Wynstan turned his attention to the assembled magnates, all of whom were watching raptly. “The crime was well hidden,” he said. “Dean Degbert himself did not know what Cuthbert was up to in his little workshop attached to the minster.”

Cuthbert said piteously: “Degbert knew everything!”

Wynstan said: “Step forward, Degbert.”

Degbert did as he was told, and Aldred noted that he was now standing among the magnates, as if one of them, rather than a criminal they had to judge.

Wynstan said: “The dean admits his fault. Like me, he was negligent—but in his case the fault was worse, because he was at the minster every day, whereas I was only an occasional visitor.”

Aldred said: “Degbert helped you spend the money!”

Wynstan ignored that. “I have taken it upon myself, as bishop, to punish Degbert. He has been expelled from the minster and stripped of his title of dean. Today he is a simple, humble priest, and I have brought him under my personal supervision.”

Aldred thought: So he moves from the minster to the cathedral—no great hardship.

Could this possibly be happening?

Den shouted out: “That’s no punishment for a forger!”

“I agree,” said Wynstan. “And Degbert is no forger.” He looked around. “Nobody here denies that it was Cuthbert who made the coins.”

That was the truth, Aldred thought ruefully. It was not the whole truth, not by a long way, but it was not actually a lie.

And he could see that the magnates were beginning to come around to Wynstan’s version of events. They might not believe him—they knew what he was like, after all—but his guilt could not be proved. And he was a bishop.

Wynstan’s masterstroke had been to prosecute the case himself, thereby robbing the sheriff of the chance to tell the whole convincing story: Wynstan’s visits to Dreng’s Ferry after each quarter day, his gifts to the residents, his trips to Combe with Degbert, and their free-spending evenings in the town’s alehouses and brothels. None of that had come out, and if raised now it would seem feeble and circumstantial.

Wynstan had gambled with forged money, but no one could prove that. His victim, Monsieur Robert, was the skipper of an oceangoing ship and might now be at any port in Europe.

The only hole in Wynstan’s story was that he had not “discovered” Cuthbert’s crime until the minster was raided by the sheriff. That was surely too much of a coincidence for the magnates to swallow.

Aldred was about to point this out when Wynstan forestalled him. “I see the hand of God in this,” said the bishop, his voice increasingly sonorous, like a church bell. “It must have been divinely ordained that, at the very hour I discovered Cuthbert’s crime, Sheriff Den came to Dreng’s Ferry—just in time to arrest the wicked priest! Heaven be praised.”

Aldred was amazed by Wynstan’s sheer nerve. The hand of God! Did the man have no concern for how he might explain himself on the Day of Judgment? Wynstan was constantly changing. At Combe he had seemed no worse than a slave to pleasure, a clergyman who had lost his self-discipline; then when he had been found out at Dreng’s Ferry he had become possessed, screaming and foaming at the mouth; but now he was sane again, and more wily than ever, yet plunging more deeply into wickedness. This must be how the devil made a man his own, Aldred thought; by stages, one sin leading to a worse.

Wynstan’s logic, and the confidence with which he told his deceitful story, were so overwhelming that Aldred almost found himself wondering if it could be true; and he could see by the faces of the magnates that they were going to go along with it, even if they might have private reservations.

Wilwulf sensed the mood and moved to take advantage of it. “Degbert having been dealt with already, we need only sentence Cuthbert.”

“Wrong!” shouted Sheriff Den. “You have to deal with the accusation against Wynstan.”

“No one has accused Wynstan.”

“Cuthbert did.”

Wilwulf mimed astonishment. “Are you suggesting that the oath of a lowly priest is worth more than that of a bishop?”

“Then I accuse Wynstan myself. When I entered the minster I found Wynstan in the workshop with Cuthbert while the forgery was going on!”

“Bishop Wynstan has explained that he had at that very moment discovered the crime—by divine providence, no doubt.”

Den looked around, meeting the eyes of the magnates. “Do any of you really believe that?” he said. “Wynstan was in the workshop, standing by Cuthbert as he made false coins out of base metal, but he had only just discovered it was going on?” He swiveled to Wynstan. “And don’t tell us that was the hand of God. This is something much more earthly—a plain, old-fashioned lie.”

Wilwulf said to the magnates: “I think we may agree that the charge against Bishop Wynstan is malicious and false.”

Aldred gave it one last try. “The king will hear of this, naturally. Do you really think he will believe Wynstan’s story? And how will he feel about the magnates who have exonerated Wynstan and Degbert and punished no one but a lowly priest?”

They looked uneasy, but no one spoke up in support of Aldred, and Wilwulf said: “Then the court is agreed that Cuthbert is guilty. Because of his wicked attempt to put the blame on two senior clergymen, his punishment will be more severe than is usual. I sentence Cuthbert to be blinded and castrated.”

Aldred said: “No!” But it was hopeless to protest further.

Cuthbert’s legs gave way under him and he fell to the ground.

Wilwulf said: “See to it, sheriff.”

Den hesitated, then reluctantly nodded to Wigbert, who picked up Cuthbert and carried him away.

Wynstan spoke again. Aldred thought the bishop had already won everything he wanted, but there was more drama to come. “I accuse myself!” Wynstan said.

Wilwulf showed no surprise, and Aldred deduced that this, like everything that had happened so far, had been planned in advance.

Wynstan said: “When I discovered the crime, I was so enraged that I destroyed much of the forger’s equipment. With his hammer I smashed a red-hot crucible, and molten metal flew through the air and killed an innocent man called Godwine. It was an accident, but I accept the blame.”

Once again, Aldred saw, Wynstan gained an advantage by prosecuting himself. He could put the murder in its best light.

Wilwulf said gravely: “What you did was still a crime. You are guilty of unlawful killing.”

Wynstan bowed his head in a gesture of humility. Aldred wondered how many people were fooled.

Wilwulf went on: “You must pay the murder price to the victim’s widow.”

An attractive young woman with a baby in her arms emerged from the crowd, looking intimidated.

Wilwulf said: “The murder price of a man-at-arms is five pounds of silver.”

Ithamar stepped forward and handed a small wooden chest to Wynstan.

Wynstan bowed to the widow, handed her the chest, and said: “I pray constantly that God and you will forgive me for what I have done.”

Around him, many of the magnates were nodding approval. It made Aldred want to scream. They all knew Wynstan! How could they believe he was humbly repentant? But his display of Christian remorse had made them forget his true nature. And the large fine was a severe punishment—which also diverted attention from the way he had wriggled out of a more serious charge.

The widow took the box and left without speaking.

And so, Aldred thought, great ones sin with impunity while lesser men are brutally chastised. What could God’s purpose be in this travesty of justice? But perhaps there was some small advantage to be gained. It occurred to Aldred that he should act now, while Wynstan was still pretending to be virtuous. Almost without thinking he said: “Ealdorman Wilwulf, after what we’ve heard today it’s clear that the minster at Dreng’s Ferry should be closed.” This was the time to clean out the rat’s nest, he thought, but he did not need to say it: the implication was obvious.

He saw a flash of rage cross Wynstan’s face, but it vanished quickly and the look of pious meekness returned.

Aldred went on: “The archbishop has already given his approval to a plan to turn the minster into a branch of Shiring Abbey and staff it with monks. When first broached the plan was shelved, but this seems a good moment to reconsider it.”

Wilwulf looked at Wynstan for guidance.

Aldred could guess what Wynstan was thinking. The minster had never been rich, and it was of little benefit to him now that the forgery racket had been stopped. It had been a useful sinecure for his cousin Degbert, but now Degbert had had to be moved. Its loss cost him next to nothing.

No doubt, Aldred thought, Wynstan was unhappy letting Aldred have even such a small victory, but he needed also to think about the impression he would make if he now tried to protect the minster. He had pretended to be shocked and appalled by the forgery, and people would expect him to be glad to turn his back on the place where it had happened. If he renewed his opposition to Aldred’s plan, skeptical people might even suspect that Wynstan wanted to revive the counterfeit workshop.