“I’m too poor to be generous,” said the thane. “But what makes you say that?”

“Well . . .” Wynstan never missed an opportunity to belittle Aldred. “I hear unpleasant stories,” he said, feigning reluctance. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say too much, as it may be no more than gossip, but there’s talk of orgies with slaves.” This was not even gossip: Wynstan was making it up.

“Oh, dear,” said the thane. “I only gave him a horse, but now I wish I hadn’t.”

Wynstan pretended to backtrack. “Well, the reports may not be true—although Aldred has misbehaved before, when he was a novice at Glastonbury. Right or wrong, I would have clamped down right away, if only to dispel rumors, but I’m no longer in authority at Dreng’s Ferry.”

Archdeacon Degbert, at the other end of the table, said: “More’s the pity.”

Thane Deglaf of Wigleigh started talking about the news from Exeter, and no more was said about Aldred; but Wynstan was satisfied. He had planted a doubt, not for the first time. Aldred’s ability to raise funds was severely limited by the perpetual undercurrent of nasty tales. The monastery at Dreng’s Ferry must always be a backwater, with Aldred doomed to spend the rest of his life there.

When the guests left, Wynstan retired to his private room with Degbert and they discussed how the court had gone. Ragna had dispensed justice rapidly and fairly, it could not be denied. She had a good instinct for guilt and innocence. She had shown much mercy to the unfortunate and none to the wicked. Naively, she made no attempt to use the law to further her own interests by winning friends and punishing enemies.

In fact she had made an enemy of Agnes—a foolish mistake, in Wynstan’s view, but one that he might be able to exploit.

“Where do you think Agnes could be found at this hour?” he asked Degbert.

Degbert rubbed his bald pate with the palm of his hand. “She’s in mourning, and will not leave her house without a pressing reason.”

“I might pay her a visit.” Wynstan stood up.

“Shall I come with you?”

“I don’t think so. This will be an intimate little chat: just the grieving widow and her bishop, come to give her spiritual consolation.”

Degbert told Wynstan where Agnes lived, and Wynstan put on his cloak and went out.

He found Agnes at her table, sitting over a bowl of stew that appeared to have gone cold without being touched. She was startled to see him and jumped to her feet. “My lord bishop!”

“Sit down, sit down, Agnes,” Wynstan said in a low, quiet voice. He studied her with interest, never having taken much notice of her before. She had bright blue eyes and a sharp nose. Her face had a shrewd look that Wynstan found attractive. He said: “I come to offer you God’s solace in your time of grief.”

“Solace?” she said. “I don’t want solace. I want my husband.”