They went inside.

Aldred noticed an inscription carved into the wall. The letters were timeworn, but he could make out the message. Lord Begmund of Northwood had built the church and was buried here, the inscription said, and he had left money in his will to pay for priests to say prayers for his soul.

Aldred had been dismayed by the lifestyle at the house, but the service shocked him. The hymns were a toneless chant, the prayers were gabbled, and two deacons argued throughout the ceremony about whether a wild cat could kill a hunting dog. By the final amen, Aldred was fuming.

It was no wonder that Dreng showed no shame about his two wives and his slave prostitute. There was no moral leadership in this hamlet. How could Dean Degbert reprove a man for defying the church’s teaching on marriage when he himself was just as bad?

Dreng had disgusted Aldred, but Degbert enraged him. These men were serving neither God nor their community. Clergymen took money from poor peasants and lived in comfort; the least they could do in return was to perform the services conscientiously and pray for the souls of the people who supported them. But these men were simply taking the church’s money and using it to support an idle life. They were worse than thieves. It was blasphemy.

But there was nothing to be gained, he told himself, by giving Degbert a piece of his mind and having a row.

He was now highly curious. Degbert was fearless in his transgression, probably because he had the protection of a powerful bishop—but that was not all. Normally, villagers were quick to complain about lazy or sinful priests; they liked moral leaders to have the credibility that came from obeying their own rules. But no one Aldred had spoken to today had criticized Degbert or the minster. In fact most people had been reluctant to answer questions. Only Mildred and her sons had been friendly and open. Aldred knew he did not have the common touch—he wished he could be like Lady Ragna of Cherbourg, and make everyone his friend—but he did not think his manner was bad enough to explain the taciturnity of Dreng’s Ferry residents. Something else was going on.

He was determined to find out what it was.

CHAPTER 6

Early August 997

he rusty old tools left behind by the previous tenant of the farm included a scythe, the long-handled reaping tool that enabled a person to cut the crop without stooping. Edgar cleaned the iron, sharpened the blade, and affixed a new wooden handle. The brothers took turns reaping the grass. The rain held off and the grass turned to hay, which Ma sold to Bebbe for a fat pig, a barrel of eels, a rooster, and six hens.

Next they reaped the oats, then came the threshing. Edgar made a flail from two sticks—a long handle and a short swipple—joined by a strip of leather that he had failed to return to Bebbe. On a breezy day he tried it out, watched by the dog, Brindle. He spread some ears of oats on a flat patch of dry ground and began to flog them. He was no farmer, and he was making this up as he went along, with Ma’s help. But the flail seemed to be doing what it should: the nutritious seeds became separated from the worthless husks, which blew away in the wind.