They gave up.

Edgar was not a thief, but Gab was. There had been only five notches on his stick, whereas Edgar had bought ten stones. If Gab recorded only half of what he sold, he would pay Ragna only half of what was due. But for that he would need the cooperation of the village headman, who was responsible for making sure the villagers paid the right dues. Dudda would betray Gab’s scam—unless he were paid to keep quiet. And right now in front of Edgar’s eyes Gab and Dudda were drinking together and talking seriously, as if they were discussing some important common interest.

Edgar decided to speak to Seric about it. Seric was in the alehouse, talking to a shaven-headed man in a black robe who must be the village priest. Edgar waited until he left, then followed him, saying to his brothers: “I’ll see you at dawn.”

He followed Seric to a house next to the orchard. Seric turned at the door and said: “Where are you off to?”

“I’m going to spend the night on the riverbank. I want to guard my stones.”

Seric shrugged. “Probably unnecessary, but I won’t discourage you. And it’s a mild night.”

“May I ask you something in confidence?”

“Come inside.”

A gray-haired woman sat by the fire feeding a small child with a spoon. Edgar raised his eyebrows: Seric and his wife seemed too old to be the parents. Seric said: “My wife, Eadgyth, and our grandson, Ealdwine. Our daughter died in childbirth, and her husband went to Shiring to be a man-at-arms for the ealdorman.”

That explained the household.

“I wanted to ask you . . .” Edgar glanced at Eadgyth.

Seric said: “You can speak freely.”

“Is Gab honest?”

Seric was not surprised by the question. “I can’t say. Has he tried to cheat you?”

“Not me, no. But I bought ten stones, and I noticed a new stick with only five notches.”

Seric said: “Let me put it this way: if I were asked to swear to Gab’s honesty, I would refuse.”

Edgar nodded. That was enough. Seric could prove nothing, but he had little doubt. “Thank you,” said Edgar, and he took his leave.

The raft was pulled up on the beach. The brothers had not loaded it: that would have made theft of the stones too easy. Edgar lay down on the raft and pulled his cloak around him. He might not sleep, but perhaps that was no bad thing when he was guarding something valuable.

Brindle whimpered, and Edgar drew the dog under his cloak. Brindle would keep him warm, and warn him if anyone approached.

Edgar now had to tell Ragna that she was being defrauded by Gab and Dudda. He could go to Shiring tomorrow, he figured. Erman and Eadbald could manage the raft on the downstream trip, and he could go home by road, via the town. He needed lime for the mortar, and he could buy it in Shiring and carry it home on his shoulder.

Edgar slept fitfully and woke at first light. Soon afterward, Erman and Eadbald appeared, bringing Leaf’s flagon topped up with Outhenham ale and a big loaf of rye bread to eat on the way. Edgar told them he was going to Shiring to buy lime.

“So we’ll have to pole the raft back without your help!” Erman said indignantly.

“It won’t cost you much effort,” Edgar said patiently. “It’s downstream. All you’ll have to do is keep the raft away from the banks.”

The three of them pushed the raft into the water, still tied up, then loaded it with the stones. Edgar insisted on an interlocking pile, so that the cargo would not shift in transit, but in fact the river was so calm that it was not really necessary.

“You’d better unload before you drag the raft across the shallows,” Edgar said. “Otherwise you might get stuck.”

“Then reload again—that’s a lot of work,” Erman grumbled.

Eadbald said: “And we’ll have to unload the stones again at the other end!”

“You’d damn well better—you’re being paid to.”

“All right, all right.”

Edgar untied the raft and the three boarded. “Pole across and drop me on the opposite bank,” Edgar said.

They crossed the river. Edgar got off in the shallows. His brothers returned the vessel to midstream, and slowly the current caught it and took it away.

Edgar watched it out of sight, then set off on the road to Shiring.

* * *

The town was busy. The farriers were shoeing horses; the saddlers were sold out of tack; two men with rotating grindstones were sharpening every blade; and the fletchers were selling arrows as fast as they could make them. Edgar soon discovered the reason: Ealdorman Wilwulf was about to harry the Welsh.

The wild men of the west had raided into Wilf’s territory in the autumn, but he had been busy with his wedding and had not retaliated. However, he had not forgotten, and now he was mustering a small army to punish them.

An English attack would be devastating to the Welsh. It would disrupt the agricultural cycle. Men and women would be killed, so there would be fewer to plough and sow. Adolescent boys and girls would be captured and sold as slaves, making money for the ealdorman and his men-at-arms, and leaving fewer fecund couples, and therefore in the long term fewer Welsh raiders, theoretically.

Harrying was meant to discourage raids, but since the Welsh generally raided only when they were starving, the punishment was a feeble deterrent, in Edgar’s opinion. Revenge was the real motive, he thought.

He made his way to the abbey, where he planned to spend the night. It was a pale stone monument of peace in the middle of a town preparing for war. Aldred seemed pleased to see Edgar. The monks were about to go in procession to the church for the midafternoon services of Nones, but Aldred was allowed to skip it.

Edgar had had a long walk in the February cold, and Aldred said: “You need to warm up. There’s a fire in Osmund’s room—let’s sit there.” Edgar accepted gratefully.

All the other monks had left, and the monastery was silent. Edgar felt a moment of unease: Aldred’s affection for him was a little too intense. He hoped this was not going to be the scene of an embarrassing interaction. He did not want to offend Aldred, but nor did he want to be embraced by him.

He need not have worried. Aldred had other things on his mind. “It turns out that Ragna did not know about Wilf’s first wife, Inge,” he said.

Edgar remembered a conversation with Agnes the seamstress. “They thought she was dead,” he recalled.

“Until after they were married, and most of Ragna’s servants had gone back to Cherbourg; then Wilf moved Inge back into the compound, along with their son, Garulf.”

Dread settled like a weight in the pit of Edgar’s stomach. “How is she?”

“Distraught.”

He felt desperately sorry for her, a stranger far from home and family, cruelly tricked by the English. “Poor girl,” he said, but the phrase felt inadequate.

Aldred said: “But that’s not why I’m so keen to talk to you. It’s about Dreng’s Ferry.”

Edgar wrenched his thoughts away from Ragna.

Aldred went on: “After I saw the state of the minster, I proposed that it should be taken over by monks, and the archbishop agreed. But Wynstan kicked up a huge fuss, and Abbot Osmund backed down.”

Edgar frowned. “Why did Wynstan care so much?”

“That’s the question. It’s not a rich church, and Degbert is no more than a distant relation to him.”

“Why would Wynstan quarrel with his archbishop over something so minor?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you. You live at the alehouse, you operate the ferry, you see everyone who comes and goes. You must know most of what happens there.”

Edgar wanted to help Aldred, but did not know the answers to his questions. He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what’s in Wynstan’s mind.” Then a thought occurred to him. “He does visit, though.”

“Really?” said Aldred, intrigued. “How often?”

“Twice since I’ve been there. The first was a week after Michaelmas, the second just about six weeks ago.”

“You’re good with dates. So both visits came soon after the quarter day. For what purpose?”

“Nothing apparent to me.”

“Well, what does he do there?”

“At Christmas he gave every house a piglet.”

“Strange. He’s not normally openhanded. Rather the opposite.”

“And then he and Degbert went to Combe. Both times.”

Aldred scratched his shaved scalp. “Something is going on, and I can’t figure out what.”

Edgar had a notion, but he felt awkward about voicing it. “Wynstan and Degbert could be . . . I mean, they could be having some kind of . . .”

“Love affair? Possibly, but I don’t think so. I know a bit about that sort of thing, and neither man strikes me as the type.”

Edgar had to agree.

Aldred added: “They might hold orgies with slave girls at the minster, that would be more credible.”

It was Edgar’s turn to look dubious. “I don’t see how they could keep such a thing secret. Where would they hide the slaves?”

“You’re right. They might hold pagan rites, though; they wouldn’t necessarily need slaves for that.”

“Pagan rites? What’s in that for Wynstan?”