Curious, he went to the door and looked in. He saw a charcoal fire on a raised hearth, with a pair of bellows beside it for making the heat fiercer. A block of iron firmly stuck into a massive section of a tree trunk formed an anvil about waist high. A clergyman was bent over it, working with a hammer and a narrow chisel, carving a disc of what looked like silver. A lamp stood on the anvil, lighting his work. He had a bucket of water, undoubtedly for quenching hot metal, and a heavyweight pair of shears, probably for cutting sheet metal. Behind him was a door that presumably led into the main house.

The man was a jeweler, Aldred guessed. He had a rack of neat, precise tools: awls, pliers, heavy trimming knives, and clippers with small blades and long handles. He looked about thirty, a plump little man with double chins, concentrating hard.

Not wanting to startle him, Aldred coughed.

The precaution was ineffective. The man jumped, dropped his tools, and said: “Oh, my God!”

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Aldred said. “I beg your pardon.”

The man looked frightened. “What do you want?”

“Nothing at all,” said Aldred in his most reassuring voice. “I saw the light and worried that something might be on fire.” He was improvising, not wanting to seem nosy. “I’m Brother Aldred, from Shiring Abbey.”

“I’m Cuthbert, a priest here at the minster. But visitors aren’t allowed in my workshop.”

Aldred frowned. “What are you so anxious about?”

Cuthbert hesitated. “I thought you were a thief.”

“I suppose you have precious metals here.”

Involuntarily Cuthbert looked over his shoulder. Aldred followed his gaze to an ironbound chest by the door into the house. That would be Cuthbert’s treasury, where he kept the gold, silver, and copper he used, Aldred guessed.

Many priests practiced different arts: music, poetry, wall painting. There was nothing strange about Cuthbert’s being a jeweler. He would make ornaments for the church, probably, and might have a profitable sideline in jewelry for sale: there was no shame in a clergyman making money. So why did he act guilty?

“You must have good eyes, to do such precise work.” Aldred looked at what was on the workbench. Cuthbert seemed to be engraving an intricate picture of strange animals into the silver disc. “What are you making?”

“A brooch.”

A new voice said: “What the devil are you doing, poking your nose in here?”

The man addressing Aldred was not partially bald in the usual way, but completely hairless. He must be Degbert Baldhead, the dean. Aldred said calmly: “My word, you folks are touchy. The door was open and I looked in. What on earth is the matter with you? It almost seems as if you might have something to hide.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Degbert said. “Cuthbert needs quiet and privacy to do highly delicate work, that’s all. Please leave him alone.”

“That’s not the story Cuthbert told. He said he was worried about thieves.”

“Both.” Degbert reached past Aldred and pulled the door so that it slammed, shutting himself and Aldred out of the workshop. “Who are you?”

“I’m the armarius at Shiring Abbey. My name is Aldred.”

“A monk,” said Degbert. “I suppose you expect us to give you supper.”

“And a place to sleep tonight. I’m on a long journey.”

Degbert was clearly reluctant, but he could not refuse hospitality to a fellow clergyman, not without some strong reason. “Well, just try to keep your questions to yourself, he said, and he walked away and entered the house by the main door.

Aldred stood thinking for a few moments, but he could not imagine the reason for the hostility he had experienced.

He gave up puzzling and followed Degbert into the house.

It was not what he expected.

There should have been a large crucifix on prominent display, to indicate that the building was dedicated to the service of God. A minster should always have a lectern bearing a holy book so that passages could be read to the clergy while they ate their frugal meals. Any wall hangings should feature biblical scenes that would remind them of God’s laws.

This place had no crucifix or lectern, and a tapestry on the wall showed a hunting scene. Most of the men present had the shaved patch on top of the head called a tonsure, but there were also women and children who looked as if they were at home. It had the air of a large, affluent family house. “This is a minster?” he said incredulously.

Degbert heard him. “Who do you think you are, to come in here with that attitude?” he said.

Aldred was not surprised at his reaction. Lax priests were often hostile to the stricter monks, suspecting them of a holier-than-thou attitude—sometimes with reason. This minster was beginning to look like the kind of place that the reform movement was directed at. However, Aldred suspended judgment. Degbert and his team might be carrying out all the required services impeccably, and that was the most important thing.

Aldred put his box and his saddlebag up against the wall. From the saddlebag he took some grain. He went outside and fed it to Dismas, then hobbled the pony’s hind legs so that it could not wander far in the night. Then he returned inside.

He had hoped that the minster might be an oasis of calm contemplation in a bustling world. He had imagined spending the evening talking to men with interests similar to his own. They might discuss some question of biblical scholarship, such as the authenticity of the Epistle of Barnabas. They could talk about the troubles of the beleaguered English king, Ethelred the Misled, or even about issues in international politics, such as the war between Muslim Iberia and the Christian north of Spain. He had hoped they would be keen to hear all about Normandy, and in particular Jumièges Abbey.

But these men were not leading that kind of life. They were talking to their wives and playing with their children, drinking ale and cider. One man was attaching an iron buckle to a leather belt; another cutting the hair of a little boy. No one was reading or praying.

There was nothing wrong with domestic life, of course; a man should take care of his wife and children. But a clergyman had other duties, too.

The church bell rang. The men unhurriedly stopped what they were doing and prepared themselves for the evening service. After a few minutes they ambled out, and Aldred followed. The women and children stayed behind, and no one came from the village.

The church was in a state of disrepair that shocked Aldred. The entrance arch was propped up by a tree trunk, and the whole building seemed not quite straight. Degbert should have spent his money maintaining it. But of course a married man put his family first. That was why priests should be single.

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