Wynstan reddened with anger and his eyes seemed to bulge. Aldred almost stepped back a pace, but forced himself to stand his ground. He saw Cnebba’s hand go to his sword.

Behind Aldred, Abbot Osmund spoke from the altar in a voice shaky but determined. “You’d better not draw that sword in church, Cnebba, unless you want God’s eternal curse on your mortal soul.”

Cnebba paled, and his hand flew up as if the sword hilt had burned him.

Perhaps Osmund was not completely without courage, Aldred thought.

Wynstan had lost a little of his momentum. His rage was formidable, but the monks had not succumbed.

Wynstan turned his furious gaze on the abbot. “Osmund,” he said, “how dare you complain to the archbishop about a minster that comes under my authority? You’ve never even been there!”

“But I have,” said Aldred. “With my own eyes I witnessed the depravity and sin of the church at Dreng’s Ferry. It was my duty to report what I had seen.”

“You shut your mouth, lad,” said Wynstan, although he was only a couple of years older. “I’m talking to the sorcerer, not the sorcerer’s cat. It’s your abbot, not you, who is trying to seize my minster and add it to his empire.”

Osmund said: “The minster belongs to God, not men.”

It was another brave riposte, and another blow to Wynstan. Aldred began to believe that Wynstan might have to go away with his tail between his legs.

But defeat in argument only made Wynstan more threatening. “God has entrusted the minster to me,” he roared. He stepped toward Osmund, and Osmund flinched back. “Now you listen to me, abbot. I will not permit you to take over the church at Dreng’s Ferry.”

Osmund’s reply was defiant, but his voice was shaky. “The decision has been made.”

“But I will fight it in the shire court.”

Osmund quailed. “That would be unseemly,” he said. “A public dispute between the two leading men of God in Shiring.”

“You should have thought of that before you wrote a sneaky, underhand letter to the archbishop of Canterbury.”

“You must submit to his authority.”

“But I won’t. If necessary I will go to Canterbury and report your sins there.”

“Archbishop Elfric already knows my sins, such as they are.”

“I bet I can think of a few he hasn’t heard about.”

Osmund did not have any serious sins, Aldred knew; but Wynstan would probably invent some, and even get people to swear to them, if it suited his purpose.

Osmund said: “It would be wrong of you to defy your archbishop’s will.”

“It was wrong of you to force me to this extreme.”

And that was the puzzling thing, Aldred thought. Wynstan had not been forced into anything. Dreng’s Ferry seemed unimportant. Aldred had felt sure it was not worth fighting about. But that had been a mistake: Wynstan was ready to go to war.

Why? The minster paid Wynstan some of its earnings, though that could not be much. It gave Degbert a job, but not a very prestigious one. Degbert was not even a close relative, and anyway Wynstan could easily find him another post.

So what was so important about Dreng’s Ferry?

Wynstan was still raving. “This struggle will go on for years—unless you do the sensible thing today, Osmund, and back down.”

“What do you mean?”

“Write a reply to Elfric.” Wynstan’s tone become almost a parody of reasonableness. “Say that, in a Christian spirit, you do not wish to quarrel with your brother in Christ the bishop of Shiring, who has sincerely promised to put matters right at Dreng’s Ferry.”

Wynstan had made no such promise, Aldred noted.

Wynstan went on: “Explain that Elfric’s decision threatens to cause a scandal in the shire, and you do not think the little minster merits such upheaval.”

Osmund hesitated.

Aldred said indignantly: “God’s work always merits upheaval. Our Lord did not hesitate to cause a scandal when he threw the money changers out of the temple. The Gospel—”

This time it was Osmund who shut him up. “Leave this to your elders,” he snapped.

Wynstan said: “Yes, Aldred, keep your mouth shut. You’ve done enough damage.”

Aldred bowed his head, but inside he was boiling. Osmund had no need to back down—he had the archbishop on his side!

Osmund said to Wynstan: “I will consider your complaint prayerfully.”

That was not enough for Wynstan. “I’m going to write to Elfric today,” he said. “I shall tell him that his suggestion—his suggestion—is not welcome; that you and I have discussed the matter; and that I believe you agree with me, on mature reflection, that the minster should not become a monastery at this moment in time.”

“I’ve told you,” Osmund said peevishly. “I shall think about it.”

Wynstan ignored that, sensing that Osmund was weakening. “Brother Wigferth can take my letter with him.” He stared at the rows of monks, not knowing which one was Wigferth. “And by the way, if by any chance my letter should fail to reach the archbishop, I will personally take off Wigferth’s balls with a rusty knife.”

The monks were shocked to hear such violent language.

Osmund said: “Leave our church now, bishop, before you further besmear the House of God.”

“Write your letter, Osmund,” said Wynstan. “Tell Archbishop Elfric that you’ve changed your mind. Otherwise you’ll hear worse.” With that Wynstan turned and strode out of the church.

He thinks he’s won, Aldred said to himself.

And I think so, too.

CHAPTER 14

    November 1, 997

agna married Wilf on All Saints’ Day, the first of November, a day of alternating sunshine and showers of rain.

The compound was familiar to Ragna now. It smelled of stables, unwashed men, and fish being boiled in the kitchen. It was noisy: dogs barked, children screeched, men yelled, and women cackled; the blacksmith hammered out horseshoes and the carpenters split tree trunks with their axes. The west wind blew the clouds across the sky, and the shadows of clouds chased one another over the thatched roofs.

Ragna took breakfast in her house, with just her servants present. She needed a peaceful morning to prepare herself for the ceremony. She felt nervous about how she would look and whether she would play her part correctly. She wanted everything to be perfect for Wilf.

She had been desperately impatient for this day to come, and now she longed for it to be over. Pageantry and ritual were commonplace in her life; what she needed was to lie down with her husband at night. She had resisted the temptation to anticipate the wedding, but it had been a strain. However, she was glad now that she had been firm, for Wilf’s desire for her had become stronger every day he waited. She saw it in his eyes, and the way his hand lingered on her arm, and the yearning in his goodnight kiss.

They had spent many hours together just talking. He had told her about his childhood, the death of his mother, the shock of his father’s remarriage to Gytha, and the arrival in his life of two younger half brothers.

However, he did not like to answer questions. She had discovered this when she asked him about his quarrel with King Ethelred. It was an offense to his pride to be interrogated like a prisoner of war.

Ragna and Wilf had hunted together once, in the forest between Shiring and Dreng’s Ferry. They had stayed overnight in Wilf’s hunting lodge, remote and isolated, with stables, kennels, stores, and a large house where everyone slept in the rushes on the floor. That evening Wilf had talked at length about his father, who had also been ealdorman of Shiring. The position was not hereditary, and as Wilf had recounted the power struggle that had followed his father’s death, Ragna had learned a good deal about English politics.

Now, on the day of her wedding, she was glad she knew Wilf so much better than she had when she arrived in Shiring.

She had wanted a peaceful morning today, but she did not get it. Her first visitor was Bishop Wynstan, his cloak dripping with rain. He was followed in by Cnebba carrying a stilyard, a straight-beam balance, plus a small box probably containing weights.

Ragna was polite. “Good morning, my lord bishop, I hope I see you in good health.”

Wynstan took the courtesies as read and got right down to business. “I’m here to check your dowry.”

“Very well.” Ragna had been expecting this, and became alert for any tricks Wynstan might be up to.

Hanging from the rafters were several ropes used for various purposes, including keeping food out of the reach of mice. Cnebba now attached the stilyard to one such rope.

The iron bar of the balance had two unequal sides: the shorter side had a hanging tray in which to place the item to be weighed, and the longer bore a weight that could slide along a graduated scale. With nothing in the tray and the sliding weight at the innermost mark, the two sides balanced and the bar swung gently in the air.