And they would set the prices of everything they bought, Aldred thought, and no haggling.

He asked the question that had been on his mind all through the conversation. “Is King Ethelred with you?”

“Oh, yes. He’s near the front of the horde, with the senior noblemen. He’ll be here shortly.”

“Then I’d better prepare a meal for him at the monastery.”

Aldred left the riverside and walked up the hill to the home of Bucca Fish, where he bought all the fresh fish on the slab, promising to pay later. Bucca was glad to sell, fearing that otherwise his stocks might be commandeered or stolen.

Aldred returned to the monastery and gave orders for dinner. He told the monks that any quartermasters who demanded stores should be told that everything was earmarked for the king. They began to lay the table, putting out wine and bread, nuts and dried fruit.

Aldred opened a locked box and took out a silver cross on a leather thong. He put it around his neck and relocked the box. The cross would indicate to all the visitors that he was the senior monk.

What was he going to say to the king? After years of wishing that Ethelred would come and set matters right in the semilawless region of Shiring, suddenly Aldred found himself searching for the words he needed. The wrongs committed by Wilwulf, Wynstan, and Wigelm made a long and complicated story, and many of their crimes could not easily be proved. He considered showing the king his copy of Wilwulf’s will; but that told only part of the story, and anyway the king might be offended to be shown a will he had not authorized. Aldred really needed a week to write it all down—and then the king probably would not read it: many noblemen were literate but reading was not usually their favorite occupation.

He heard cheering. That must be for the king. He left the monastery and hurried down the hill.

The ferry was approaching. A soldier was poling it, and on board was only one man, standing at the forward end of the boat, and a horse. The man wore a patterned red tunic with gold-colored embroidery and a blue cloak with silk edging. His cloth leggings were secured by narrow leather binding straps, and he had laced boots of soft leather. A long sword in a scabbard hung from a yellow silk sash. This was undoubtedly the king.

Ethelred was not looking toward the village. His head was turned to the left and he was staring at the scorched ruins of the bridge, the blackened beams still disfiguring the waterfront.

As Ethelred led his horse off the ferry onto dry land, Aldred saw that he was in a fury.

Ethelred addressed Aldred, knowing by the cross that he was in authority here. “I expected to cross by a bridge!” he said accusingly.

That explains why he chose to come this way, Aldred thought.

“What the devil happened?” the king demanded.