Edgar had repaired the entrance. He had taken out the stones of the arch one by one, trimmed them to shape, and reset them so that they sat precisely on the spokes of an imaginary wheel. That was all that was needed, he said, to make it stronger. Aldred’s sole consolation in Dreng’s Ferry was that he saw more of the clever, charming young man who had captured his heart.

The house looked different, too. When Degbert and his crew left they had naturally taken with them all their luxuries, the wall hangings and the ornaments and the blankets. The place was now bare and utilitarian, as monks’ accommodation ought to be. But Edgar had welcomed Aldred with a gift of a lectern he had made of oak, so that while the monks were eating they could listen to one of their number reading from the Rule of Saint Benedict or the life of a saint. It had been made with love, and although this was not the kind of love Aldred sometimes dreamed of, not a love of kisses and caresses and embraces in the night, nevertheless the gift brought tears to his eyes.

Aldred knew that work was the best solace. He told the brothers that the history of a monastery normally began with the monks rolling up their sleeves and clearing ground, and here in Dreng’s Ferry they had already started to fell trees on the wooded hillside above the church. A monastery needed land for a vegetable garden, an orchard, a duck pond, and grazing for a few goats and a cow or two. Edgar had made axes, hammering out the blades on the anvil in Cuthbert’s old workshop, and had taught Aldred and the other monks how to chop down trees efficiently and safely.

The rents Aldred got as landlord of the hamlet were not sufficient to feed even the monks, and Abbot Osmund had agreed to pay the priory a monthly subsidy. Hildred had, of course, argued for an amount that was hopelessly inadequate. “If it’s not enough you can come back and discuss it,” Hildred had said, but Aldred had known that once the subvention was fixed the treasurer would never agree to an increase. The upshot had been an allowance that would keep the monks alive and the church functional but no more. If Aldred wanted to buy books, plant an orchard, and build a cowshed, he would have to find the funds himself.

When the monks had arrived here and looked around, the old scribe Tatwine had said to Aldred, not unkindly: “Perhaps God wants to teach you the virtue of humility.” Aldred thought Tatwine might be right. Humility had never been one of his strengths.

On Sunday Aldred celebrated Mass in the little church. He stood at the altar in the tiny chancel while the six monks who had come here with him—all volunteers—stood in two neat rows on the ground floor of the tower, which served as the nave. The villagers gathered behind the monks, quieter than usual and awed by the unfamiliar sense of discipline and reverence.

During the service a horse was heard outside, and Aldred’s old friend Wigferth of Canterbury came into the church. Wigferth visited the west of England frequently, to collect rents. His mistress in Trench had recently given birth, according to monastic gossip. Wigferth was a good monk in other respects, and Aldred remained friendly to him, restricting himself to the occasional disapproving frown if Wigferth was so tactless as to mention his illicit family.

As soon as the service was over, Aldred spoke to him. “It’s good to see you. I hope you have time to stay for dinner.”

“Certainly.”

“We’re not rich, so our food will save you from the sin of gluttony.”

Wigferth smiled and patted his belly. “I stand in need of such salvation.”

“What news from Canterbury?”

“Two things. Archbishop Elfric has ordered Wynstan to return the village of Wigleigh to the ownership of the church at Dreng’s Ferry, which means you.”

“Good!”

“Wait, don’t celebrate. I have already taken that message to Wynstan, who said the matter was outside the archbishop’s jurisdiction.”

“In other words he will ignore the ruling.”

“That one, and another. Wynstan has made Degbert an archdeacon at Shiring Cathedral.”

“In effect, deputy to Wynstan, and his likely successor.”

“Exactly.”

“Some punishment.” The promotion, coming so swiftly after the trial and Degbert’s demotion, told everyone that Wynstan’s people would always do well, and those who opposed him—such as Aldred—would suffer.

“The archbishop refused to ratify the appointment—and Wynstan ignored him.”

Aldred scratched his shaved head. “Wynstan defies the archbishop and Wilwulf defies the king. How long can this go on?”

“I don’t know. Maybe until the Day of Judgment.”

Aldred looked around. Two of the congregation were watching him expectantly. “We’ll talk more at dinner,” he said to Wigferth. “I must speak to the villagers. They’re a discontented lot.”

Wigferth left, and Aldred turned to the waiting couple. A woman called Ebba, with chapped hands, said: “The priest used to pay me to do their laundry. Why don’t you?”

“Laundry?” said Aldred. “We do our own.” There was not much. Monks usually washed their robes twice a year. Other people might have loincloths, strips of material wound around the waist and between the legs and tied in front. Women used them during the monthly flux, and washed them afterward; men wore them for riding, and probably never washed them at all. Babies were sometimes wrapped in something similar. Monks had no use for such things.

The woman’s husband, Cerdic, said: “I used to gather firewood for the priests, and rushes for their floor, and bring them fresh water from the river every day.”

“I have no money to pay you,” Aldred said. “Bishop Wynstan has stolen all the wealth of this church.”

“The bishop was a very generous man,” said Cerdic.

With the proceeds of forgery, Aldred thought; but there was no point in making such accusations to the villagers. Either they believed Wynstan’s story of innocence or they would pretend to believe it: anything else would make them complicit. He had lost that argument in court and he was not going to rerun it for the rest of his life. So he said: “One day the monastery will be prosperous and bring employment and trade to Dreng’s Ferry, but that will require time and patience and hard work, for I have nothing else to offer.”

He left the disgruntled couple and moved on. What he had said to them depressed him. This was not the life he had dreamed of: struggling to make a new monastery viable. He wanted books and pens and ink, not a vegetable garden and a duck pond.

He approached Edgar, who still had the power to brighten his day. Edgar had created a weekly fish market in the hamlet. There were no large villages near Dreng’s Ferry, but there were many small settlements and lonely farms such as Theodberht Clubfoot’s sheepfold. Every Friday a handful of people, mostly women, showed up to buy Edgar’s fish. But Degbert had claimed he was entitled to one fish in three of Edgar’s catch. “You asked me about Degbert’s charter,” Aldred said. “It’s attached to that of the new monastery, since some of the rights are the same.”

“And did Degbert tell the truth about it?” Edgar asked.

Aldred shook his head. “There’s no mention of fish in the charter. He had no right to tax you.”

“I thought as much,” said Edgar. “The lying thief.”

“I’m afraid he is.”

“Everyone wants something for nothing,” Edgar complained. “My brother Erman said I should share the money with him. I made the pond, I make the traps, I empty the traps every morning, and I give my family all the fish they can eat. But they want money, too.”

“Men are greedy.”

“Women, too. My sister-in-law Cwenburg probably told Erman what to say. Never mind. Can I show you something?”

“Of course.”

“Come with me to the graveyard.”

They left the building and walked around to the north side. Edgar said conversationally: “My father taught me that in a well-made boat the joints should never be too tight. A small amount of movement between the timbers absorbs some of the shock of the endless buffeting of wind and waves. But there’s no looseness in a stone building.” Near the place where the little chancel extension joined the tower he pointed up. “See that crack?”

Aldred certainly did see it. Where the tower met the chancel was a gap he could have put his thumb into. “Good Lord,” he said.

“Buildings move, but there’s no looseness between mortared stones, so cracks appear. In some ways they’re useful, because they tell us what’s happening in the structure and forewarn us of problems.”

“Can you fill the crack with mortar?”

“Of course, but that’s not enough. The problem is that the tower is slowly tilting downhill, and leaving the chancel behind. I can fill the gap, but the tower will continue to move, and then the crack will reappear. But that’s the least of your problems.”

“What is the greatest of my problems?”

“The tower will fall down.”

“How soon?”

“I can’t tell.”

Aldred wanted to weep. As if his tribulations were not already as much as a man could bear, now his church was falling down.

Edgar saw the expression on his face, touched his arm lightly, and said: “Don’t despair.”

The touch heartened Aldred. “Christians never despair.”

“Good, because I can stop the tower falling down.”

“How?”