When the monks had arrived here and looked around, the old scribe Tatwine had said to Aldred, not unkindly: “Perhaps God wants to teach you the virtue of humility.” Aldred thought Tatwine might be right. Humility had never been one of his strengths.

On Sunday Aldred celebrated Mass in the little church. He stood at the altar in the tiny chancel while the six monks who had come here with him—all volunteers—stood in two neat rows on the ground floor of the tower, which served as the nave. The villagers gathered behind the monks, quieter than usual and awed by the unfamiliar sense of discipline and reverence.

During the service a horse was heard outside, and Aldred’s old friend Wigferth of Canterbury came into the church. Wigferth visited the west of England frequently, to collect rents. His mistress in Trench had recently given birth, according to monastic gossip. Wigferth was a good monk in other respects, and Aldred remained friendly to him, restricting himself to the occasional disapproving frown if Wigferth was so tactless as to mention his illicit family.

As soon as the service was over, Aldred spoke to him. “It’s good to see you. I hope you have time to stay for dinner.”

“Certainly.”

“We’re not rich, so our food will save you from the sin of gluttony.”

Wigferth smiled and patted his belly. “I stand in need of such salvation.”

“What news from Canterbury?”

“Two things. Archbishop Elfric has ordered Wynstan to return the village of Wigleigh to the ownership of the church at Dreng’s Ferry, which means you.”

“Good!”

“Wait, don’t celebrate. I have already taken that message to Wynstan, who said the matter was outside the archbishop’s jurisdiction.”

“In other words he will ignore the ruling.”

“That one, and another. Wynstan has made Degbert an archdeacon at Shiring Cathedral.”

“In effect, deputy to Wynstan, and his likely successor.”

“Exactly.”

“Some punishment.” The promotion, coming so swiftly after the trial and Degbert’s demotion, told everyone that Wynstan’s people would always do well, and those who opposed him—such as Aldred—would suffer.

“The archbishop refused to ratify the appointment—and Wynstan ignored him.”

Aldred scratched his shaved head. “Wynstan defies the archbishop and Wilwulf defies the king. How long can this go on?”

“I don’t know. Maybe until the Day of Judgment.”

Aldred looked around. Two of the congregation were watching him expectantly. “We’ll talk more at dinner,” he said to Wigferth. “I must speak to the villagers. They’re a discontented lot.”

Wigferth left, and Aldred turned to the waiting couple. A woman called Ebba, with chapped hands, said: “The priest used to pay me to do their laundry. Why don’t you?”

“Laundry?” said Aldred. “We do our own.” There was not much. Monks usually washed their robes twice a year. Other people might have loincloths, strips of material wound around the waist and between the legs and tied in front. Women used them during the monthly flux, and washed them afterward; men wore them for riding, and probably never washed them at all. Babies were sometimes wrapped in something similar. Monks had no use for such things.