Blod looked at Dreng with contempt. “You go across and see if you do any better.”

One of the soldiers was listening to the interchange. He was an older man armed with a good sword, so he was probably some kind of captain. He said to Dreng: “The king doesn’t pay tolls. You’d better ferry the men across. Otherwise we’ll probably burn this entire village.”

Aldred said: “There will be no need for violence. I’m Aldred, prior of the monastery.”

“I’m Cenric, one of the quartermasters.”

“How many men in your army, Cenric?”

“About two thousand.”

“This one slave girl will not be able to ferry them all across. It’s going to take a day or two. Why don’t you operate the boat yourselves?”

Dreng said: “What business is this of yours, Aldred? It’s not your boat!”

Aldred said: “Be quiet, Dreng.”

“Who do you think you are?”

Cenric said to Dreng: “Shut up, you stupid oaf, or I’ll cut out your tongue and stuff it down your gullet.”

Dreng opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to realize that Cenric was not making an empty threat, but meant exactly what he said. Dreng changed his mind and quickly closed his mouth.

Cenric said: “You’re right, prior, it’s the only way. We’ll make a rule: last man aboard poles the boat back then across again. I’ll stand here for an hour and make sure they do it.”

Dreng looked over his shoulder and saw some of the soldiers entering the tavern. In a frightened voice he said: “Well, they’ll have to pay for their ale.”

“Then you’d better go and serve them,” said Cenric. “We’ll try to make sure the men don’t expect free drinks.” Sarcastically he added: “As you’ve been so helpful about the ferry.”

Dreng hurried inside.

Cenric spoke to Blod. “One more trip, slave girl, then the men will take over from you.”

Blod stepped into the boat and poled off.

Centric said to Aldred: “We’ll want to buy any stores you monks have of food and drink.”

“I’ll see what we can spare.”

Cenric shook his head. “We’re going to buy them whether you can spare them or not, Father Prior.” His tone was without malice but brooked no opposition. “The army doesn’t take no for an answer.”

And they would set the prices of everything they bought, Aldred thought, and no haggling.

He asked the question that had been on his mind all through the conversation. “Is King Ethelred with you?”

“Oh, yes. He’s near the front of the horde, with the senior noblemen. He’ll be here shortly.”

“Then I’d better prepare a meal for him at the monastery.”

Aldred left the riverside and walked up the hill to the home of Bucca Fish, where he bought all the fresh fish on the slab, promising to pay later. Bucca was glad to sell, fearing that otherwise his stocks might be commandeered or stolen.

Aldred returned to the monastery and gave orders for dinner. He told the monks that any quartermasters who demanded stores should be told that everything was earmarked for the king. They began to lay the table, putting out wine and bread, nuts and dried fruit.

Aldred opened a locked box and took out a silver cross on a leather thong. He put it around his neck and relocked the box. The cross would indicate to all the visitors that he was the senior monk.

What was he going to say to the king? After years of wishing that Ethelred would come and set matters right in the semilawless region of Shiring, suddenly Aldred found himself searching for the words he needed. The wrongs committed by Wilwulf, Wynstan, and Wigelm made a long and complicated story, and many of their crimes could not easily be proved. He considered showing the king his copy of Wilwulf’s will; but that told only part of the story, and anyway the king might be offended to be shown a will he had not authorized. Aldred really needed a week to write it all down—and then the king probably would not read it: many noblemen were literate but reading was not usually their favorite occupation.

He heard cheering. That must be for the king. He left the monastery and hurried down the hill.

The ferry was approaching. A soldier was poling it, and on board was only one man, standing at the forward end of the boat, and a horse. The man wore a patterned red tunic with gold-colored embroidery and a blue cloak with silk edging. His cloth leggings were secured by narrow leather binding straps, and he had laced boots of soft leather. A long sword in a scabbard hung from a yellow silk sash. This was undoubtedly the king.

Ethelred was not looking toward the village. His head was turned to the left and he was staring at the scorched ruins of the bridge, the blackened beams still disfiguring the waterfront.

As Ethelred led his horse off the ferry onto dry land, Aldred saw that he was in a fury.

Ethelred addressed Aldred, knowing by the cross that he was in authority here. “I expected to cross by a bridge!” he said accusingly.

That explains why he chose to come this way, Aldred thought.

“What the devil happened?” the king demanded.

“The bridge was burned down, my lord king,” said Aldred.

Ethelred narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “You didn’t say it burned, you said it was burned. By whom?”

“We don’t know.”

“But you suspect.”

Aldred shrugged. “It would be foolish to make accusations that cannot be substantiated—especially to a king.”

“I would suspect the ferryman. What’s his name?”

“Dreng.”

“Of course.”

“But his cousin, Bishop Wynstan, swore that Dreng was at Shiring on the night the bridge burned.”

“I see.”

“Please come with me to our humble monastery and take some refreshment, my lord king.”

Ethelred left his horse for someone else to deal with and walked up the slope beside Aldred. “How long is it going to take for my army to cross this cursed river?”

“Two days.”

“Hell.”

They went inside. Ethelred looked around in some surprise. “Well, you said ‘humble,’ and you meant it,” he said.

Aldred poured him a cup of wine. There was no special chair, but the king sat on a bench without complaint. Aldred guessed that even a king could not be too fastidious when on the road with his army. Studying his face surreptitiously, Aldred realized that although Ethelred was not yet forty years old, he looked nearer fifty.

Aldred still had not figured out how best to broach the large issue of tyranny in Shiring, but the conversation about the bridge had given him a new idea, and he said: “I could build a new bridge, if I had the money.” This was disingenuous, for the old one had cost him nothing.

“I can’t pay for it,” said Ethelred immediately.

Aldred said thoughtfully: “But you could help me pay for it.”

Ethelred sighed, and Aldred realized that he probably heard similar words from half the people he met. “What do you want?” said the king.

“If the monastery could collect tolls, and hold a weekly market and an annual fair, the monks would get their money back, and also be able to pay for the maintenance of the bridge in the long term.” Aldred was thinking on his feet, improvising. He had not anticipated this conversation but he knew he had an opportunity and he was determined to seize it. This might be the only time in his life that he talked to the king.

Ethelred said: “What’s stopping you?”

“You’ve seen what happened to our bridge. We’re monks, we’re vulnerable.”

“What do you need from me?”

“A royal charter. At present we’re just a cell of Shiring Abbey, formed when the old minster was closed for corruption—they were forging coins here.”

Ethelred’s face darkened. “I remember. Bishop Wynstan denied all knowledge.”

Aldred did not want to get into that. “We have no guaranteed rights, and that makes us weak. We need a charter that says the monastery is independent, and is entitled to build a bridge and charge a toll and hold markets and a fair. Then predatory noblemen would hesitate to attack us.”

“And if I give you this charter you will build me a bridge.”

“I will,” said Aldred, silently hoping that Edgar would be as helpful as previously. “And fast,” he added optimistically.

“Then consider it done,” said the king.

Aldred would not consider it done until it was done. “I will have the charter drawn up immediately,” he said. “It can be witnessed before you leave here tomorrow.”

“Good,” said the king. “Now, what have you got for me to eat?”

* * *

Wigelm said to Wynstan: “The king is on his way. We don’t know exactly where he is, but he will be here in a matter of days.”

“Very likely,” said Wynstan anxiously.

“And then he will confirm me as ealdorman.”

They were in the ealdorman’s compound. Wigelm was acting ealdorman, though he had never received the king’s blessing. The two brothers were standing in front of the great hall, looking east, at the road that led into the town of Shiring, as if Ethelred’s army might appear there at any moment.

So far there was no sign, though a single rider was approaching at a trot, his horse’s breath steaming in the cold air.