“The bridge was burned down, my lord king,” said Aldred.

Ethelred narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “You didn’t say it burned, you said it was burned. By whom?”

“We don’t know.”

“But you suspect.”

Aldred shrugged. “It would be foolish to make accusations that cannot be substantiated—especially to a king.”

“I would suspect the ferryman. What’s his name?”

“Dreng.”

“Of course.”

“But his cousin, Bishop Wynstan, swore that Dreng was at Shiring on the night the bridge burned.”

“I see.”

“Please come with me to our humble monastery and take some refreshment, my lord king.”

Ethelred left his horse for someone else to deal with and walked up the slope beside Aldred. “How long is it going to take for my army to cross this cursed river?”

“Two days.”

“Hell.”

They went inside. Ethelred looked around in some surprise. “Well, you said ‘humble,’ and you meant it,” he said.

Aldred poured him a cup of wine. There was no special chair, but the king sat on a bench without complaint. Aldred guessed that even a king could not be too fastidious when on the road with his army. Studying his face surreptitiously, Aldred realized that although Ethelred was not yet forty years old, he looked nearer fifty.

Aldred still had not figured out how best to broach the large issue of tyranny in Shiring, but the conversation about the bridge had given him a new idea, and he said: “I could build a new bridge, if I had the money.” This was disingenuous, for the old one had cost him nothing.

“I can’t pay for it,” said Ethelred immediately.

Aldred said thoughtfully: “But you could help me pay for it.”

Ethelred sighed, and Aldred realized that he probably heard similar words from half the people he met. “What do you want?” said the king.

“If the monastery could collect tolls, and hold a weekly market and an annual fair, the monks would get their money back, and also be able to pay for the maintenance of the bridge in the long term.” Aldred was thinking on his feet, improvising. He had not anticipated this conversation but he knew he had an opportunity and he was determined to seize it. This might be the only time in his life that he talked to the king.

Ethelred said: “What’s stopping you?”

“You’ve seen what happened to our bridge. We’re monks, we’re vulnerable.”

“What do you need from me?”

“A royal charter. At present we’re just a cell of Shiring Abbey, formed when the old minster was closed for corruption—they were forging coins here.”

Ethelred’s face darkened. “I remember. Bishop Wynstan denied all knowledge.”

Aldred did not want to get into that. “We have no guaranteed rights, and that makes us weak. We need a charter that says the monastery is independent, and is entitled to build a bridge and charge a toll and hold markets and a fair. Then predatory noblemen would hesitate to attack us.”

“And if I give you this charter you will build me a bridge.”