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.