The cart passed between houses, drawing out all those who were not working in the fields: old men and women, children too young to tell the difference between crops and weeds, a shepherd with a sickly lamb in his arms, a carpenter with a hammer and chisel, a milkmaid carrying a butter churn that she continued to agitate as she fell in behind the cart. The dogs came, too, excitedly sniffing the robes of the strangers.

They all arrived at the center of the village. There was a pond, an unfenced communal pasture where a few goats grazed, an alehouse, and a small wooden church. A large house presumably belonged to old Thane Cenbryht, but he did not appear, and Aldred presumed he was away from home.

Godleof brought the cart around so that its rear end was in line with the church door, then released the ox and put it to graze in the pasture.

The relics and the effigy could now be smoothly lifted and carried into the church by the monks: they had practiced this maneuver to be confident of doing it in a dignified manner.

That was Aldred’s plan. But now he saw the village priest standing in front of the church door with his arms folded. He was young, and he looked scared but determined.

That was strange.

“Keep singing,” Aldred murmured to the others, then he approached the priest. “Good day, Father.”

“Good day to you.”

“I’m Prior Aldred of Dreng’s Ferry, and I bring the holy relics of Saint Adolphus.”

“I know,” said the priest.

Aldred frowned. How did he know? Aldred had told no one his plans. But he decided not to get into that discussion. “The saint wishes to spend tonight in the church.”

The man looked troubled, but he said: “Well, he can’t.”

Aldred stared at him, astonished. “You’re willing to provoke the anger of the saint, with his sacred bones there in front of you?”

The priest swallowed hard. “I have my orders.”

“You do God’s will, of course.”

“God’s will, as explained to me by my superiors.”

“Which superior told you to deny Saint Adolphus a temporary resting place in your church?”

“My bishop.”

“Wynstan.”

“Yes.”

Wynstan had ordered the priest to do this—and, worse, he had probably sent the same message to every church between Glastonbury and Dreng’s Ferry. He must have moved quickly, to get word out so fast. And for what purpose? Merely to make it difficult for Aldred to raise money? Was there no limit to the bishop’s malice?

Aldred turned his back on the priest. The poor man was more terrified of Wynstan than he was of Saint Adolphus, and Aldred did not blame him. But Aldred was not ready to give up. The villagers were waiting for a spectacle, and Aldred was going to give them one. If it could not be in the church, it would just have to be outside.

He spoke quietly to Edgar. “The mechanism will work with the effigy on the cart, won’t it?”

“Yes,” said Edgar. “It will work anywhere.”

“Then get ready.”

Aldred moved in front of the cart, faced the villagers, looked around as they fell silent, and started to pray. He began in Latin. They did not understand the words but they were used to that: in fact the Latin would convince doubters, if there were any, that this was a genuine church service.

Then he switched to English. “O most omnipotent and eternal God, who reveals to us through the merits of Saint Adolphus your mercy and compassion, may your saint intercede for us.”

He said the Lord’s Prayer, and the villagers joined in.

After the prayers, Aldred told the story of the saint’s life and death. Only the bare facts were known, but Aldred embroidered freely. He portrayed the Saxon king as a raging egomaniac and Adolphus as amazingly sweet-tempered and pure-hearted, which could not have been far from the truth, he felt sure. He credited Adolphus with numerous invented miracles, believing that the saint must have performed them or similar wonders. The crowd was rapt.

Finally he addressed the saint personally, reminding people that Adolphus was actually present here in Trench village, moving among them, watching and listening. “O holy Adolphus, if there is anyone here, in the Christian village of Trench, who is feeling grief today, we beg you to bring consolation.”

This was Edgar’s cue. Aldred wanted to look back, but resisted the temptation, trusting Edgar to do what had been arranged.

Aldred made his voice boom out over the crowd. “If there is anyone here who has lost something precious, we beg you, O holy saint, to restore it.”

Behind him he heard faint creaking, which told him that Edgar, behind the cart, was pulling smoothly on a stout cord.

“If there is anyone here who has been robbed or cheated, bring justice.”

Suddenly there was a reaction. In the crowd, people began to point at the cart. Others stepped back, murmuring in surprise. Aldred knew why: the effigy, which had been lying on its back on the cart’s flat bed, was beginning to rise up, emerging from its wraps.

“If anyone here is sick, bring healing.”

Everyone in front of Aldred was staring past him in shock. He knew what they were looking at. He had rehearsed this many times with Edgar. The feet of the effigy remained on the cart but the body tilted upward. Edgar could be seen pulling on a cord, but the mechanism he was operating was not visible. To peasants who had never seen pulleys and levers, the statue seemed to be rising up of its own volition.

There was a collective gasp, and Aldred guessed the face had appeared.

“If anyone is tormented by demons, cast them out!”

Aldred had agreed with Edgar that the effigy’s rise would begin slowly then speed up; and now, as it stood upright with a jerk, the eyes came into clear view. A woman screamed and two children ran away. Several dogs barked in fear. Half the people crossed themselves.

“If there is anyone here who has committed a sin, turn your gaze upon him, O holy saint, and give him the courage to confess!”

A young woman near the front fell to her knees and moaned, staring up at the blue-eyed statue. “It was I who stole it,” she said. Tears streamed down her face. “I stole Abbe’s knife. I’m sorry, forgive me, I’m sorry.”

From the back of the crowd came the indignant voice of another woman. “Frigyth! You!”

Aldred had not been expecting this. He had hoped for a miraculous cure. However, Saint Adolphus had given him something different, so he would improvise. “The saint has touched your heart, sister,” he announced. “Where is the stolen knife?”

“In my house.”

“Fetch it now, and bring it to me.”

Frigyth got to her feet.

“Quickly, run!”

She ran through the crowd and entered a nearby house.

Abbe said: “I thought I’d lost it.”

Aldred prayed again. “O holy saint, we thank you for touching the sinner’s heart and making her confess!”

Frigyth reappeared with a shiny knife having an elaborately carved bone handle. She passed it to Aldred. He called Abbe, and she stepped forward. She wore a faintly skeptical look: she was older than Frigyth, and perhaps not so ready to believe in miracles.

Aldred said: “Do you forgive your neighbor?”

“Yes,” said Abbe without enthusiasm.

“Then give her the kiss of mercy.”

Abbe kissed Frigyth’s cheek.

Aldred handed Abbe the knife then said: “All kneel!”

He began a prayer in Latin. This was the cue for the monks to go around with begging bowls. “A gift for the saint, please,” they said quietly to the villagers, who could not easily move away because they were on their knees. A few shook their heads and said: “No money, sorry.” Most fished in their belt purses and came up with farthings and halfpennies. Two men went to their houses and returned with silver. The alehouse keeper gave a penny.

The monks thanked each donor, saying: “Saint Adolphus gives you his blessing.”

Aldred’s spirits were high. The villagers had been awestruck. A woman had confessed a theft. Most people had given money. The event had achieved what he wanted, despite Wynstan’s attempt to undermine it. And if it worked in Trench it would work elsewhere. Perhaps the priory would survive after all.

Aldred’s plan had been that the monks would spend the night in the church, guarding the relics, but that had to be abandoned now. He made a quick decision. “We’ll leave the village in procession and find somewhere else to spend the night,” he said to Godleof.

Aldred had one more message for the villagers. “You may see the saint again,” he said. “Come to the church at Dreng’s Ferry on Whitsunday, the feast of Pentecost. Bring the sick and the troubled and the bereaved.” He thought of telling them to spread the word, then realized that was unnecessary: everyone would be telling the story of today for months to come. “I look forward to welcoming you all.”

The monks returned with their bowls. Edgar lowered the effigy slowly, then covered it with cloths. Godleof returned the ox to the shafts.

The beast lumbered into action. The monks began to sing, and slowly they left the village.

* * *