Aldred was too angry to continue the discussion. He found Dreng loathsome. To avoid losing his temper he went outside. He headed along the riverbank, trying to walk off his mood.

Where the cultivated land came to an end there was a farmhouse and barn, both old and much repaired. Aldred saw a group sitting outside the house: three young men and an older woman—a family with no father, he guessed. He hesitated to approach them for fear that all the residents of Dreng’s Ferry might be like Dreng. He was about to turn and walk back when one of them gave a cheery wave.

If they waved to strangers, perhaps they were all right.

Aldred walked up a slope to the house. The family evidently had no furniture, for they were sitting on the ground to eat their evening meal. The three boys were not tall, but broad-shouldered and deep-chested. The mother was a tired woman with a resolute look. The faces of all four were lean, as if they did not eat much. A brown-and-white dog sat with them; it, too, was thin.

The woman spoke first. “Sit with us and rest your legs, if you’re so inclined,” she said. “I am Mildred.” She pointed out the boys, eldest to youngest. “My sons are Erman, Eadbald, and Edgar. Our supper isn’t fancy, but you’re welcome to share it.”

Their meal certainly was not fancy. They had a loaf of bread and a large pot containing lightly boiled forest vegetables, probably lettuce, onions, parsley, and wild garlic. No meat was visible. It was no wonder they did not get fat. Aldred was hungry, but he could not take food from people who were so desperately poor. He refused politely. “It smells tempting, but I’m not hungry, and monks must avoid the sin of gluttony. However, I will sit with you, and thank you for your welcome.”

He sat on the ground, something monks did not often do, despite their vows. There was poverty, Aldred thought, and then there was real poverty.

Making conversation, he said: “The grass looks almost ready to reap. You’ll have a good harvest of hay in a few days’ time.”

Mildred answered. “I wasn’t sure we’d be able to make hay, because the riverside land is almost too marshy, but it dried up in the hot weather. I hope it does the same every year.”

“Are you new here, then?” Aldred asked.

“Yes,” she said. “We came from Combe.”

Aldred could guess why they had left. “You must have suffered in the Viking raid. I saw the devastation when I passed through the town the day before yesterday.”

Edgar, the youngest of the brothers, spoke. He looked about eighteen, with only the pale soft hair of an adolescent on his chin. “We lost everything,” he said. “My father was a boatbuilder. They killed him. Our stock of timber was burned and our tools were ruined. So we’ve had to make a completely new start.”

Aldred studied the young man with interest. Perhaps he was not handsome, but there was something appealing about his looks. Although the conversation was informal, his sentences were clear and logical. Aldred found himself drawn to Edgar. Get a grip on yourself, he thought. The sin of lust was more difficult to avoid than the sin of gluttony, for Aldred.

He asked Edgar: “And how are you getting on in your new life?”

“We’ll be able to sell the hay, provided it doesn’t rain in the next few days, and then we’ll have some money at last. We’ve got oats ripening on the higher ground. And we have a piglet and a lamb. We should get through the winter.”

All peasants lived in such insecurity, never sure that this year’s harvest would be enough to keep them alive until next year’s. Mildred’s family were better off than some. “Perhaps you were lucky to get this place.”

Mildred said crisply: “We’ll see.”

Aldred said: “How did it happen that you came to Dreng’s Ferry?”

“We were offered this farm by the bishop of Shiring.”

“Wynstan?” Aldred knew the bishop, of course, and had a low opinion of him.

“Our landlord is Degbert Baldhead, the dean at the minster, who is the bishop’s cousin.”

“Fascinating.” Aldred was beginning to understand Dreng’s Ferry. Degbert and Dreng were brothers, and Wynstan was their cousin. They made a sinister little trio. “Does Wynstan ever come here?”

“He visited soon after Midsummer.”

Edgar put in: “Two weeks after Midsummer Day.”

Mildred went on: “He gave a lamb to every house in the village. That’s how we got ours.”

“The bountiful bishop,” Aldred mused.

Mildred was quick to pick up his undertone. “You sound skeptical,” she said. “You don’t believe in his kindness?”

“I’ve never known him to do good without an ulterior motive. You’re not looking at one of Wynstan’s admirers.”

Mildred smiled. “No argument here.”

Another of the boys spoke. It was Eadbald, the middle son, with the freckled face. His voice was deep and resonant. “Edgar killed a Viking,” he said.

The eldest, Erman, put in: “He says he did.”

Aldred said to Edgar: “Did you kill a Viking?”

“I went up behind him,” Edgar said. “He was struggling with . . . a woman. He didn’t see me until it was too late.”

“And the woman?” Aldred had noticed the hesitation and guessed she was someone special.

“The Viking threw her to the ground just before I struck him. She hit her head on a stone step. I was too late to save her. She died.” Edgar’s rather lovely hazel eyes filled with tears.

“What was her name?”

“Sungifu.” It came in a whisper.

“I will pray for her soul.”

“Thank you.”

It was clear Edgar had loved her. Aldred pitied him. He also felt relieved: a boy who could love a woman that much was unlikely to sin with another man. Aldred might be tempted, but Edgar would not. Aldred could stop worrying.

Eadbald, the freckled one, spoke again. “The dean hates Edgar,” he said.

Aldred said: “Why?”

Edgar said: “I argued with him.”

“And you won the argument, I suppose, thereby annoying him.”

“He said that we are in the year nine hundred and ninety-seven, so that means Jesus is nine hundred and ninety-seven years old. I pointed out that if Jesus was born in the year one, his first birthday would fall in the year two, and he would be nine hundred and ninety-six next Christmas. It’s simple. But Degbert said I was an arrogant young pup.”

Aldred laughed. “Degbert was wrong, though it’s a mistake others have made.”

Mildred said disapprovingly: “You don’t argue with priests, even when they’re wrong.”

“Especially when they’re wrong.” Aldred got to his feet. “It’s getting dark. I’d better return to the minster while there’s still some light, or I might fall in the river on my way. I’ve enjoyed meeting you all.”

He took his leave and headed back along the riverbank. He felt relieved to have met some likable people in this unlovable place.

He was going to spend the night at the minster. He went into the alehouse and picked up his box and his saddlebag. He spoke politely to Dreng but did not stay to chat. He led Dismas up the hill.

The first house he came to was a small building on a large lot. Its door stood open, as doors generally did at this time of year, and Aldred looked in. A fat woman of about forty was sitting near the entrance with a square of leather in her lap, sewing a shoe in the light from the window. She looked up and said: “Who are you?”

“Aldred, a monk of Shiring Abbey, looking for Dean Degbert.”

“Degbert Baldhead lives the other side of the church.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Bebbe.”

Like the alehouse, this place showed signs of prosperity. Bebbe had a cheese safe, a box with muslin sides to let air in and keep mice out. On a table beside her was a wooden cup and a small pottery jug that looked as if it might contain wine. A heavy wool blanket hung from a hook. “This hamlet seems well off,” Aldred said.

“Not very,” Bebbe said quickly. After a moment’s reflection she added: “Though the minster spreads its wealth a little.”

“And where does the minster’s wealth come from?”

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you? Who sent you to spy on us?”

“Spy?” he said in surprise. “Who would trouble to spy on a little hamlet in the middle of nowhere?”

“Well, then, you shouldn’t be so nosy.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Aldred left her.

He walked up the hill to the church and saw, on its east side, a large house that must be the residence of the clergy. He noticed that some kind of workshop had been built at the back, up against the end wall. Its door was open and there was a fire blazing inside. It looked like a smithy, but it was too small: a blacksmith needed more space.