The abbey today was a long way from that ideal. Aldred’s superiors did not share his ambitions. Abbot Osmund was amiable and lazy. He had been good to Aldred, promoting him young, but that was mainly because he knew that once he had given Aldred a job he could consider it done, and need exert himself no further. Osmund would go along with any proposal that did not require him to do any work. More stubborn opposition would come from the treasurer, Hildred, who was against any proposal that required spending, as if the mission of the monastery was saving up money, rather than bringing enlightenment to the world.

Perhaps Osmund and Hildred had been sent by God to teach Aldred patience.

Aldred was not completely alone in his hopes. Among monks generally there was a long-standing movement for reform of old institutions that had slipped into idleness and self-indulgence. Many beautiful new manuscript books were being produced in Winchester, Worcester, and Canterbury. But the drive for improvement had not yet reached Shiring Abbey.

Aldred sang:

Now we must honor the guardian of heaven

The work of the father of glory

He stopped suddenly, seeing a man appear on the path in front of him.

Aldred had not even observed where he came from. He wore no shoes on his filthy feet, he was clad in rags, and he wore a rusty iron battle helmet that hid most of his face. A bloody rag tied around his upper arm evidenced a recent wound. He stood in the middle of the path, blocking Aldred’s way. He might have been a poor homeless beggar, but he looked more like an outlaw.

Aldred’s heart sank. He should not have taken the risk of traveling alone. But this morning, in the alehouse at Mudeford Crossing, there had been no one going his way, and he had yielded to impatience and set off, instead of waiting a day or more until he could proceed with others in a group.

Now he reined in. It was important not to appear afraid, as with a dangerous dog. Trying to keep his voice calm, he said: “God bless you, my son.”

The man replied in a hoarse tone, and the thought crossed Aldred’s mind that he might be disguising his voice. “What kind of priest are you?”

Aldred’s haircut, with a shaved patch at the top of his head, indicated a man of God, but that might mean anything from a lowly acolyte up. “I’m a monk of Shiring Abbey.”

“Traveling alone? Aren’t you afraid of being robbed?”

Aldred was afraid of being murdered. “No one can rob me,” he said with false confidence. “I have nothing.”

“Except for that box.”

“The box isn’t mine. It belongs to God. A fool might rob God, of course, and condemn his soul to eternal damnation.” Aldred spotted another man half hidden by a bush. Even if he had been inclined to make a fight of it, he could not take on two of them.