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.”