Wigelm and Wynstan had all the power, that was the curse. They could get away with just about anything. Wynstan was clever, Wigelm was thuggish, and both of them were willing to defy the king and the law. If she could have done something to weaken them, she would have. But it seemed nothing could stop them.

Aldred approached her. She said: “Are your messengers back from Normandy yet?”

“No,” he said.

“They’ve been away months.”

“They must be having trouble finding him. Builders often move around. They have to go where the work is.”

He looked worried and distracted, she now saw. She said: “How are you?”

“I understand that kings avoid conflict whenever they can,” he said angrily. “But sometimes a king should rule!”

Ragna had exactly the same complaint, but such things should be said privately. She looked around uneasily. However, no one seemed to have heard. “What’s brought that on?”

“Wynstan has stirred up everyone at Canterbury so that there’s now an anti-Alphage faction, and Ethelred is hesitating because he doesn’t want trouble with the monks.”

“You want the king to put his foot down, announce that Wynstan is unfit to be archbishop, and impose Alphage regardless of the monks’ opinion.”

“It strikes me that a king should take a moral stand!”

“Those monks, living so far away from Shiring, simply don’t know what we all know about Wynstan.”

“True.”

Ragna suddenly recalled something that could damage Wynstan. She had almost forgotten it in her anguish about Alain. “What if . . .”

She hesitated. She had decided to keep this secret, for fear of reprisals. But Wigelm had already done his worst. He had carried out the threat he had hinted at for so long. He had taken away Ragna’s child. And his cruelty had a consequence that undoubtedly he had not foreseen: he no longer had a hold over her.

As she drank in this realization she felt liberated. From now on, she would do anything in her power to undermine Wigelm and Wynstan. It would still be dangerous, but she was prepared for risk. It was worth it to undermine the brothers.

She said: “What if you could prove to the monks that Wynstan is unfit?”

Aldred looked suddenly alert. “What do you mean?”

Ragna hesitated again. She was eager to weaken Wynstan but at the same time afraid of him. She took her courage in both hands. “Wynstan has Whore’s Leprosy.”

Aldred’s mouth fell open. “God save us! Really?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Hildi has seen a growth on his neck that is characteristic of the disease. And Agnes, his mistress, had the same kind of growth, and died.”

“But this changes everything!” Aldred said eagerly. “Does the king know?”

“No one knows except Hildi and me—and now you.”

“Then you must tell him!”

Fear made Ragna pause. “I’d rather Wynstan did not know that I had spread the news.”

“Then I’ll tell the king, without mentioning your name.”

“Hold on.” Aldred was in a rush, but Ragna was figuring out the best approach. “You have to be careful with a king. Ethelred knows you favor Alphage, and he might view your intervention as opposition to his will.”

Aldred looked frustrated. “We have to use this information!”

“Of course,” Ragna said. “But there might be a better way.”

* * *

Bishop Wynstan and Archdeacon Degbert often attended meetings in the chapter house, where the monks discussed the daily business of the monastery and the cathedral. It was not usual for visitors to take part, but Brother Eappa had suggested it, and Treasurer Sigefryth had become an ally of Wynstan’s. They went along to the first meeting after Easter.

After the chapter had been read, Sigefryth, who chaired the meetings, said: “We have to decide what to do about the riverside pasture. Local people are using it for grazing, even though it belongs to us.”

Wynstan had no interest in such a topic, but he put on an earnest expression. He had to pretend that anything affecting the monks was of concern to him.

Brother Forthred, the medical monk, said: “We don’t use that field. You can’t blame them.”

“True,” said Sigefryth, “but if we allow it to be treated as communal property, we may have trouble in the future when we need it for ourselves.”

Brother Wigferth, who had just returned from Winchester, spoke up. “My brethren, forgive me for interrupting, but there is something much more important that I believe we should talk about right away.”

Sigefryth could hardly refuse such a strong plea from Wigferth. “Very well,” he said.

Wynstan perked up. He had agonized over whether to go to Winchester for Easter. He hated to miss a royal court so close to home. But in the end he had decided it was more important to keep his finger on the pulse here in Canterbury. Now he was eager to learn what had gone on.

“I attended the Easter court,” Wigferth said. “Many people spoke to me about the question of who is to be the next archbishop of Canterbury.”

Sigefryth was offended. “Why would they speak to you?” he said. “Did you pretend to be our representative? You’re just a rent collector!”

“Indeed I am,” said Wigferth. “But if people speak to me, I’m obliged to listen. It’s only good manners.”

Wynstan had a bad feeling. “Never mind about that,” he said, impatient with this quarrel about mere etiquette. “What were they saying, Brother . . . Brother . . . ?” He could not think of the name of the monk who had gone to Winchester.

“You know me well, bishop. My name is Wigferth.”

“Of course, of course, what did they say?”

Wigferth looked scared but determined. “People are saying that Bishop Wynstan is unfit to be archbishop of Canterbury.”

Was that all? “It’s not up to people!” Wynstan said scornfully. “It’s the pope who awards the podium.”

Wigferth said: “You mean the pallium.”

Wynstan realized he had misspoken. The pallium was an embroidered sash given by the pope to new archbishops as a symbol of his approval. Embarrassed, Wynstan denied his error. “That’s what I said, the pallium.”

Sigefryth said: “Brother Wigferth, did they say why they object to Bishop Wynstan?”

“Yes.”

The room went quiet, and Wynstan’s unease deepened. He did not know what was coming, and ignorance was dangerous.

Wigferth seemed glad to have been asked that question. He looked around the chapter house and raised his voice to make sure everyone heard. “Bishop Wynstan has a disease called Whore’s Leprosy.”

Pandemonium broke out. Everybody spoke at once. Wynstan jumped to his feet yelling: “It’s a lie! It’s a lie!”

Sigefryth stood in the middle of the room saying: “Quiet, please, everyone, quiet, please,” until the others got tired of shouting. Then he said: “Bishop Wynstan, what do you say to this?”

Wynstan knew he should stay calm but he was unnerved. “I say that Brother Wigferth has a wife and child in the west of England village of Trench, and that as a fornicating monk he has no credibility.”

Wigferth said coolly: “Even if the accusation were true it would have no bearing on the question of the bishop’s health.”

Wynstan realized immediately that he had taken the wrong tack. What he had said sounded like a tit-for-tat accusation, something he might have made up on the spot. He seemed to be losing his touch. He thought: what’s the matter with me?

He sat down, to look less bothered, and said: “How would those people know anything about my health?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized he had made another mistake. In an argument it was never good to ask a question: that simply gave the opponent an opening.

Wigferth seized his chance. “Bishop Wynstan, your mistress, Agnes of Shiring, died of Whore’s Leprosy.”

Wynstan was silenced. Agnes had never been his mistress, just an occasional indulgence. He knew she was dead—the news had reached him in a letter from Deacon Ithamar. But the deacon had not specified what had killed her, and Wynstan had not been interested enough to ask.

Wigferth went on: “One of the symptoms is mental confusion: forgetting people’s names and mixing up words. Saying podium for pallium, for example. The sufferer’s mental state gets worse and eventually he goes mad.”

Wynstan found his voice. “Am I to be condemned for nothing more than a sip of the tongue?”

The monks burst out laughing, and Wynstan realized he had made another mistake: he had intended to say a slip of the tongue. He was humiliated and enraged. “I’m not going mad!” he roared.

Wigferth had not finished. “The infallible sign of the disease is a large red lump on the face or neck.”

Wynstan’s hand flew to his throat, covering the carbuncle; and a second later he realized he had given himself away.

Wigferth said: “Don’t try to hide it, bishop.”

“It’s just a boil,” Wynstan said. Reluctantly he moved his hand away.

Forthred said: “Let me see.” He approached Wynstan. Wynstan was obliged to let him: anything else would have been an admission. He sat still while Forthred examined the lump.