She ran a finger down the list. “Wilmundus Pistor,” she read aloud. “It says here that he owes thirty-six pence per quarter.” There was a murmur of surprise from the crowd: not only could she read, but she could translate Latin. “Step forward, Wilmund.”

The baker was a plump young man with floury streaks of white in his dark beard. He stepped forward with his wife and a teenage son, each of them holding a small purse. Wilmund slowly counted out twenty pence in whole coins, then his wife counted another ten in halves.

Ragna said: “What’s your name, baker’s wife?”

“Regenhild, my lady,” she said nervously.

“And is this your son?”

“Yes, my lady, he’s Penda.”

“He’s a fine lad.”

Regenhild relaxed a little. “Thank you, my lady.”

“How old are you, Penda?”

“Fifteen, my lady.”

“You’re tall, for fifteen.”

Penda blushed. “Yes.”

He counted out six pence in quarters, and the family’s rent was paid. They returned to the crowd, smiling at the attention they had received from a noblewoman. All she had done was to show interest in them as people, not just tenants, but they would remember it for years.

Ragna turned to Dudda, the headman. Feigning ignorance, she said: “Tell me about these notched sticks.”

“They are from Gab the quarrymaster,” Dudda replied. “He keeps a different stick for each man who buys stone. One stone in five belongs to the lord.”

“Which is me.”

Dudda said sulkily: “So we are told.”

“Which of you is Gab?”

A thin man with scarred hands stepped forward and coughed.

There were seven sticks, and only one of them bore five notches. She picked it up as if at random. “So, Gab, to which buyer does this stick refer?”

“That would be Dreng the ferryman.” Gab’s voice was hoarse, no doubt from breathing stone dust.

As if seeking to understand the system, Ragna said: “So Dreng bought five stones from you.”

“Yes, my lady.” Gab looked uneasy, as if wondering where this was leading. He added: “And I owe you the price of one of them.”

She turned to Dudda. “Is that right?”

He looked anxious, as if fearing a surprise but unable to figure out what it might be. “Yes, my lady.”

“Dreng’s builder is here with me today,” Ragna said.

She heard two or three startled exclamations, quickly supressed, and she guessed that some villagers must have known about Gab’s fraud. Gab himself suddenly looked sick, and Dudda’s red face paled.

Ragna said: “Come forward, Edgar.”

Edgar emerged from the middle of the group of men-at-arms and servants, and came to stand beside Ragna. Dudda directed a look of hatred at him.

Ragna said: “How many stones did you buy from my quarry, Edgar?”

Gab said quickly: “It was five, wasn’t it, young man?”

Edgar said: “No. Five stones isn’t enough to tile the roof of a brewhouse. I bought ten.”

Gab was panicking now. “An innocent mistake, then, my lady, I swear it.”

Ragna made her voice cold. “There are no innocent mistakes.”

“But my lady—”

“Be silent.” Ragna would have liked to get rid of Gab, but she needed a quarryman and did not have a replacement ready. She decided to make a virtue of necessity. “I’m not going to punish you,” she said. “I’m going to say to you what our Lord said to the adulteress: Go thy way, and sin no more.”

The crowd was surprised at that, but they seemed to approve. Ragna hoped she had shown herself to be a ruler who could not be fooled but might be merciful.

She turned to Dudda. “However, I don’t forgive you. Your duty was to make sure your lord was not cheated, and you failed. You are no longer headman.”

Once again she listened to the crowd. They sounded shocked, but she heard no note of protest, and she concluded that they did not much regret the dismissal of Dudda.

“Let Seric step forward.”

A man of about fifty with an alert look came out of the crowd and bowed to her.

She looked at the villagers and said: “I’m told that Seric is an honest man.”

She had not asked them a question—that might have given the impression that the choice was theirs. But she paid attention to their reactions. Several people made approving noises, and others nodded assent. Edgar’s instinct about Seric had been right, it seemed.

“Seric, you are now headman.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Seric. “I will be honest and true.”

“Good.” She looked at Wynstan’s assistant. “Ithamar, you are no longer required. Father Draca, you can take his place.”

Draca looked nervous, but he sat at the table, and Seric stood beside him.

Wynstan stalked off, and his men began to hurry after him.

Ragna looked around. The villagers were quiet, watching her, waiting to see what she would do next. She had their rapt attention, and they were ready to do her bidding. She had taken leadership. She was satisfied.

“Very well,” she said. “Let us continue.”

CHAPTER 19

    June 998

ldred left Shiring on the pony Dismas, heading for Combe. There was safety in numbers, and he traveled with Offa the reeve, who was going to Mudeford. Aldred was carrying a letter from Abbott Osmund to Prior Ulfric. The letter was about a routine matter of business having to do with some land that, awkwardly, was jointly owned by the two monasteries. In Aldred’s saddlebag, carefully wrapped in linen, was a precious volume of the Dialogues of Pope Gregory the Great, copied and illuminated in Aldred’s scriptorium, a gift to Combe Priory. Aldred was hoping to receive a reciprocal present, another book that would enlarge the library at Shiring. Books were sometimes bought and sold, though exchange of gifts was more usual. But Aldred’s real reason for going to Combe was neither the letter nor the book. He was investigating Bishop Wynstan.

He wanted to be in Combe immediately after Midsummer Day, at the time when Wynstan and Degbert would visit, if they followed their usual routine. He was determined to find out what the corrupt cousins did there and whether it had any connection with the mystery of Dreng’s Ferry. He had been firmly ordered to drop the whole thing, but he was determined to disobey.

The minster at Dreng’s Ferry affected him profoundly. It made him feel stained. It was hard to take pride in being a man of God when others who wore the robes behaved like libertines. Degbert and his crew seemed to cast a shadow over everything Aldred did. Aldred was willing to break his vow of obedience if he could put an end to the minster.

Now that he was on his way, he had misgivings. Just how was he going to find out what Wynstan and Degbert were up to? He could follow them around, but they might notice. Worse, there were houses in Combe that a man of God should not enter. Wynstan and Degbert might go to such places discreetly, or perhaps not care if they were seen, but Aldred would find it impossible to act the part of a habitué, and he would surely be spotted. And then he would be in all kinds of trouble.

His route lay via Dreng’s Ferry, and he decided to ask Edgar’s help.

On arriving at the hamlet he went first to the minster. He walked in with his head high. He had been unwelcome there before, but now he was hated. It was not surprising. He had tried to have the priests ejected and deprived of their life of comfort and idleness, and they would never forget it. Forgiveness and mercy were among the many Christian virtues they lacked. All the same, Aldred insisted that they offer him the hospitality they owed to all clergy. He was not prepared to skulk in the alehouse. He was not the one who should feel ashamed. Degbert and his priests had given such offense by their behavior that the archbishop had agreed to expel them: they should feel unable to hold up their heads. They were still here only because they had some clandestine usefulness to Bishop Wynstan—and that was the secret Aldred was determined to uncover.

He did not want to reveal that he was on his way to Combe and would be there at the same time as Wynstan and Degbert, so he told a white lie and said he was going to Sherborne, which was several days’ journey from Combe.

After a begrudged evening meal and a perfunctory service of collatio, Aldred went in search of Edgar. He found him outside the alehouse, dandling a baby on his knee in the warm evening air. They had not met since their triumph at Outhenham, and Edgar seemed pleased to see Aldred.

But Aldred was startled by the baby. “Yours?” he said.

Edgar smiled and shook his head. “My brother’s. Her name is Wynswith. We call her Winnie. She’s almost three months old. Isn’t she beautiful?”

To Aldred she looked like every other baby: round-faced, bald as a priest, dribbling, charmless. “Yes, she’s beautiful,” he said. That was his second white lie today. He would have to pray for clemency.

“What brings you here?” said Edgar. “It can’t be the pleasure of visiting Degbert.”

“Is there somewhere we can talk without fear of being overheard?”

“I’ll show you my brewhouse,” Edgar said eagerly. “Just a minute.” He stepped inside the alehouse and came out again without the baby.