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.”