“I agree with Brother Aldred,” said Wynstan. “Let all the priests be reassigned to other duties, and let the minster become a monastery.”

Aldred thanked God for one piece of good news.

Wilwulf turned to Treasurer Hildred. “Brother Hildred, is this still the wish of Abbot Osmund?”

Aldred was not sure what Hildred would say. The treasurer generally opposed anything Aldred wanted. But this time he concurred. “Yes, ealdorman,” he said. “The abbot is keen to see this plan implemented.”

“Then be it so,” said Wilwulf.

But Hildred was not finished. “And furthermore . . .”

“Yes, Brother Hildred?”

“It was Aldred’s notion to turn the minster into a monastery, and he has now revived the idea. All along, Abbot Osmund thought the best choice for prior of the new institution would be . . . Brother Aldred himself.”

Aldred was taken by surprise. He had not anticipated this. And he did not want it. He had no wish to run a tiny monastery in the middle of nowhere. He wanted to become abbot of Shiring and create a world-class center of learning and scholarship.

This was Hildred’s way of getting rid of him. With Aldred gone, Hildred would surely succeed Osmund as abbot.

He said: “No, thank you, Treasurer Hildred, I am not worthy of such a post.”

Wynstan joined in with barely concealed glee. “Of course you are worthy, Aldred,” he said.

You, too, want me out of the way, Aldred thought.

Wynstan went on: “And as bishop I’m happy to give my immediate approval to your promotion.”

“It’s hardly a promotion—I’m already armarius of the abbey.”

“Oh, don’t be churlish,” said Wilwulf with a smile. “This will give free rein to your leadership qualities.”

“It is for Abbot Osmund to appoint the prior. Is this court trying to usurp his prerogative?”

“Of course not,” said Wynstan oilily. “But we can approve Treasurer Hildred’s proposal.”

Aldred saw that he had been outmaneuvered. Now that the appointment had been endorsed by all the most powerful people in Shiring, Osmund would not have the guts to reverse their decision. He was trapped. He thought: Why did I ever imagine that I was clever?

Wynstan said: “One thing I should point out now—if I may, brother Wilf.”

Aldred thought: What now?

“Go ahead,” said Wilwulf.

“Over the years pious men have donated lands for the upkeep of the minster at Dreng’s Ferry.

Aldred had a bad feeling.

Wynstan went on: “Those lands were given to the diocese of Shiring, and they remain the property of the cathedral.”

Aldred was outraged. When Wynstan said “the diocese” and “the cathedral” he meant himself. “This is nonsense!” Aldred protested.

Wynstan said condescendingly: “The village of Dreng’s Ferry I grant to the new monastery, as a sign of my goodwill; but the village of Wigleigh, donated by you, brother, at your wedding, and the other lands that have supported the minster, remain the property of the diocese.”

“This is wrong,” Aldred said. “When Archbishop Elfric turned Canterbury into a monastery, the departing priests did not take all the assets of Canterbury Cathedral with them!”

“Different circumstances completely,” said Wynstan.

“I disagree.”

“Then the ealdorman will have to decide.”

“No, he won’t,” said Aldred. “This is a matter for the archbishop.”

Wilwulf said: “I intended my wedding gift to benefit the minster, not a monastery, and I believe the other donors felt the same way.”

“You have no idea what the other donors felt.”

Wilwulf looked angry. “I rule in favor of Bishop Wynstan.”

Aldred persisted: “The archbishop will rule, not you.”

Wilwulf was offended to be told he had no jurisdiction. “We shall see,” he said angrily.

Aldred knew how it would be. The archbishop would command Wynstan to return the lands to the new monastery, but Wynstan would ignore him. Wilwulf had already defied the king twice, first over the treaty with Count Hubert and then over the marriage to Ragna, and now Wynstan would treat the ruling of the archbishop with the same kind of scorn. And there was little a king or an archbishop could do about a magnate who simply refused to obey orders.

He noticed Wigbert speaking to Den quietly. Wilwulf saw the interaction and said: “Is everything ready for the punishment?”

Den said reluctantly: “Yes, ealdorman.”

Wilwulf stood up. Surrounded by his men-at-arms he walked through the crowd to the center of the square. The magnates followed him.

A tall stake stood in the middle of the square for occasions such as this. While everyone had been looking at Wilwulf on his seat and listening to the arguments, poor Cuthbert had been stripped naked and roped to the stake so tightly that he could not move any part of his body, not even his head. Everyone gathered around him to watch. The townspeople jostled to see better.

Wigbert produced a large pair of shears, blades gleaming from recent sharpening. A murmur rose up from the crowd. Looking at the faces of his neighbors, Aldred saw with disgust that many of them were avid for blood.

Sheriff Den said: “Go ahead and carry out the ealdorman’s sentence.”

The purpose of this punishment was not to kill the wrongdoer, but to doom him to life as merely half a man. Wigbert manipulated the shears so that the twin blades could close on Cuthbert’s testicular sack without removing his penis.

Cuthbert was moaning, praying, and weeping all at the same time.

Aldred felt ill.

Wigbert cut off Cuthbert’s testicles with one decisive motion. Cuthbert screamed, and blood ran down his legs.

A dog appeared from nowhere, snatched up the testicles in his jaws, and fled; and the crowd roared with laughter.

Wigbert put down the bloodstained shears. Standing in front of Cuthbert he put his hands on the priest’s temples, touched the eyelids with his thumbs, and then, with another practiced motion, thrust his thumbs deep into the eyes. Cuthbert screamed again, and the fluid from his burst eyeballs dribbled down his cheeks.

Wigbert undid the ropes binding Cuthbert to the stake, and Cuthbert fell to the ground.

Aldred caught sight of Wynstan’s face. The bishop was standing next to Wilwulf, and both were staring at the bleeding man on the ground.

Wynstan was smiling.

CHAPTER 24

    December 998

nly once before in Aldred’s life had he felt utterly defeated, humiliated, and despondent about the future. That had been when he was a novice at Glastonbury and had been caught kissing Leofric in the herb garden. Until then he had been the star among the youngsters: best at reading, writing, singing, and memorizing the Bible. Suddenly his weakness became the subject of every conversation, discussed even in chapter. Instead of talking in admiring tones of his bright future, people asked one another what was to be done with a boy so depraved. He had felt like a horse that could not be ridden or a dog that bit its master. He had wanted only to crawl into a hole and sleep for a hundred years.

And now that feeling was back. All the promise he had shown as armarius of Shiring, all the talk of his becoming abbot one day, had come to nothing. His ambitions—the school, the library, the world-class scriptorium—were now mere daydreams. He had been exiled to the remote hamlet of Dreng’s Ferry and put in charge of a penniless priory, and this would be the end of the story of his life.

Abbot Osmund had told him he was too passionate. “A monk should develop an accepting disposition,” he had said when saying good-bye to Aldred. “We can’t correct all the evil in the world.” Aldred had lain awake night after night chewing over that judgment in bitterness and anger. Two passions had undone him: first his love for Leofric, then his rage at Wynstan. But in his heart he still could not agree with Osmund. Monks ought never to accept evil. They had to fight against it.

He was weighed down with despair, but not crippled by it. He had said that the old minster was a disgrace, so now he could throw his energy into making the new priory a shining example of what men of God ought to do. The little church already looked different: the floor had been swept and the walls whitewashed. The old scribe Tatwine, one of the monks who had chosen to migrate to Dreng’s Ferry with Aldred, had begun a wall painting, a picture of the Nativity, a birth scene for the reborn church.