Bishop Wynstan knelt in prayer at the archbishop’s feet for a long time. He felt ill himself. He had a headache. He was sleeping badly. He ached with tiredness like an old man, though he was only forty-three. And he had an unsightly reddish lump over his collarbone that he hid by fastening his cloak high on his throat.

Feeling as he did, he had not wished to travel across the width of England in winter weather, but he had a compelling motive. He wanted to be the next archbishop of Canterbury. That would make him the senior clergyman in southern England. And a power struggle could not be fought at a distance: he had to be here.

He judged that he had prayed long enough to impress the monks with his piety and respect. He got to his feet and suddenly felt dizzy. He put his arm out and managed to lay his hand on a stone pillar to steady himself. He felt angry: he hated to show weakness. All his adult life he had been the strong man, the one others feared. And the last thing he wanted was for the Canterbury monks to think he was in poor health. They would not want a sick archbishop.

After a minute his head cleared and he was able to turn and walk away with reverent slowness.

Canterbury Cathedral was the largest building Wynstan had ever seen. Made of stone, it was cross-shaped, with a long nave, side transepts, and a short chancel. The tower over the crossing was topped by a golden angel.

Shiring Cathedral would have fitted inside it three times.

Wynstan met his cousin Degbert, archdeacon of Shiring, in Canterbury’s north transept. Together they went out into the cloisters. A cold rain lashed the green of the quadrangle. A group of monks sheltering under the roof fell respectfully silent as they approached. Wynstan pretended first not to notice them then to be startled out of his meditations.

He spoke in the tones of one devastated by grief. “The soul of my old friend seems reluctant to leave the church he loved.”

There was a moment of silence, then a lanky young monk said: “Elfric is a friend of yours?”

“But of course,” said Wynstan. “Forgive me, brother, what’s your name?”

“I’m Eappa, my lord bishop.”

“Brother Eappa, I got to know our beloved archbishop when he was the bishop of Ramsbury, which is not far from my cathedral at Shiring. When I was a young man, he took me under his wing, so to speak. I was infinitely grateful for his wisdom and guidance.”

None of this was true. Wynstan despised Elfric and the feeling was probably mutual. But the monks believed Wynstan. He was often amazed at how easy it was to fool people, especially if you had some kind of status. Men who were so gullible deserved everything that was coming to them.

Eappa said: “What sort of thing did he say to you?”

Wynstan made something up on the spur of the moment. “He said that I should listen more and speak less, because you learn while you’re listening but not when you’re speaking.” Enough of that, he thought. “Tell me, who do you think will be the next archbishop?”