“Until after they were married, and most of Ragna’s servants had gone back to Cherbourg; then Wilf moved Inge back into the compound, along with their son, Garulf.”

Dread settled like a weight in the pit of Edgar’s stomach. “How is she?”

“Distraught.”

He felt desperately sorry for her, a stranger far from home and family, cruelly tricked by the English. “Poor girl,” he said, but the phrase felt inadequate.

Aldred said: “But that’s not why I’m so keen to talk to you. It’s about Dreng’s Ferry.”

Edgar wrenched his thoughts away from Ragna.

Aldred went on: “After I saw the state of the minster, I proposed that it should be taken over by monks, and the archbishop agreed. But Wynstan kicked up a huge fuss, and Abbot Osmund backed down.”

Edgar frowned. “Why did Wynstan care so much?”

“That’s the question. It’s not a rich church, and Degbert is no more than a distant relation to him.”

“Why would Wynstan quarrel with his archbishop over something so minor?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you. You live at the alehouse, you operate the ferry, you see everyone who comes and goes. You must know most of what happens there.”

Edgar wanted to help Aldred, but did not know the answers to his questions. He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what’s in Wynstan’s mind.” Then a thought occurred to him. “He does visit, though.”

“Really?” said Aldred, intrigued. “How often?”

“Twice since I’ve been there. The first was a week after Michaelmas, the second just about six weeks ago.”

“You’re good with dates. So both visits came soon after the quarter day. For what purpose?”

“Nothing apparent to me.”

“Well, what does he do there?”

“At Christmas he gave every house a piglet.”

“Strange. He’s not normally openhanded. Rather the opposite.”

“And then he and Degbert went to Combe. Both times.”

Aldred scratched his shaved scalp. “Something is going on, and I can’t figure out what.”

Edgar had a notion, but he felt awkward about voicing it. “Wynstan and Degbert could be . . . I mean, they could be having some kind of . . .”

“Love affair? Possibly, but I don’t think so. I know a bit about that sort of thing, and neither man strikes me as the type.”

Edgar had to agree.

Aldred added: “They might hold orgies with slave girls at the minster, that would be more credible.”

It was Edgar’s turn to look dubious. “I don’t see how they could keep such a thing secret. Where would they hide the slaves?”

“You’re right. They might hold pagan rites, though; they wouldn’t necessarily need slaves for that.”

“Pagan rites? What’s in that for Wynstan?”

“What’s in it for anyone? But still there are pagans.”

Edgar was not convinced. “In England?”

“Perhaps not.”

Edgar was struck by a thought. “I vaguely remember Wynstan visiting Combe when we lived there. Young men aren’t very interested in the clergy, and I never took much notice, but he used to stay at the house of his brother, Wigelm—I remember my mother commenting that you’d expect a bishop to stay at the monastery.”