“Of course.”

“Where would we get the stone?”

“Outhenham. The lady Ragna will probably give it to us free, as a pious donation, but we’ll have to employ a quarryman.”

“There’s a lot to be done.”

“Indeed—so the sooner we begin, the better.”

“Who’s going to design the church? It’s not like building a house, is it?”

“I know.” Aldred’s heart beat faster. “We need to get Edgar back.”

“We don’t even know where he is.”

“He can be found.”

“By whom?”

Aldred was tempted to lead the search himself. However, that was impossible. The priory was thriving, but he was the leader. If he absented himself for the weeks or months that a trip to Normandy would take, all kinds of things could go wrong. “Brother William could go,” he said. “He was born in in Normandy and lived there until he was twelve or thirteen. And I’ll send young Athulf with him, because Athulf is always restless.”

“Today is not the first time you’ve thought about this.”

“True.” Aldred did not want to admit how often he had daydreamed of bringing Edgar home. “Let’s go and talk to William and Athulf.”

As they walked downhill to the monastery, Aldred noticed a man in monk’s robes riding across the bridge. The figure looked familiar, and as he came closer Aldred recognized Wigferth of Canterbury.

He welcome Wigferth and took him to the kitchen for bread and hot ale. “This is early for you to be collecting your Christmas rents,” he said.

“They sent me ahead of time to get rid of me,” Wigferth said sourly.

“Who wanted to get rid of you?”

“The bishop of Shiring.”

“Wynstan? What’s he doing in Canterbury?”

“Trying to be made archbishop.”

Aldred was horrified. “But it’s supposed to be Alphage of Winchester!”

“I still hope it will be Alphage. But Wynstan has cleverly ingratiated himself with the monks, and in particular with Sigefryth, the treasurer. A lot of them are now opposed to Alphage. And a discontented body of monks can be a frightful nuisance. King Ethelred may appoint Wynstan just for the sake of a quiet life.”

“Heaven forbid!”

“Amen,” said Wigferth.

A fresh fall of snow gave Ragna the chance to teach the children some letters. She gave each boy a stick and said: “What letter starts Osbert’s name?”

“I know, I know!” said Osbert.

“Can you draw it?”

“Easy.” Osbert drew a large, uneven circle in the snow.

“The rest of you, draw the letter that starts Osbert. See, it’s round, like the shape of your lips when you say the beginning of his name.”

The twins managed rough circles. Alain had trouble, but he was only two, and Ragna’s main purpose was to teach them that words were made of letters.

“What letter starts Hubert?” she said.

“I know, I know!” Osbert said again, and he drew a passable H in the snow. The twins copied it, more or less. Alain’s effort looked like three random sticks, but she praised it anyway.