The brewhouse was close to the river, so that water did not have to be carried too far, and it was on the upstream side. As in all riverside settlements, the villagers dipped their buckets upstream and disposed of waste downstream.

The new building had a roof of oak tiles. “I thought you planned a stone roof,” Aldred said.

“I made a mistake,” Edgar said. “I found I couldn’t cut stone into tiles. They were either too fat or too thin. I had to change my design.” He looked a bit abashed. “In the future I need to remember that not every bright idea I get is practicable.”

Inside, a strong, spicy odor of fermentation came from a big bronze cauldron suspended over a square stone-walled hearth. Barrels and sacks were stacked in a separate room. The stone floor was clean. “It’s a little palace!” said Aldred.

Edgar smiled. “It’s designed to be fireproof. Why did you want to talk privately? I’m eager to know.”

“I’m on my way to Combe.”

Edgar understood immediately. “Wynstan and Degbert will be there in a few days.”

“And I want to see what they get up to. But I have a problem. I can’t follow them around without being noticed, especially if they go into houses of ill fame.”

“What’s the answer?”

“I want you to help me keep an eye on them. You’re less likely to attract attention.”

Edgar grinned. “Is it really a monk who is asking me to visit Mags’s house?”

Aldred grimaced with distaste. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

Edgar turned serious again. “I can go to Combe to buy supplies. Dreng trusts me.”

Aldred was surprised. “Does he?”

“He set a trap for me, gave me too much money for stones, expecting me to steal the surplus, and was shocked when I gave it back to him. Now he’s glad to have me do the work and take the strain off his famous bad back.”

“Do you need anything from Combe?”

“We’re going to have to buy new ropes soon, and they’re cheaper in Combe. I could probably leave tomorrow.”

“We shouldn’t travel together. I don’t want people to realize we’re collaborating.”

“Then I’ll leave the day after Midsummer, and take the raft.”

“Perfect,” Aldred said gratefully.

They stepped out of the brewhouse. The sun was going down. Aldred said: “When you get there, you’ll find me at the priory.”

“Travel safely,” said Edgar.

* * *

Five days after Midsummer, Edgar was eating cheese in the alehouse known as the Sailors when he heard that Wynstan and Degbert had arrived in Combe that morning and were staying with Wigelm.

Wigelm had rebuilt the compound that had been destroyed by the Vikings a year ago. It was easy for Edgar to keep an eye on the single entrance, especially as there was another alehouse a stone’s throw away.

It was boring work, and he passed the time by speculating about Wynstan’s secret. He could think of all kinds of nefarious activities that the bishop might indulge in, but he could not imagine how Dreng’s Ferry fitted in, and his guesswork got him nowhere.

That first evening Wynstan and his brother and cousin caroused at home. Edgar watched the gate until the lights began to go out in the compound, then he returned to the abbey for the night, and told Aldred he had nothing to report.

He was worried about being noticed. Most people in Combe knew him, and it would not take them long to start wondering what he was up to. He had bought rope and a few other supplies; he had drunk ale with a handful of old friends; he had taken a good look around the rebuilt town; and now he needed a pretext to linger.

It was June, and he remembered a place in the woods where wild strawberries grew. They were a special treat at this time of year, hard to find but mouthwateringly delicious. He left the town when the monks rose for their dawn service and walked a mile into the forest. He was lucky: the strawberries were just ripe. He picked a sackful, returned to the town, and began to sell them at Wigelm’s gate. There was a good deal of traffic into and out of the compound so it was a logical place for a vendor to stand. He charged a farthing for two dozen.

By afternoon he had sold them all and had a pocketful of change. He returned to his seat outside the alehouse and ordered a cup of ale.

Brindle’s behavior at Combe was peculiar. The dog seemed bewildered to be in the place she knew so well and find it different. She ran around the streets, renewing acquaintance with the town dogs, sniffing in a baffled way at rebuilt houses. She had yelped delightedly at coming across the stone-built dairy, which had survived the fire; then she had spent half a day sitting outside the place as if waiting for Sungifu to come.

“I know how you feel,” Edgar said to the dog.

Early that evening Wynstan, Wigelm, and Degbert emerged from Wigelm’s compound. Edgar was careful not to meet Wynstan’s eye: the bishop might well recognize him.

But Wynstan had his mind on pleasure tonight. His brothers were brightly dressed, and the bishop himself had changed his long black priestly robes for a short tunic under a light cloak secured with a gold pin. His tonsured head was covered with a jaunty cap. The three men zigzagged through the dusty streets in the evening light.

They went to the Sailors, the town’s largest and best-furnished alehouse. The place was always busy, and Edgar felt able to go inside and order a cup of ale while Wynstan called for a jug of the strong fermented-honey liquor called mead, and paid with pennies from a bulging leather purse.

Edgar drank his ale slowly. Wynstan did nothing remarkable. He drank and laughed, ordered a plate of shrimp, and put his hand up the skirt of a serving wench. He was making no serious attempt to keep his revelry secret, though he was taking care not to be ostentatious.

The daylight was fading, and no doubt Wynstan was getting drunker. When the three left the alehouse Edgar followed them out, feeling that the chances of his being noticed were diminishing. Nevertheless he maintained a discreet distance as he tailed them.

It occurred to him that if they spotted him they might pretend not to have, then ambush him. If that happened they would beat him half to death. He would not be able to defend himself against three of them. He tried not to feel scared.

They went to Mags’s house, and Edgar followed them in.

Mags had rebuilt the place and furnished it in a style as luxurious as that of any palace. There were tapestries on the walls, mattresses on the floor, and cushions on the seats. Two couples were shagging under blankets, and there were screens to hide those whose sexual practices were too embarrassing or too wicked to be seen. There seemed to be eight or ten girls and a couple of boys, some speaking with foreign accents, and Edgar guessed that most of them were slaves, bought by Mags at the market in Bristol.

Wynstan immediately became the center of attention, as the highest-ranking customer in the place. Mags herself brought him a cup of wine, kissed him on the lips, then stood beside him, pointing out the attractions of different girls: this one had big breasts, that one was expert at sucking off, and another had shaved all her body hair.

For a few minutes no one took any notice of Edgar, but eventually a pretty Irish girl showed him her pink breasts and asked him what would be his pleasure, and he muttered that he had come into the wrong house, and left quickly.

Wynstan was doing things a bishop ought not to do, and making only perfunctory attempts to be discreet, but again Edgar could not figure out what the great mystery might be.

It was full dark by the time the three merrymakers staggered out of Mags’s house, but their evening was not over yet. Edgar followed them with little fear now of being spotted. They went to a house near the beach that Edgar recognized as belonging to the wool trader Cynred, probably the richest man in Combe after Wigelm. The door was open to the evening air, and they went inside.

Edgar could not follow them into a private house. Looking through the open door he saw them settle around a table, chatting in a relaxed and amiable manner. Wynstan took out his purse.

Edgar concealed himself in a dark alley opposite.

Soon a well-dressed middle-aged man he did not recognize approached the house. Apparently not sure he was in the right place, the man put his head round the door. In the light from inside, Edgar saw that his clothes looked costly and possibly foreign. He asked a question Edgar did not hear. “Come in, come in!” someone shouted, and the man went in.

Then the door was closed.

However, Edgar could still hear something of what was going on inside, and soon the volume of conversation increased. He picked up the unmistakable rattle of dice in a cup. He heard shouted words:

“Ten pence!”

“Double six!”

“I win, I win!”

“The devil’s in those dice!”