The Evening and the Morning

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 shaking mattresses 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 village of 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.

“Brother Wigferth also carries a letter to our brother in Christ Wynstan, telling him of my decision, as Dreng’s Ferry comes within his bishopric.”

Aldred said: “Wynstan’s reaction is going to be interesting.”

Hildred said: “He will be displeased.”

“To say the least.”

“But Elfric is the archbishop, and Wynstan must bow to his authority.” For Hildred, a rule was a rule, and that was the end of the matter.

Aldred said: “Wynstan thinks everyone should follow the rules—except himself.”

“True, but he also has a keen sense of church politics,” said Osmund comfortably. “I can’t imagine he’ll pick a quarrel with his archbishop over a hole in the wall like Dreng’s Ferry. If there were more at stake it might be a different matter.”

Aldred hoped he was right.

He said to Wigferth: “I’ll walk you over to the bishop’s palace.”

They went down the outside staircase. “Thank you for this news!” said Aldred as they crossed the square that formed the center of the town. “That dreadful minster made me angry.”

“The archbishop felt the same way when he heard about it.”

They passed Shiring Cathedral, a typical large English church with small windows set high in its thick walls. Next to it was Bishop Wynstan’s residence: this and the monastery were the only two-story edifices in Shiring. Aldred knocked at the door and a young clergyman appeared. Aldred said: “This is Brother Wigferth, come from Canterbury with a letter from Archbishop Elfric to Bishop Wynstan.”

The clergyman said: “The bishop is out, but you can give the letter to me.”

Aldred remembered the young man’s name: Ithamar. He was a deacon and served as a secretary to Wynstan. He had a baby face and ash-blond hair, but Aldred felt sure he was no innocent. He said severely: “Ithamar, this man is a messenger from your master’s master. You must welcome him, invite him in, offer him food and drink, and ask if there is any other service you can do for him.”

Ithamar shot him a look of poisonous resentment, but he knew Aldred was right, and after a pause he said: “Please come in, Brother Wigferth.”

Wigferth remained where he stood and said: “How long do you think Bishop Wynstan will be away from home?”

“An hour or two.”

“I’ll wait.” Wigferth turned to Aldred. “I’ll return as soon as I’ve delivered the letter. I prefer to sleep at the abbey.”

Good decision, Aldred thought; life at a bishop’s residence might offer temptations that a monk would prefer not to struggle with.

They parted. Aldred turned back toward the abbey, then hesitated. It was past time he paid a call on Ealdorman Wilwulf’s bride-to-be. The lady Ragna had been welcoming to Aldred at Cherbourg and he wanted to do the same for her in Shiring. If he went now he could wish her well for the wedding.

He headed on through the stores and workshops of the town center.

The rapidly growing town of Shiring existed to serve three establishments: the ealdorman’s compound, with its men-at-arms and hangers-on; the cathedral and bishop’s palace, with priests and servants; and the abbey, with monks and lay brothers. The tradesmen included makers of pots, buckets, table knives, and other domestic hardware; weavers and tailors; saddlers and harness makers; woodcutters and carpenters; armorers making mail, swords, and helmets; bowyers and fletchers; dairymaids, bakers, brewers; and slaughterers who provided everyone else with meat.

But the most lucrative industry was embroidery. A dozen women in the town spent their days interlacing designs in colored wool on sheets of pale linen. Their work usually depicted Bible stories and scenes from the lives of the saints, often decorated with strange birds and abstract borders. The linen, or sometimes pale wool, was eventually incorporated into priestly vestments and royal robes, and sold all over Europe.

Aldred was well known, and folk greeted him on the street. He was obliged to stop and talk to several individuals on his way: a weaver who leased his house from the abbey and was behind with his rent; Abbot Osmund’s wine supplier, who had trouble getting money out of Treasurer Hildred; and a woman who wanted the monks to pray for her sick daughter, because everyone knew that the prayers of celibate monks were more efficacious than those of regular priests.

When finally he reached the compound, he found it busy with preparations for the wedding. The gateway was jammed with carts delivering barrels of ale and sacks of flour. Servants were setting up long lines of trestle tables outside: clearly there would be too many guests for them all to dine in the great hall. A butcher was slaughtering animals ready for the spit, and an ox hung by its hind legs from a stout oak tree, hot blood from its mighty neck splashing into a barrel.

Aldred found Ragna in the house that had formerly been occupied by the youngest of the three brothers, Wigelm. The door was open. Ragna was there with three of her servants from Cherbourg: the pretty maid, Cat; the seamstress, Agnes; and the red-bearded bodyguard called Bern. Also present was Offa, the reeve of Mudeford, and Aldred wondered briefly what he was doing there, but quickly turned his attention to Ragna. With her two maids she was examining silk slippers of different colors, but she looked up and smiled broadly as she recognized Aldred.

“Welcome to England,” he said. “I’ve come to see if you’re settling into your new home.”

“There’s so much to do!” she said. “But it’s all exciting.”

He studied her animated face. He recalled thinking that she was beautiful, but the memory was a pale imitation of the real thing. His mind had not retained the unique sea-green color of her eyes, the graceful curve of her high cheekbones, or the luxuriant thickness of her red-gold hair, peeping out now from beneath a brown silk head scarf. Unlike most men he was not led to the sin of lust by the allure of women’s breasts, but even he could see that she had a marvelous figure.

He said: “And how do you feel about the wedding?”

“Impatient!” she said, and then she blushed.

Aldred thought: So that’s all right, then. “I expect Wilf is impatient, too,” he said.

“He wants a son,” Ragna said.

Aldred changed the subject to save her blushes. “I imagine Wigelm was displeased to be ousted from his house.”

“He could hardly claim priority over the ealdorman’s bride,” Ragna said. “Besides, he’s on his own—his wife is still at Combe—so he doesn’t really need it.”

Aldred looked around. The house was a high-quality timber construction, but not as comfortable as it might have been. Wooden houses needed major repairs after about twenty years and fell apart completely after fifty. He could see a misaligned shutter at the window, a bench with a broken leg, and a leak in the roof. “You need a carpenter in here,” he said.

She sighed. “They’re all busy making benches and tables for the wedding. And the head carpenter, Dunnere, is usually drunk by afternoon.”

Aldred frowned. The ealdorman’s bride surely ought to have priority. “Can’t you get rid of Dunnere?”

“He’s Gytha’s nephew. But yes, shaking up the maintenance crew here is high on my list.”

“There was a boy at Dreng’s Ferry who seemed to be a good craftsman: Edgar.”

“I remember him. Could I ask him to fix up this house?”

“You don’t need to ask when you can command. Edgar’s master is Dreng, Wilwulf’s cousin. Just order Dreng to send his servant to you.”

She smiled. “I’m still not sure what I’m entitled to here. But I’ll take your advice.”

A vague thought was nagging at Aldred. He had the sense that Ragna had said something important, but he had missed its significance. Now he could not recall it.

He said: “How do you like Wilwulf’s family?”

“I’ve talked to Gytha, and she has accepted that I’m to be mistress here; but I have a lot to learn and I wish I could depend on her help.”

“I feel sure you’ll win everyone’s affection. I’ve seen you do it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

She was wary, but nevertheless Aldred was not sure she fully understood what she had let herself in for. He said: “It’s unusual for two brothers to be bishop and ealdorman in the same territory. It gives a great deal of power to one family.”

“It makes sense. Wilf needs someone he can trust as bishop.”

Aldred hesitated. “I wouldn’t say he exactly trusts Wynstan.”

Ragna looked interested.

Aldred had to be careful of his words. To him, Wilwulf and his family were wild cats in a cage, always on the brink of attacking one another, kept from violence only by self-interest; but he did not want to say so bluntly to Ragna, for fear of demoralizing her. He needed to warn her without scaring her. “I’d say his brothers are less likely to surprise him, that’s all.”

“The king must like the family, to have given them such power.”

“Perhaps he did, once.”

“What do you mean?”

She did not know, Aldred realized. “Wilwulf is out of favor with King Ethelred because of the treaty with your father. He should have asked the king’s permission.”

“He told us that permission would be readily forthcoming.”

“It wasn’t.”

“My father was worried about that. Was Wilf punished?”

“He was fined by the king. But he hasn’t paid the fine. He thinks Ethelred is being unreasonable.”

“What will happen?”

“Nothing much, in the short term. If a nobleman boldly defies the royal court, there’s not much a king can do immediately. In the long run, who knows?”

“Is there anyone who acts as a counterbalance to the family’s power? Any post Wilf was unable to fill with his own appointee?”

It was the key question, and Ragna went up in Aldred’s estimation for asking it. She had learned everything her father had to teach her, Aldred guessed, and perhaps she had even added wisdom of her own. “Yes,” he said. “The sheriff, Denewald.”

“Sheriff? We don’t have such a thing in Normandy.”

“He’s the shire reeve, the king’s representative in the locality. Wilwulf wanted Wigelm to have the job, but King Ethelred refused and put in his own man. They may call him Ethelred the Misled, but he’s not completely stupid.”

“Is it an important role?”

“Sheriffs have recently grown more powerful.”

“How come?”

“It has to do with the Vikings. Twice in the last six years Ethelred has bought off a Viking invasion with a cash payment—but it’s hugely expensive. Six years ago he paid ten thousand pounds; three years ago it was sixteen thousand.”

“We heard about that in Normandy. My father said it was like feeding a lion in the hope that it would stop him eating you.”

“Many people here said something similar.”

“But how did it make sheriffs powerful?”

“They had to collect the money. That meant they had to have the power of enforcement. A sheriff now has his own military force, small but well paid and well armed.”

“And that makes him a countervailing power to Wilf.”

“Exactly.”

“Doesn’t the sheriff’s role clash with that of the ealdorman?”

“All the time. The ealdorman is responsible for justice, but the sheriff must deal with offenses against the king, which include not paying tax. Obviously there are borderline cases that cause friction.”

“How interesting.”

She was like a musician putting her fingers on the strings of a lyre, Aldred thought, trying it out before playing it. She was going to be a force in the region. She might do a lot of good. On the other hand, she might be destroyed.

If Aldred could help her he would. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you,” he said. “Come to the abbey.” It occurred to him that the sight of a woman like Ragna might be more than some of the young monks could bear. “Or just send a message.”

“Thank you.”

As he turned to the door, his eye was again caught by the large frame and busted nose of Offa. As a minor servant of the ealdorman, the reeve had a house in the town, but as far as Aldred knew he had no business with Ragna.

She saw his glance and said: “Do you know Offa, the reeve of Mudeford?”

“Yes, of course.” Aldred saw Ragna glance at Agnes, who dropped her eyes shyly, and he saw immediately that Offa was there to court Agnes, evidently with Ragna’s approval. Perhaps Ragna was keen for some of her servants to put down roots in England.

He took his leave and walked out of the compound. In the center of the town, crossing the square between the cathedral and the abbey church, he ran into Wigferth emerging from the bishop’s residence. “Did you deliver the letter to Wynstan?” he said.

“Yes, a few moments ago.”

“Did he boil over?”

“He took the letter and said he would read it later.”

“Hmm.” Aldred almost wished Wynstan had raged: the suspense was becoming unbearable.

The two monks returned to the abbey. The kitchener was serving the midday meal: eel boiled with onions and beans. While they were eating, Brother Godleof read the prologue to the Rule of Saint Benedict: “Obsculta, o fili, praecepta magistri, et incline aurem cordis tui.” Listen, my son, and turn the ear of your heart to the precepts of your master. Aldred loved the phrase aurem cordis, the ear of the heart. It suggested a way of listening more intense and thoughtful than the norm.

Afterward, the monks filed along the covered walkway to the church for the afternoon service of Nones. It was larger than the church at Dreng’s Ferry, but smaller than Shiring Cathedral. It consisted of two rooms, a nave about twelve yards long, and a smaller chancel, separated by a narrow arch. The monks entered by a side door. The senior men went into the chancel and took their places around the altar, while the rest stood in three neat rows in the nave, where the congregation would also stand, though there was rarely much of a congregation.

As Aldred stood alongside his brethren, chanting the prayers, he began to feel at peace with himself, with the world, and with God. On his travels he had missed this.

However, today the peace did not last long.

A few minutes into the service he heard the opening creak of the west door, the main entrance that was rarely used. All the younger monks turned to see who was coming in. Aldred recognized the pale-blond hair of Bishop Wynstan’s young secretary, Deacon Ithamar.

The older monks determinedly carried on with the prayer. Aldred decided that someone had to find out what Ithamar wanted. He stepped out of the line and spoke to Ithamar in a whisper. “What is it?”

The deacon looked nervous but spoke loudly. “Bishop Wynstan summons Wigferth of Canterbury.”

Aldred involuntarily glanced at Wigferth, who looked back with a frightened expression on his chubby face. Aldred was scared himself, but decided he was not going to let Wigferth go alone to confront an angry Wynstan: there were still men who responded to an unwelcome message by sending back the messenger’s head in a sack. For Wynstan to do such a thing was unlikely, but not impossible.

Aldred faked a confident tone. “Be so good as to apologize to the bishop and say that Brother Wigferth is at prayer.”

Ithamar clearly did not want to return with that reply. “The bishop will not be pleased to be told to wait.”

Aldred knew that. He kept his voice calm and reasonable. “I’m sure Wynstan would not want to interrupt a man of God at prayer.”

Ithamar’s expression said clearly that Wynstan had no such scruples, but the young deacon hesitated to voice the thought.

Not all monks were priests, but Aldred was both, and he outranked Ithamar, who was merely a deacon, so Ithamar had to give in to him sooner or later. After a long moment of thought Ithamar came to the same conclusion and reluctantly left the church.

First blood to the monks, Aldred thought giddily. But his feeling of triumph was muted by the thought that this was surely not over.

He returned to prayer, but his mind was elsewhere. What would happen after the service, when Wigferth would no longer have an excuse? Would Aldred and Wigferth go to the bishop’s palace together? Aldred was not suited to the role of bodyguard, but perhaps he was better than nothing. Could he persuade Abbot Osmund to accompany them? Wynstan would surely hesitate to molest an abbot. On the other hand, Osmund was not a brave man. It would be typical of Osmund to say pusillanimously that Elfric of Canterbury had written the message and sent Wigferth, so it was up to Elfric to protect his messenger.

However, the explosion came sooner.

The main door opened again, this time with a bang. The chanting stopped instantly, and every monk turned to look behind. Bishop Wynstan strode in, his cloak flying. He was followed by Cnebba, one of his men-at-arms. Wynstan was a big man, but Cnebba was bigger.

Aldred was terrified, but he managed to hide it.

Wynstan roared: “Which one of you is Wigferth of Canterbury?”

Aldred could not have said why, but he was the one who stepped forward to confront Wynstan. “My lord bishop,” he said, “you are interrupting the monks at the service of Nones.”

“I’ll interrupt whoever I like,” Wynstan shouted.

“Even God?” said Aldred.

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.