The ruffian said: “What’s in the box?”

“Eight holy books.”

“Valuable, then.”

Aldred imagined the man knocking at the door of a monastery and offering to sell a book. He would be flogged for his cheek, and the book would be confiscated. “Valuable perhaps to someone who could sell them without arousing suspicion,” Aldred said. “Are you hungry, my son? Do you want some bread?”

The man seemed to hesitate, then said defiantly: “I don’t need bread, I need money.”

The hesitation told Aldred that the man was hungry. Food might satisfy him. “I have no money to give you.” This was true, technically: the money in Aldred’s purse belonged to Shiring Abbey.

The man seemed lost for words, not sure how to respond to the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. After a pause he said: “A man could sell a horse easier than a box of books.”

“He could,” said Aldred. “But someone might say: ‘Brother Aldred had a pony with a white cross on its forehead, just like that, so where did you get this beast, friend?’ And what would the thief say to that?”

“You’re a clever one.”

“And you’re a bold one. But you’re not stupid, are you? You’re not going to murder a monk for the sake of eight books and a pony, none of which you can sell.” Aldred decided this was the moment to end the interchange. With his heart in his mouth he urged Dismas forward.

The outlaw stood his ground for a moment or two then stepped aside, faltering with indecision. Aldred rode past him, pretending indifference.

Once past, he was tempted to kick Dismas into a trot, but that would have betrayed his fear, so he forced himself to let the pony walk slowly away. He was shaking, he realized.

Then the man said: “I would like some bread.”

That was a plea that a monk could not ignore. It was Aldred’s holy duty to give food to the hungry. Jesus himself had said: “Feed my lambs.” Aldred had to obey, even at the risk of his life. He reined in.

He had half a loaf and a wedge of cheese in his saddlebag. He took out the bread and gave it to the outlaw, who immediately tore off a piece and crammed it into his mouth, stuffing it through the hole in his decrepit helmet. Clearly he was starving.

“Share it with your friend,” Aldred said.

The other man came out of the bushes, hood pulled half over his face so that Aldred could hardly see him.

The first man looked reluctant, but broke the loaf and shared it.

The other muttered from behind his hand: “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, thank God who sent me.”

“Amen.”

Aldred gave him the cheese. “Share that, too.”

While they were dividing the cheese, Aldred rode away.

A minute later he looked behind and saw no sign of the outlaws. He was safe, it seemed. He sent up a prayer of thanks.