” He got to his feet.
The group began its return journey.
Blod had escaped, Edgar thought jubilantly. His ruse had worked. The hue and cry had wasted its energy in a futile journey. She was halfway to Trench by now.
He looked down as he walked, hiding the smile of triumph that kept rising to his lips.
CHAPTER 13
Late October 997
ishop Wynstan was going to be furious, Aldred knew.
The storm broke the day before the wedding. That morning Aldred was summoned by the abbot. The novice who brought the message added that Brother Wigferth of Canterbury had arrived, and Aldred knew right away what this must mean.
The novice found him in the covered walkway that joined the main building of Shiring Abbey to the monks’ church. It was there that Aldred had set up his scriptorium, which was nothing more than three stools and a chest of writing materials. One day, he dreamed, the scriptorium would be a dedicated room, warmed by a fire, where a dozen monks would labor all day at copying and illuminating. Right now he had one assistant, Tatwine, recently augmented by a pimply novice called Eadgar, and the three of them sat on stools and wrote on angled boards that rested on their knees.
Aldred set his work aside to dry, then washed the nib of his quill in a bowl of water and wiped it on the sleeve of his robe. He went to the main building and climbed the exterior staircase to the upstairs level. This was the dormitory, and the abbey servants were shakingmattresses and sweeping the floor. He walked the length of the room and entered the private quarters of Abbot Osmund.
The room managed to combine a bare, utilitarian look with a good deal of discreet comfort. A narrow bed up against the wall had a thick mattress and heavy blankets. There was a plain silver cross on the east wall with a prayer stool facing it, and a velvet cushion on the floor, worn and faded but well stuffed to protect Osmund’s old knees. The stone jug on the table contained red wine, not ale, and there was a wedge of cheese beside it.
Osmund was not an enthusiast for the mortification of the flesh, as anyone could tell by looking at him. Although he wore the coarse black robe of the monastery, and his head was shaved in the approved monkish tonsure, nevertheless he was pink-faced and rotund, and his shoes were made of furry squirrel skins.
Treasurer Hildred was beside Osmund. This setup was familiar to Aldred. Previously it had signified that Hildred disapproved of something Aldred was doing—usually because it cost money—and had persuaded Osmund to issue a reproof. Now Aldred looked keenly at Hildred’s thin face, with the sunken cheeks that looked dark even when freshly shaved, and noted that Hildred was not wearing the smug look that would have suggested he was about to spring a trap. In fact he looked almost benign.
The third monk in the room wore a robe soiled with the mud of a long journey in an English October. “Brother Wigferth!” said Aldred. “I’m glad to see you.” They had been novices together at Glastonbury, though Wigferth had looked different then: over the years the face had rounded out, the chin stubble had thickened, and the lean body had grown stout. Wigferth was a frequent visitor to the region, and it was rumored that he had a mistress in the villageof Trench. He was the archbishop’s messenger, and collected rents due to the Canterbury monks.
Osmund said: “Wigferth brings us a letter from Elfric.”
“Good!” said Aldred, though he also felt a shiver of trepidation.
Elfric was the archbishop of Canterbury, the leader of the Christian Church in the southern half of England. He had formerly been the bishop of Ramsbury, not far from Shiring, and Osmund knew him well.
Osmund picked up a sheet of parchment from the table and read aloud. “Thank you for your report on the distressing situation at Dreng’s Ferry.”
Aldred had written that report, though Osmund had signed it. Aldred had detailed the crumbling church, the perfunctory services, and the luxurious home of the married priests. Aldred had also written privately to Wigferth about Dreng, whose two wives and slave prostitute were condoned by his brother, Dean Degbert.
It was this letter that was going to infuriate Bishop Wynstan when he heard about it, for Wynstan had appointed Degbert, who was his cousin. That was why Osmund had decided to complain directly to Archbishop Elfric: there was no point in talking to Wynstan.
Osmund read on: “You say the problem can best be remedied by dismissing Degbert and his clergy and replacing them with monks.”
This, too, had been Aldred’s suggestion, but it was not an original idea. Elfric himself had done something similar when he arrived at Canterbury, expelling indolent priests and bringing in disciplined monks. Aldred had high hopes that Elfric would agree to do the same at Dreng’s Ferry.
“I agree with your proposal,” Osmund read.
“Excellent news!” Aldred said.
“The new monastery will be a cell of Shiring Abbey, with a prior under the authority of the abbot of Shiring.”
That had also been suggested by Aldred. He was pleased. The minster at Dreng’s Ferry was an abomination and now it had been condemned.
