All peasants lived in such insecurity, never sure that this year’s harvest would be enough to keep them alive until next year’s. Mildred’s family were better off than some. “Perhaps you were lucky to get this place.”

Mildred said crisply: “We’ll see.”

Aldred said: “How did it happen that you came to Dreng’s Ferry?”

“We were offered this farm by the bishop of Shiring.”

“Wynstan?” Aldred knew the bishop, of course, and had a low opinion of him.

“Our landlord is Degbert Baldhead, the dean at the minster, who is the bishop’s cousin.”

“Fascinating.” Aldred was beginning to understand Dreng’s Ferry. Degbert and Dreng were brothers, and Wynstan was their cousin. They made a sinister little trio. “Does Wynstan ever come here?”

“He visited soon after Midsummer.”

Edgar put in: “Two weeks after Midsummer Day.”

Mildred went on: “He gave a lamb to every house in the village. That’s how we got ours.”

“The bountiful bishop,” Aldred mused.

Mildred was quick to pick up his undertone. “You sound skeptical,” she said. “You don’t believe in his kindness?”

“I’ve never known him to do good without an ulterior motive. You’re not looking at one of Wynstan’s admirers.”

Mildred smiled. “No argument here.”

Another of the boys spoke. It was Eadbald, the middle son, with the freckled face. His voice was deep and resonant. “Edgar killed a Viking,” he said.

The eldest, Erman, put in: “He says he did.”

Aldred said to Edgar: “Did you kill a Viking?”

“I went up behind him,” Edgar said. “He was struggling with . . . a woman. He didn’t see me until it was too late.”

“And the woman?” Aldred had noticed the hesitation and guessed she was someone special.

“The Viking threw her to the ground just before I struck him. She hit her head on a stone step. I was too late to save her. She died.” Edgar’s rather lovely hazel eyes filled with tears.

“What was her name?”

“Sungifu.” It came in a whisper.

“I will pray for her soul.”

“Thank you.”

It was clear Edgar had loved her. Aldred pitied him. He also felt relieved: a boy who could love a woman that much was unlikely to sin with another man. Aldred might be tempted, but Edgar would not. Aldred could stop worrying.

Eadbald, the freckled one, spoke again. “The dean hates Edgar,” he said.

Aldred said: “Why?”

Edgar said: “I argued with him.”

“And you won the argument, I suppose, thereby annoying him.”

“He said that we are in the year nine hundred and ninety-seven, so that means Jesus is nine hundred and ninety-seven years old. I pointed out that if Jesus was born in the year one, his first birthday would fall in the year two, and he would be nine hundred and ninety-six next Christmas. It’s simple. But Degbert said I was an arrogant young pup.”

Aldred laughed. “Degbert was wrong, though it’s a mistake others have made.”

Mildred said disapprovingly: “You don’t argue with priests, even when they’re wrong.”