The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 27 April 1001

rior Aldred had high hopes of Thane Deorman of Norwood. Deorman was rich. Norwood was a market town, and a market was always a big earner. And Deorman’s wife of many years had died a month ago. That would have put the thane in mind of the afterlife. The death of someone close often prompted a nobleman to make a pious donation.

Aldred needed donations. The priory was not as poor as it had been three years ago—it had three horses, a flock of sheep, and a small herd of milk cows—but Aldred had ambitions. He accepted that he would never take charge of Shiring Abbey, but he now believed he might turn the priory into a center of learning. For that he needed more than a few hamlets. He had to win something big, a prosperous village or a small town, or some moneymaking enterprise such as a port or the fishing rights to a river.

Thane Deorman’s great hall was richly furnished with wall hangings and blankets and cushions. His servants were preparing the table for a lavish midday meal, and there was a powerful aroma of roasting meat. Deorman was a middle-aged man with failing eyesight, unable to join Wilwulf in fighting the Vikings. Nevertheless, with him he had two women in brightly colored dresses who seemed too fond to be merely servants, and Aldred wondered disapprovingly what their exact status was. At least six small children ran in and out of the house, playing some game that involved much high-pitched squealing.

Deorman ignored the children and did not respond to the women’s touches and smiles, but gave his affection to a large black dog that sat beside him.

Aldred got right to the point. “I was sorry to hear of the death of your dear wife, Godgifu. May her soul rest in peace.”

“Thank you,” said Deorman. “I have two other women, but Godgifu was with me for thirty years, and I miss her.”

Aldred did not comment on Deorman’s polygamy. That might be a discussion for another time. Today he had to focus on his target. He spoke in a deeper, more emotional tone. “The monks of Dreng’s Ferry would be glad to give solemn daily prayers for the dear lady’s immortal soul, if you should wish to commission us.”

“I have a cathedral full of priests praying for her right here in Norwood.”

“Then you are truly blessed, or rather she is. But I’m sure you know that the prayers of celibate monks carry more weight, in that other world that awaits us all, than those of married priests.”

“So people say,” Deorman conceded.

Aldred changed his tone and became more brisk. “As well as Norwood, you’re lord of the little hamlet of Southwood, which has an iron mine.” He paused. It was time to make his request specific. With a quick, silent prayer of hope he said: “Would you consider making a pious gift of Southwood and its mine to the priory, in memory of Lady Godgifu?”

He held his breath. Would Deorman pour scorn on such a demand? Would he burst out laughing at Aldred’s effrontery? Would he be offended?

Deorman’s response was mild. He looked startled, but also amused. “That’s a bold request,” he said noncommittally.

“Ask, and it shall be given you, Jesus told us; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” Aldred often remembered this verse from Matthew’s Gospel when he was soliciting gifts.

“You certainly don’t get much in this world if you don’t ask,” Deorman said. “But that mine makes me a lot of money.”

“It would transform the fortunes of the priory.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Deorman had not said no, but there was a negative undertone, and Aldred waited to find out what the problem was.

“How many monks are there at your priory?” Deorman asked after a moment.

He was playing for time, Aldred thought. “Eight, including me.”

“And are they all good men?”

“Most certainly.”

“Because, you see, there are rumors.”

Here it comes, Aldred thought. He felt a bubble of anger in his guts, and told himself to stay calm. “Rumors,” he repeated.

“To be frank, I’ve heard that your monks hold orgies with slaves.”

“And I know who you heard it from,” said Aldred. He could not completely hide his rage, but he managed to speak quietly. “Some years ago I had the misfortune to discover a powerful man committing a terrible crime, and I’m still being punished for doing so.”

“You’re being punished?”

“Yes, by this kind of slander.”

“You’re telling me the orgy story is a deliberate lie?”

“I’m telling you that the monks of Dreng’s Ferry follow the Rule of Saint Benedict strictly. We have no slaves, no concubines, no catamites. We are celibate.”

“Hmm.”

“But please don’t take my word for it. Pay us a visit—preferably with no forewarning. Surprise us, and you will see us as we are every day. We work, we pray, and we sleep. We will invite you to share our dinner of fish and vegetables. You will see that we have no servants, no pets, no luxuries of any kind. Our prayers could not be more pure.”

“Well, we’ll see.” Deorman was backing down, but was he convinced? “Meanwhile, let’s eat.”

Aldred sat at the table with Deorman’s family and senior servants. A pretty young woman sat next to him and engaged him in a teasing conversation. Aldred was polite, but flintily unresponsive to her flirting. He guessed he was being tested. It was the wrong test: he might have revealed a weakness if confronted with an alluring young man.

The food was good, suckling pig with spring cabbage, and the wine was strong. Aldred ate sparingly and drank one sip, as always.

At the end of the meal, as the bowls and platters were being cleared away, Deorman announced his decision. “I’m not going to give you Southwood,” he said. “But I’ll give you two pounds in silver to pray for the soul of Godgifu.”

Aldred knew he should not show his disappointment. “Your kindness is much appreciated, and you can be sure that God will hear our prayers,” he said. “But could you not make it five pounds?”

Deorman laughed. “I’ll make it three, to reward your persistence, on the condition you ask for no more.”

“I’m most grateful,” Aldred said, but in his heart he was angry and resentful. He should have got much more, but Wynstan’s slanders had sabotaged him. Even if Deorman did not really believe the lies, they gave him an excuse to be less generous.

Deorman’s treasurer got the money from a chest and Aldred stashed it in his saddlebag. “I won’t travel alone with this money,” he said. “I’ll go to the Oak alehouse and find companions for tomorrow’s journey.”

He took his leave. The town center was only a few steps from Deorman’s compound, so Aldred did not mount Dismas, but walked him to the stable of the tavern, brooding over his failure. He had hoped that Wynstan’s malign influence would not reach this far, for Norwood had its own cathedral and bishop, but he had been disappointed.

When he reached the Oak, he walked past the alehouse, from which came the sound of a boisterous group enjoying the drink, and went straight to the stable. As he arrived, he was surprised to see the familiar lean frame of Brother Godleof unsaddling a piebald. He looked anxious, and seemed to have hurried here. “What is it?” Aldred said.

“I thought you’d want to hear the news as soon as possible.”

“What news?”

“Abbot Osmund is dead.”

Aldred crossed himself and said: “May his soul rest in peace.”

“Hildred has been made abbot.”

“That was quick.”

“Bishop Wynstan insisted on an immediate election, which he oversaw.”

Wynstan had made sure that his preferred candidate won, and had then ratified the monks’ decision. In theory, both the archbishop and the king had a say in the appointment, but it would be difficult now for them to overturn Wynstan’s fait accompli.

Aldred said: “How do you know all this?”

“Archdeacon Degbert brought the news to the priory. I think he was hoping to tell you himself. Especially the part about the money.”

Aldred had a bad feeling. “Go on.”

“Hildred has canceled the abbey’s subsidy to our priory. From now on we must manage on whatever sums we can raise for ourselves, or close down.”

That was a blow. Aldred was suddenly grateful for Deorman’s three pounds. It meant the priory was not in danger of immediate closure.

He said to Godleof: “Get yourself something to eat. We should leave as soon as possible.”

They sat on the ground beside the oak tree that gave the house its name. While Godleof ate bread and cheese and drank a pot of ale, Aldred brooded. There were advantages to the new arrangement, he told himself. The priory would now be independent, in practice: the abbot could no longer control it by threatening to cut off funds—that was an arrow that could be shot only once. Aldred would now ask the archbishop of Canterbury for a charter that would make the priory’s independence official.

However, Deorman’s gift would not last forever, and Aldred’s search for some means of financial security was now urgent. What could he do?

Most monasteries depended on the accumulation of wealth from numerous donations. Some had large flocks of sheep, some drew rents from villages and towns, some owned fisheries and quarries. For three years Aldred had worked tirelessly to attract such gifts, and his success had been no more than modest.

His mind strayed to Winchester and Saint Swithin, who had been bishop there in the ninth century. Swithin had worked a miracle on the bridge over the Itchen River. Taking pity on a poor woman who had dropped her basket of eggs, he had made the smashed eggs whole again. His tomb in the cathedral was a popular destination for pilgrims. Sick people experienced miraculous cures there. The pilgrims donated money to the cathedral. They also bought souvenirs, lodged in alehouses owned by the monks, and generally brought prosperity to the town. The monks spent the profits enlarging the church so that it could accommodate more pilgrims, who brought more money.

Many churches possessed holy relics: the whited bones of a saint, a splintered piece of the True Cross, a worn square of ancient cloth miraculously imprinted with the face of Christ. Provided the monks managed their affairs shrewdly—making sure pilgrims were welcomed, placing the sacred objects in an impressive shrine, publicizing miracles—the relics would attract pilgrims who would bring prosperity to the town and to the monastery.

Unfortunately, Dreng’s Ferry had no relics.

Such things could be bought, but Aldred did not have enough money. Would anyone give him something so valuable? He thought of Glastonbury Abbey.

He had been a novice at Glastonbury, and knew that the abbey had such a large collection of relics that the sacrist, Brother Theodric, did not know what to do with them all.

He began to feel excited.

The abbey had the grave of Saint Patrick, patron saint of Ireland, and twenty-two complete skeletons of other saints. The abbot would not give Aldred a priceless complete skeleton, but the abbey also owned numerous odd bones and scraps of clothing, one of the bloodstained arrows that had killed Saint Sebastian, and a sealed jug of wine from the wedding at Cana. Would Aldred’s old friends take pity on him? He had left Glastonbury in disgrace, of course, but that had been a long time ago. Monks generally sided with monks against bishops, and no one liked Wynstan: there was a chance, Aldred decided with mounting optimism.

Anyway, he had no better ideas.

Godleof finished his meal and took his wooden tankard back into the alehouse. Coming out, he said: “So, are we heading back to Dreng’s Ferry?”

“Change of plan,” said Aldred. “I’ll accompany you part of the way—then I’m going to Glastonbury.”

He was not prepared for the intense wave of nostalgia that overwhelmed him when he came in sight of the place where he had spent his adolescence.

He crested a low hill and looked down on a flat, swampy plain, green with spring foliage interlaced with pools and runnels that glinted in the sun. To the north a canal five yards wide came arrow straight along the gently sloping hillside and ended in a wharf at a marketplace bright with bales of red cloth and truckles of yellow cheese and stacks of green cabbages.

Edgar had questioned Aldred closely about this canal, severely taxing Aldred’s memory, before beginning construction of the canal at Outhenham.

Beyond the village stood two buildings of pale gray stone, a church and a monastery. A dozen or more timber structures were clustered around: animal shelters, storehouses, kitchens, and servants’ quarters. Aldred could even see the herb garden where he had been caught kissing Leofric, bringing down on himself a cloud of shame that had never lifted.

As he rode closer, he remembered Leofric, whom he had not seen for twenty years. He pictured a boy, tall and skinny, pink-faced with a few blond hairs on his upper lip, full of adolescent energy. But Leo must have changed. Aldred himself was different: slower and more dignified in his movements, solemn in his demeanor, with the dark shadow of a beard even when he had just shaved.

Sadness possessed him. He mourned the passing of the tireless lad he had once been, reading and learning and absorbing knowledge as the parchment soaked up the ink, and then, when lessons were over, deploying just as much energy in breaking all the rules. Coming to Glastonbury was like visiting the grave of his youth.

He tried to shake off the feeling as he rode through the village, which was noisy with buying and selling, carpentry and ironwork, men shouting and women laughing. He made his way to the monastery stable, which smelled of clean straw and brushed horses. He unsaddled Dismas and let the tired beast drink its fill from the horse trough.

Would his history here help or hinder his mission? Would people remember him with affection and do their best to help him, or would they treat him as a renegade who had been expelled for bad behavior and whose return was unwelcome?

He knew none of the stable hands, who were not monks but employees, but he asked one of the older men if Elfweard was still abbot. “Yes, and in good health, praise God,” said the groom.

“And is Theodric the sacrist?”

“Yes, though getting older, now.”

Pretending to ask casually, Aldred added: “And Brother Leofric?”

“The kitchener? Yes, he’s well.”

The kitchener was an important monastery officer, responsible for purchasing all supplies.

One of the lads said: “Well fed, anyhow,” and the others laughed.

From that Aldred deduced that Leo had put on weight.

The older groom, clearly curious, said: “May I direct you to a part of the abbey, or any particular one of the monks?”

“I should pay my respects to Abbot Elfweard first. I assume I’ll find him at his own house?”

“More than likely. The monks’ midday dinner is over, and it’ll be another hour or two before they ring the Nones bell.” Nones was the midafternoon service.

“Thank you.” Aldred left without satisfying the groom’s curiosity.

He headed not for the abbot’s house but for the cookhouse.

In a monastery this big, the kitchener did not carry sacks of flour and sides of beef to the cooking fires, but held a pen and sat at a table. All the same a wise kitchener would work near the cooks, to keep an eye on what came in and went out, and make it difficult for anyone to steal.

From the kitchen came the sound of clashing pots as the monastery servants scrubbed the utensils.

Aldred recalled that in his day the kitchener had worked in a lean-to shed attached to the cookhouse, but now, he saw, there was a more substantial building in the same place, with a stone-built extension that was undoubtedly a safe room for storage.

He approached apprehensively, full of trepidation about how Leo would receive him.

He stood in the doorway. Leo sat on a bench at a table, side-on to the entrance so that the light could fall on his work. He had a stylus in his hand and was making notes on a wax tablet in front of him. He did not look up, and Aldred had a few moments to study him. He was not really fat, though he certainly was not the bony boy Aldred remembered. The circle of hair around his tonsure was still fair, and his face was, if anything, pinker. Aldred’s heart missed a beat as he remembered how passionately he had loved this man. And now, twenty years later?

Before Aldred could examine his heart, Leo looked up.

At first he did not recognize Aldred. A busy man dealing courteously with an unwelcome interruption, he gave a perfunctory smile and said: “How can I help you?”

“By remembering me, you idiot,” Aldred said, and he stepped inside.

Leo stood up, mouth open in surprise, doubt creasing his forehead. “Are you Aldred?”

“The same,” Aldred said, walking toward him with open arms.

Leo raised his hands in a protective gesture, and Aldred understood at once that Leo did not want to be embraced. That was probably wise: people who knew their history might suspect that they were resuming their old relationship. Aldred stopped immediately and took a step back, but he continued to smile, and said: “It’s so good to see you.”

Leo relaxed a little. “You, too,” he said.

“We could shake hands.”

“Yes, we could.”

They shook across the table. Aldred held Leo’s hand in both of his, just for a moment, then let go. He had great affection for Leo but, he now realized, he had lost all desire for physical intimacy with him. He experienced the same surge of fondness that he sometimes felt for old Tatwine the scribe, or poor blind Cuthbert, or Mother Agatha, but none of that formerly irresistible yearning to touch body to body, skin to skin.

“Draw up a stool,” said Leo. “Can I give you a cup of wine?”

“I’d prefer a tankard of ale,” said Aldred. “The weaker, the better.”

Leo went into his storeroom and returned with a large wooden mug of a dark brew.

Aldred drank thirstily. “It’s been a long and dusty road.”

“And dangerous, if you encounter the Vikings.”

“I took a northerly route. The fighting is in the south, I believe.”

“What brings you here after all these years?”

Aldred told him the story. Leo already knew about the forgery—everybody knew about it—but he was not fully aware of Wynstan’s campaign of revenge against Aldred. As Aldred talked, Leo relaxed, no doubt feeling reassured that Aldred had no wish to resume their affair.

“We certainly have more old bones than we need,” Leo said when Aldred finished. “Whether Theodric will be willing to part with any of them is another question.”

Leo was now almost completely amiable—but not quite. He was holding something back, perhaps guarding a secret. So be it, thought Aldred; I don’t need to know everything about his life now, as long as he’s on my side.

Aldred said: “Theodric was a grumpy old stick-in-the-mud while I was here. He seemed to resent young people particularly.”

“And he’s got worse. But let’s go and see him now, before Nones. He’ll be in a relatively good mood after his dinner.”

Aldred was pleased: Leo had become an ally.

Leo stood up, but as he did so, another monk appeared, entering and speaking at the same time. He was about ten years younger than Aldred and Leo, and handsome, with dark eyebrows and full lips. “They’re charging us for four wheels of cheese, but they’ve only sent three,” said the newcomer, then he saw Aldred. “Oh!” he said, and his eyebrows went up. “Who’s this?” He walked around the table and stood beside Leo.

Leo said: “This is my assistant, Pendred.”

Aldred said: “I’m Aldred, prior of Dreng’s Ferry.”

Leo explained: “Aldred and I were novices together here.”

Aldred knew immediately, just by the way Pendred stood close to Leo, and by the hint of nervousness in Leo’s voice, that they were intimate friends—how intimate, he could not tell and did not want to know.

No doubt this was the secret Leo had been hoping to hide.

Aldred felt that Pendred might be dangerous. He could become jealous and try to discourage Leo from helping. Aldred needed urgently to show that he was no threat. He gave a frank look and said: “I’m glad to meet you, Pendred.” He spoke in a serious voice so that Pendred would know this was not mere courtesy.

Leo said: “Aldred and I used to be great friends.”

Aldred immediately said: “But that was a long time ago.”

Pendred nodded slowly, three times, then said: “I’m pleased to meet you, Brother Aldred.”

He had got the message, and Aldred felt relieved.

Leo said: “I’m going to take Aldred to see Theodric. Give the dairy the price of three cheeses and say we’ll pay for the fourth when we get it.” He led Aldred out.

One ally confirmed, Aldred thought, and a potential opponent neutralized: so far, so good.

As they crossed the grounds Aldred caught sight of the canal and said: “Does the channel run through clay all the way?”

“Almost,” said Leo. “Just at this end the ground is a bit sandy. It has to be lined with puddled clay, and the banks are braced—the technical term is ‘revetted’—with planks. I know that because I ordered the timber last time it was renewed. Why do you ask?”

“A builder called Edgar has been interrogating me about the Glastonbury canal, because he’s digging one at Outhenham. He’s a brilliant young man, but he’s never attempted a canal.”

They went into the abbey church. Some younger monks were singing, perhaps learning a new hymn or practicing an old one. Leo led the way to the east side of the south transept, where a heavy ironbound door with two locks stood open. This was the treasury, Aldred remembered. They stepped into a windowless room, dark and cold and smelling of dust and age. As Aldred’s eyes adapted to the dim illumination of a rush light, he saw that the walls were lined with shelves bearing a variety of gold, silver, and wooden containers.

At the back of the room—the east end, therefore the most holy zone—a monk knelt before a small, simple altar. On the altar stood an elaborate box of silver and carved ivory, undoubtedly a reliquary, a container for relics.

In a low voice, Leo explained: “The feast day of Saint Savann is next week. The bones will be carried into the church in procession for the celebration. I expect Theodric is asking the saint’s pardon for disturbing him.”

Aldred nodded. Saints did in some sense live on in their remains, and were very present in whatever holy institution guarded their bones. They were pleased to be remembered and venerated, but they had to be treated with great respect and caution. Elaborate ritual surrounded any movement to which they were subjected. “You don’t want to displease him,” Aldred murmured.

Despite their whispers, Theodric heard them. He stood up with some difficulty, turned around, peered at them, then approached on unsteady legs. He was about seventy years old, Aldred reckoned, and the skin of his face was loose and wrinkled. He was naturally bald, and would not need to shave his tonsure.

Leo said: “We’re sorry to disturb your prayers, Brother Theodric.”

“Don’t worry about me, just hope you haven’t upset the saint,” Theodric said sharply. “Now come outside before you say any more.”

Aldred stayed where he was and pointed to a small chest made of yellowish-red yew wood, normally used for longbows. He thought he had seen it before. “What’s in there?”

“Some bones of Saint Adolphus of Winchester. Just the skull, an arm, and a hand.”

“I think I remember. Was he killed by a Saxon king?”

“For possessing a Christian book, yes. Now, please, outside.”

They stepped into the transept, and Theodric closed the door behind them.

Leo said: “Brother Theodric, I don’t know if you remember Brother Aldred.”

“I never forget anything.”

Aldred pretended to believe him. “I’m glad to see you again,” he said.

“Oh, it’s you!” said Theodric, recognizing the voice. “Aldred, yes. You were a troublemaker.”

“And now I’m prior of Dreng’s Ferry—where I deal severely with troublemakers.”

“So why aren’t you there now?”

Aldred smiled. Leo was right, age had not blunted Theodric’s edge. “I need your help,” Aldred said.

“What do you want?”

Aldred again told the story of Wynstan and Dreng’s Ferry, and explained his need for some means of attracting pilgrims.

Theodric pretended to be indignant. “You want me to give you precious relics?”

“My priory has no saint to watch over it. Glastonbury has more than twenty. I ask you to take pity on your poorer brethren.”

“I’ve been to Dreng’s Ferry,” Theodric said. “That church was falling down five years ago.”

“I’ve had the west end buttressed. It’s stable now.”

“How could you afford that? You said you were penniless.” Theodric looked triumphant, thinking he had caught Aldred in a lie.

“The lady Ragna gave me the stone free, and a young builder called Edgar did the work in exchange for being taught to read and write. So I got the work done for no money.”

Theodric changed tack. “That church is a poor showcase for a saint’s remains.”

It was true. Aldred improvised. “If you give me what I want, Brother Theodric, I will build an extension to the church, with the help once again of Ragna and Edgar.”

“Makes no difference,” Theodric said firmly. “The abbot would never allow me to give away relics even if I wanted to.”

Leo said: “Perhaps you’re right, Theodric, but let’s ask the abbot himself, shall we?”

Theodric shrugged. “If you insist.”

They left the church and headed for the abbot’s house. One ally and one enemy, Aldred thought. Now it’s up to Abbot Elfweard.

As they walked, Leo said: “What’s Edgar like, Aldred?”

“A wonderful friend to the priory. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve mentioned his name three times.”

Aldred gave Leo a sharp look. “I’m fond of him, as you’ve cleverly guessed. He in turn is devoted to the lady Ragna.” Aldred was telling Leo, without saying it explicitly, that Edgar was not his lover.

Leo got the message. “All right, I understand.”

Abbot Elfweard lived in a great hall. It had two doors in its side, suggesting two separate rooms, and Aldred guessed the abbot slept in one and held meetings in the other. It was a luxury to sleep alone, but the abbot of Glastonbury was a great magnate.

Leo led them into what was clearly the meeting room. Because there was no fire here, the air was pleasantly fresh. On one wall hung a large tapestry of the Annunciation, with the Virgin Mary in a blue dress edged with costly gold thread. A young man who was apparently the abbot’s assistant said: “I’ll tell him you’re here.” A minute later Elfweard entered the room.

He had been abbot for a quarter of a century, and he was now an old man, walking with a cane held in a shaky hand. His expression was stern, but his eyes were bright with intelligence.

Leo introduced Aldred. “I remember you,” said Elfweard severely. “You were guilty of the sin of Sodom. I had to send you away, to separate you from your partner in iniquity.”

That was a bad start. Aldred said: “You told me that life is hard, and being a good monk makes it harder.”

“I’m glad you remember.”

“I’ve spent twenty years remembering, my lord abbot.”

“You’ve done well since you left us,” Elfweard said, softening. “I’ll give you credit for that.”

“Thank you.”

“Not that you’ve kept out of trouble.”

“But it was good trouble.”

“Perhaps.” Elfweard did not smile. “What brings you here today?”

Aldred told his story for the third time.

When he had finished, Elfweard turned to Theodric. “What does our sacrist say?”

Theodric said: “I can’t imagine that a saint would thank us for sending his remains to a tiny priory in the back of beyond.”

Leofric weighed in on Aldred’s side. “On the other hand, a saint who receives little attention here might be glad to work miracles somewhere else.”

Aldred watched Elfweard, but the abbot’s face was unreadable.

Aldred said: “I recollect, from my time here, that many treasures were never brought into the main body of the church, never shown to the monks, let alone the congregation.”

Theodric said disparagingly: “A few bones, some bloodstained clothing, a lock of hair. Precious, yes, but unimpressive when compared to a complete skeleton.”

Theodric’s scornful tone was a mistake. “Exactly!” said Aldred, seizing the advantage. “Unimpressive here at Glastonbury, as Brother Theodric says—but at Dreng’s Ferry such things would work miracles!”

Elfweard looked inquiringly at Theodric.

Theodric said: “I didn’t say ‘unimpressive,’ I feel sure.”

“Yes, you did,” said the abbot.

Theodric began to look defeated. He backtracked. “Then I should not have said that, and I withdraw it.”

Aldred sensed that he was close to success, and he pushed his advantage, at the risk of appearing grasping. “The abbey has a few bones of Saint Adolphus—the skull and an arm.”

“Adolphus?” said Elfweard. “Martyred for possessing the Gospel of Saint Matthew, if I remember rightly.”

“Yes,” said Aldred, delighted. “He was killed over a book. That’s why I remembered him.”

“He should be the patron saint of librarians.”

Aldred felt he was an inch away from triumph. He said: “It’s my dearest wish to create a great library at Dreng’s Ferry.”

“A creditworthy ambition,” Elfweard said. “Well, Theodric, the remains of Saint Adolphus certainly do not constitute the greatest treasure of Glastonbury.”

Aldred remained silent, afraid of breaking the spell.

Theodric said sulkily: “I don’t suppose anyone will even notice their absence.”

Aldred fought to conceal his glee.

Elfweard’s assistant reappeared carrying a cope, a wide-shouldered liturgical cloak made of white wool embroidered with biblical scenes in red. “It’s time for Nones,” he said.

Elfweard stood up and the assistant placed the cope over his shoulders and fastened it at the front. Dressed for the service, Elfweard turned to Aldred. “You realize, I’m sure, that the nature of the relic doesn’t matter as much as the use you make of it. You must create the circumstances in which miracles are likely.”

“I promise you, I will make the most of the bones of Saint Adolphus.”

“And you’ll have to transport them to Dreng’s Ferry with all due ceremony. You don’t want the saint to take against you from the start.”

“Never fear,” said Aldred. “I have great things planned.”

Bishop Wynstan stood at an upstairs window in his palace at Shiring, looking across the busy market square to the silent monastery on the opposite side. There was no glass in the window—glass was a luxury for kings—and the shutter had been thrown open to let in a fresh spring breeze.

A four-wheeled cart pulled by an ox was approaching along the Dreng’s Ferry road. It was escorted by a small group of monks led by Prior Aldred.

It was astounding that the penniless prior of a remote monastery could be so irritating. The man just did not know when he was defeated. Wynstan turned to Archdeacon Degbert, who was there with his wife, Edith. Between them, Degbert and Edith picked up most of the town gossip. “What the devil is that damned monk up to now?” he said.

Edith said: “I’m going out to look.” She left the room.

“I can guess,” said Degbert. “Two weeks ago he was at Glastonbury. The abbot gave him a partial skeleton of Saint Adolphus.”

“Adolphus?”

“He was martyred by a Saxon king.”

“Yes, I remember now.”

“Aldred is on his way to Glastonbury again, this time to perform the necessary rites for removal of the relics. But that’s only a box of bones. I don’t know why he needs a cart.”

Wynstan watched the cart pull up at the entrance to Shiring Abbey. A small crowd gathered, curious. He saw Edith join them. He said: “How could Aldred even pay for a four-wheel cart and an ox?”

Degbert knew the answer to that. “Thane Deorman of Norwood gave him three pounds.”

“More fool Deorman.”

The people crowded closely around. Aldred pulled away a covering of some kind, but Wynstan could not see what was on the cart. Then the covering was replaced, the cart entered the abbey, and the crowd dispersed.

Edith returned a minute later. “It’s a life-size effigy of Saint Adolphus!” she said excitedly. “He has a lovely face, holy and sad at the same time.”

Wynstan said contemptuously: “An idol for the ignorant to worship. I suppose it’s painted, too?”

“The face is white, and the hands and feet. The robe is gray. But the eyes are so blue you’d think they were looking at you!”

Blue was the most costly paint, being made with crushed gems of lapis lazuli. Wynstan said slowly: “I know what that sly devil is up to.”

Degbert said: “I wish you’d tell me.”

“He’s going to take the relics on a tour. He’ll stop at every church between Glastonbury and Dreng’s Ferry. He needs money, now that Hildred has stopped his subsidy, and he wants to use the saint to raise funds.”

“It will probably work,” said Degbert.

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” said Wynstan.