Wynstan said: “What brings you here, Dreng?”

“King Ethelred came to our village,” Dreng said. “His army crossed on my ferry.”

“That must have taken awhile. What did he do while he was waiting?”

“He gave the priory a charter. They have royal approval for a toll bridge, a weekly market, and an annual fair.”

“Aldred building his power base,” Wynstan mused. “These monks renounce the things of the world, but they know how to look after their own interests.”

Dreng seemed disappointed that Wynstan was not more shocked. “Then the army left,” he said.

“When do you think they’ll get here?”

“They’re not coming here. They recrossed the river.”

“What?” This was the real news, even though Dreng had not recognized it. “They turned around and went back eastward? Why?”

“A message came to say that Swein Forkbeard has attacked Wilton.”

Wigelm said: “The Vikings must have sailed up the river from Christchurch.”

Wynstan did not care how King Swein had reached Wilton. “Don’t you see what this means? Ethelred has gone back!”

“So he’s not coming to Shiring,” said Wigelm.

“Not now, anyway.” Wynstan was profoundly relieved. He added hopefully: “And perhaps not any time soon.”

CHAPTER 36

June 1003

dgar was shaping a beam with an adze, a tool like an ax but with an arched blade, its edge at right angles to the handle, designed for scraping a length of timber to a smooth, even surface. In past times work such as this had been a delight to him. He had found profound satisfaction in the fresh smell of the scraped wood, the sharpness of the cutting edge, and most of all the clear, logical picture he had in his head of the structure he was creating. But now he worked joylessly, as mindless as a mill wheel going around and around.

He paused, straightened his back, and took a long swallow of weak ale. Looking across the river he saw that the trees on the far side were now in full leaf, fresh green in the pale morning sun. That woodland had formerly been a dangerous place on account of Ironface, but now travelers ventured there with less trepidation.

On the near side, his family’s farmland was just turning from green to yellow as the oats ripened, and he could see in the distance the stooped figures of Erman and Cwenburg as they weeded. Their children were with them: Winnie, now five, was old enough to help with the weeding, but Beorn, three, was sitting on the ground, playing with the earth. Nearer to Edgar, Eadbald was at the fishpond, up to his waist in the water, pulling up a fish trap and examining the contents.

Nearer still, there were new houses in the village, and many of the old buildings had been extended. The alehouse had a brewhouse, which was even now giving off the yeasty aroma of fermenting barley: Blod had taken over the brewing after Leaf died, and she had turned out to have something of a flair for it. Right now Fat Bebbe was sitting on the bench in front of the alehouse drinking a flagon of Blod’s ale.