Eappa said: “What sort of thing did he say to you?”

Wynstan made something up on the spur of the moment. “He said that I should listen more and speak less, because you learn while you’re listening but not when you’re speaking.” Enough of that, he thought. “Tell me, who do you think will be the next archbishop?”

Another monk spoke up. “Alphage of Winchester,” he said.

The man was familiar. Wynstan looked more closely. He had seen that round face and brown beard before. “We know each other, don’t we, brother?” he said warily.

Degbert interrupted. “Brother Wigferth visits Shiring regularly. Canterbury owns property in the West Country, and he comes to collect rents.”

“Yes, of course, Brother Wigferth, it’s good to see you again.” Wynstan remembered that Wigferth was a friend of Prior Aldred’s, and resolved to be cautious. “Why do people assume that Alphage will succeed to the archbishopric?”

“Elfric is a monk, and so is Alphage,” Wigferth replied. “And Winchester is our senior cathedral after Canterbury and York.”

“Very logical,” said Wynstan, “although perhaps not decisive.”

Wigferth persisted. “And Alphage ordered the building of the famous church organ at Winchester. They say you can hear it a mile away!”

Wigferth was clearly an admirer of Alphage’s, Wynstan thought—or perhaps he was simply against Wynstan, being a friend of Aldred’s.

Wynstan said: “According to the Rule of Saint Benedict, the monks have the right to elect their abbot, don’t they?”

“Yes, but Canterbury doesn’t have an abbot,” Wigferth said. “We’re led by the archbishop.”

“Or, to put it another way, the archbishop is the abbot.” Wynstan knew that the monks’ privileges were not clear. The king claimed the right to appoint the archbishop, and so did the pope. As always, the rules did not matter as much as the men. There would be a struggle, and the strongest and smartest would win.

Wynstan went on: “In any case, it will take a great man to live up to the example set by Elfric. From all I hear, he has ruled wisely and fairly.” He left the hint of a question at the end of his sentence.

Eappa took the bait. “Elfric has strict ideas about bedding,” he said, and the others laughed.

“How so?”

“He thinks a monk should be denied the luxury of a mattress.”

“Ah.” Monks often slept on boards, sometimes without any kind of cushion. The bony Eappa must have found that uncomfortable. “I’ve always believed that monks need their sleep, so that they can be fully alert when they perform their devotions,” said Wynstan, and the monks nodded eagerly.

A monk called Forthred, who had medical knowledge, disagreed. “Men can sleep perfectly well on boards,” he said. “Self-denial is our watchword.”

Wynstan said: “You’re right, brother, though there is a balance to be struck, is there not? Monks should not eat meat every day, of course, but beef once a week helps to build up their strength. Monks should not indulge themselves by having pets, but sometimes a cat is needed to keep down the mice.”

The monks murmured their approval.

Wynstan had done enough for one day to establish himself as a lenient leader. Any more and they might begin to suspect that he was merely currying favor—which was the truth. He turned back into the church.

“We need to do something about Wigferth,” he murmured to Degbert as soon as they were out of earshot. “He might become the leader of an anti-Wynstan faction.”

“He has a wife and three children in Trench,” Degbert said. “The peasants there don’t know he’s a monk, they think he’s a regular priest. If we revealed his secret here in Canterbury that would undermine him.”

Wynstan reflected for a moment then shook his head. “Ideally Wigferth should be absent from Canterbury when the monks make their decision. I’ll have to think about that. Meanwhile, we should talk to the treasurer.”

Treasurer Sigefryth was the most senior monk under the archbishop, and Wynstan needed to get him on his side.

“He has the timber house just outside the west end of the church,” Degbert said.

They walked down the nave and passed through the great west doorway. Wynstan pulled his hood over his head to keep the rain off. They hurried across the muddy ground to the nearest building.

The treasurer was a small man with a large bald head. He greeted Wynstan warily but without fear. Wynstan said: “There’s no change in the condition of our beloved archbishop.”

Sigefryth said: “Perhaps we may be blessed with his presence a little longer.”

“Not much, sadly,” Wynstan said. “I think the monks here are thankful to God that you are here, Sigefryth, to watch over the affairs of Canterbury.”

Sigefryth acknowledged the compliment with a nod.

Wynstan smiled and spoke in a light tone. “I always think a treasurer has an impossible job.”

Sigefryth looked intrigued. “How so?”

“He is supposed to make sure there is always enough money, but he has no control over the spending of it!”

Sigefryth at last permitted himself a smile. “That is true.”

Wynstan went on: “I think an abbot—or prior, or whoever fulfills the role—should consult the treasurer about expenditure, not just about income.”

“It would prevent a lot of problems,” Sigefryth said.

That was enough, Wynstan thought again. He needed to ingratiate himself, but in a way that was not too obvious. Now to deal with Wigferth. “This year of all years a treasurer has reason to look anxious.” There had been a poor harvest, and people had starved.

“Dead men pay no rent.”

An unsentimental man, Wynstan thought. I like that. He said: “And the bad weather is continuing. There’s flooding all over southern England. On my way here I kept having to make long diversions.” This was much exaggerated. There had been heavy rain, but it had not delayed him more than a few days.

Sigefryth tutted sympathetically.

“And it seems to be getting worse. I hope you’re not planning a journey.”

“Not for a while. We’ll have rents to collect at Christmas, from those of our tenants who are still alive. I’ll be sending Brother Wigferth to your neighborhood.”

“If you want Wigferth to get there by Christmas, send him soon,” said Wynstan. “It’s going to take him a long time.”

“I’ll do that,” said Sigefryth. “Thank you for the warning.”

So gullible, Wynstan thought with satisfaction.

Wigferth left the next day.

* * *

Ragna’s sons were having a snowball fight. The twins, four years old, were ganging up on Osbert, who was six. Alain, two years old and toddling, was screaming with laughter.

Ragna’s small household watched with her: Cat, Gilda, Winthryth, and Grimweald, the bodyguard. Grimweald was no use: as one of Wigelm’s men-at-arms, he probably would not protect Ragna from the person most likely to attack her.

However, this was a happy moment. All four boys were in good health. Osbert was already learning to read and write. This was not the life Ragna had wanted, and she yearned for Edgar still, but she had things to be thankful for.

When Wigelm became ealdorman he no longer wanted to be bothered with the detailed administration of Combe, so Ragna deputized, and in practice she was reeve of Combe and of Outhen; although Wigelm still visited and held court.

Wigelm appeared now, accompanied by a young concubine, Meganthryth. They stood beside Ragna, watching the boys play. Ragna did not speak to Wigelm or even look at him. Her loathing of him had only deepened in the two years they had been husband and wife. He was both cruel and stupid.

Fortunately she did not have to be with him much. Most nights he got drunk and was carried to bed. When sober enough he spent the night with Meganthryth, who nevertheless had borne him no children. Occasionally the old desire overcame him and he visited Ragna. She did not resist him, but closed her eyes and thought about something else until he had finished. Wigelm enjoyed sex against the woman’s will, but he disliked indifference, and Ragna’s apparent apathy helped to discourage him.

Osbert threw a large snowball wildly and it hit Alain full in the face. The little boy was shocked, and he burst into tears and ran to Ragna. She wiped his cheeks with her sleeve and comforted him.

Wigelm said: “Don’t be a crybaby, Alain. It’s only snow, it doesn’t hurt.”

His harsh tone made Alain sob harder.

Ragna muttered: “He’s only two.”

Wigelm did not like arguments: he was better at fights. “Don’t mollycoddle the boy,” he said. “I don’t want a namby-pamby son. He’s going to be a warrior, like his father.”

Ragna prayed every day that Alain would grow up to be as different as possible from his father. But she said no more: discussion with Wigelm was profitless.

“Don’t you start teaching him to read,” Wigelm added. Wigelm himself could not read. “That’s for priests and women.”

We’ll see about that, Ragna thought, but she said nothing.

“You raise him right,” Wigelm said. “Or else.” He walked away, and his concubine trailed after him.