He was wrong.

Wynstan’s clerk, Ithamar, with the round face and white-blond hair, came to Dreng’s Ferry a week after the raid. After Mass he made an administrative announcement: in Degbert’s absence the eldest of the priests remaining at the minster, Father Deorwin, had been appointed acting dean. It hardly seemed worth the trip from Shiring when a letter would have done just as well.

As the congregation was leaving the little church, Ithamar approached Edgar, who was with his family: Erman, Eadbald, Cwenburg, and six-month-old baby Winnie. Ithamar did not bother with polite small talk. He said bluntly to Edgar: “You’re a friend of Brother Aldred from Shiring Abbey.”

Was this the real reason for Ithamar’s trip? Edgar felt a shiver of fear. He said: “I don’t know why you would say that.”

Erman put in stupidly: “Because you are, idiot.”

Edgar wanted to punch him in the face. He said: “No one’s speaking to you, Erman, so keep your fool mouth shut.” He turned back to the clerk. “I know the monk, certainly.”

“You bathed his wound after he was burned.”

“As anyone would. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been seen with Aldred here in Dreng’s Ferry, at Shiring, and at Combe; and I myself saw you with him at Outhenham.”

Ithamar was saying that Edgar knew Aldred, that was all. Ithamar did not seem to know that he had actually been Aldred’s spy. So what was this about? He decided to ask outright. “What point are you making, Ithamar?”

“Are you going to be one of Aldred’s oath helpers?”

So that was it. Ithamar’s mission was to find out who Aldred’s oath helpers were going to be. Edgar felt relieved. It could have been a lot worse.

He said: “I haven’t been asked to be an oath helper.”

This was true, but not completely honest. Edgar fully expected to be asked. When an oath helper had personal knowledge of the facts in the case, it added weight to his vow. And Edgar had been in the workshop and seen the metals, the dies, and the freshly minted coins, so his oath would be helpful to Aldred—and damaging to Wynstan.

Ithamar knew this. “You will be asked, almost certainly,” he said. His rather childish face twisted with malice. “And when that happens, I recommend you refuse.”

Erman spoke again. “He’s right, Edgar,” he said. “People like us should stay out of priests’ quarrels.”

“Your brother is wise,” said Ithamar.

Edgar said: “Thank you both for your advice, but the fact remains that I haven’t been summoned to appear at the trial of Bishop Wynstan.”

Ithamar was not satisfied. “Remember,” he said, wagging a finger, “that Dean Degbert is your landlord.”

Edgar was taken aback. He had not been expecting threats. “What do you mean by that”—he moved closer to Ithamar—“exactly?”

Ithamar looked intimidated and took a step back, but he put on a belligerent face and said defiantly: “We need our tenants to support the Church, not undermine it.”

“I would never undermine the Church. For example, I would not forge counterfeit coins in a minster.”

“Don’t get clever with me. I’m telling you that if you offend your landlord, he will evict you from your farm.”

Erman said: “Jesus save us. We can’t lose the farm. We’re only just getting straight. Edgar, listen to the man. Don’t be a fool.”

Edgar stared at Ithamar with incredulity. “We’re in a church, and you’ve just attended Mass,” he said. “Angels and saints surround us, invisible but real. They all know what you’re doing. You’re trying to prevent the truth being told, and you’re protecting a wicked man from the consequences of his crimes. What do you imagine the angels are whispering to one another now, as they watch you committing these sins, with the wine of the sacrament still on your lips?”

Eadbald protested: “Edgar, he’s the priest, not you!”

Ithamar paled, and took a moment to think how to reply. “I’m protecting the Church, and the angels know it,” he said, though he looked as if he hardly believed that himself. “And you should do the same. Otherwise you’ll feel the wrath of God’s priesthood.”

Erman spoke with a note of desperation. “You have to do as he says, Edgar, or we’ll be back where we were fifteen months ago, homeless and destitute.”

“I got that message,” Edgar said shortly. He was feeling bewildered and uncertain and he did not want to show it.

Eadbald put in: “Tell us you won’t testify, Edgar, please.”

Cwenburg said: “Think of my baby.”

Ithamar said: “Listen to your family, Edgar.” Then he turned away with the air of one who feels he has done all he can.

Edgar wondered what Ma would say. He needed her wisdom now. The others were no help. He said: “Why don’t you all go back to the farmhouse? I’ll catch you up.”

Erman said suspiciously: “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to talk to Ma,” said Edgar, and he walked away.

He stepped outside the church and crossed the graveyard to Ma’s resting place. The grass over it was young and bright green. Edgar stood at the foot of the plot and folded his hands in the attitude of prayer. “I don’t know what to do, Ma,” he said.

He closed his eyes and imagined she was alive, standing next to him, listening thoughtfully.

“If I swear the oath, I’ll get us all evicted from the farm.”

He knew his mother could not answer him. However, she was in his memory, and her spirit was surely nearby, so she could speak to him in his imagination, if he just opened his mind.

“Just when we’re starting to have a little to spare,” he said. “Money for blankets and shoes and beef. Erman and Eadbald have worked hard. They deserve some reward.”

He knew she agreed with that.

“But if I give in to Ithamar I’ll be helping a wicked bishop escape justice. Wynstan will be able to carry on as he always has. I know you wouldn’t want me to do that.”

He had laid it out plainly, he thought.

In his mind, she answered clearly. “Family comes first,” she said. “Take care of your brothers.”

“So I’ll refuse to help Aldred.”

“Yes.”

Edgar opened his eyes. “I knew you’d say that.”

He turned to leave, but as he did so she spoke again.

“Or you could do something clever,” she said.

“What?”

There was no reply.

“What clever thing could I do?” he said.

But she did not answer him.

* * *

Ealdorman Wilwulf paid a call on Shiring Abbey.

Aldred was summoned from the scriptorium by a breathless novice. “The ealdorman is here!” he said.

Aldred suffered a moment of fear.

“And he’s asking for Abbot Osmund and you!” the novice added.

Aldred had been at the abbey since Wilwulf’s father was ealdorman, and he could not remember either man ever entering the monastery. This was serious. He took a moment to calm his breathing and let his heartbeat return to normal.

He could guess what had brought about this unprecedented visit. The sheriff’s raid on the minster at Dreng’s Ferry was all anyone was talking about throughout the shire, and perhaps all over the west of England. And an attack on Wynstan was a personal affront to Wilwulf, his brother.

In Wilwulf’s eyes, Aldred was probably the one who had caused the trouble.

Like all powerful men, Wilwulf would go to great lengths to keep his power. But would he go so far as to threaten a monk?

An ealdorman needed to be seen as a fair judge. Otherwise he lost moral authority. Then he might have trouble enforcing his decisions. Enforcement could be difficult for an ealdorman. He could use his small personal bodyguard of men-at-arms to punish occasional minor disobedience, and he could raise an army—albeit with considerable trouble and expense—to fight the Vikings or harry the Welsh, but it was hard for him to deal with a persistent undercurrent of disobedience among people who lost faith in their overlords. He needed to be looked up to. Was Wilwulf now prepared to attack Aldred regardless?

Aldred felt a bit nauseated, and swallowed hard. He had known, when he began to investigate Wynstan, that he was going up against ruthless people, and he had told himself it was his duty. But it was easy to take risks in a theoretical way. Now the reality was on him.

He limped up the stairs. His leg still hurt, especially when he walked. Molten metal was worse than a knife in the flesh.

Wilwulf was not a man to be kept waiting outside the door, and he had already gone into Osmund’s room. In his yellow cloak he was a garish worldly presence in the gray-and-white monastery. He stood at the end of the bed with his legs apart and his hands on his hips in a classic stance of aggression.

The abbot was still bedridden. He was sitting up, wearing a nightcap, looking scared.

Aldred acted more confident than he felt. “Good day to you, ealdorman,” he said briskly.