“Hmm.” Aldred almost wished Wynstan had raged: the suspense was becoming unbearable.
The two monks returned to the abbey. The kitchener was serving the midday meal: eel boiled with onions and beans. While they were eating, Brother Godleof read the prologue to the Rule of Saint Benedict: “Obsculta, o fili, praecepta magistri, et incline aurem cordis tui.” Listen, my son, and turn the ear of your heart to the precepts of your master. Aldred loved the phraseaurem cordis, the ear of the heart. It suggested a way of listening more intense and thoughtful than the norm.
Afterward, the monks filed along the covered walkway to the church for the afternoon service of Nones. It was larger than the church at Dreng’s Ferry, but smaller than Shiring Cathedral. It consisted of two rooms, a nave about twelve yards long, and a smaller chancel, separated by a narrow arch. The monks entered by a side door. The senior men went into the chancel and took their places around the altar, while the rest stood in three neat rows in the nave, where the congregation would also stand, though there was rarely much of a congregation.
As Aldred stood alongside his brethren, chanting the prayers, he began to feel at peace with himself, with the world, and with God. On his travels he had missed this.
However, today the peace did not last long.
A few minutes into the service he heard the opening creak of the west door, the main entrance that was rarely used. All the younger monks turned to see who was coming in. Aldred recognized the pale-blond hair of Bishop Wynstan’s young secretary, Deacon Ithamar.
The older monks determinedly carried on with the prayer. Aldred decided that someone had to find out what Ithamar wanted. He stepped out of the line and spoke to Ithamar in a whisper. “What is it?”
The deacon looked nervous but spoke loudly. “Bishop Wynstan summons Wigferth of Canterbury.”
Aldred involuntarily glanced at Wigferth, who looked back with a frightened expression on his chubby face. Aldred was scared himself, but decided he was not going to let Wigferth go alone to confront an angry Wynstan: there were still men who responded to an unwelcome message by sending back the messenger’s head in a sack. For Wynstan to do such a thing was unlikely, but not impossible.
Aldred faked a confident tone. “Be so good as to apologize to the bishop and say that Brother Wigferth is at prayer.”
Ithamar clearly did not want to return with that reply. “The bishop will not be pleased to be told to wait.”
Aldred knew that. He kept his voice calm and reasonable. “I’m sure Wynstan would not want to interrupt a man of God at prayer.”
Ithamar’s expression said clearly that Wynstan had no such scruples, but the young deacon hesitated to voice the thought.
Not all monks were priests, but Aldred was both, and he outranked Ithamar, who was merely a deacon, so Ithamar had to give in to him sooner or later. After a long moment of thought Ithamar came to the same conclusion and reluctantly left the church.
First blood to the monks, Aldred thought giddily. But his feeling of triumph was muted by the thought that this was surely not over.
He returned to prayer, but his mind was elsewhere. What would happen after the service, when Wigferth would no longer have an excuse? Would Aldred and Wigferth go to the bishop’s palace together? Aldred was not suited to the role of bodyguard, but perhaps he was better than nothing. Could he persuade Abbot Osmund to accompany them? Wynstan would surely hesitate to molest an abbot. On the other hand, Osmund was not a brave man. It would be typical of Osmund to say pusillanimously that Elfric of Canterbury had written the message and sent Wigferth, so it was up to Elfric to protect his messenger.
However, the explosion came sooner.
The main door opened again, this time with a bang. The chanting stopped instantly, and every monk turned to look behind. Bishop Wynstan strode in, his cloak flying. He was followed by Cnebba, one of his men-at-arms. Wynstan was a big man, but Cnebba was bigger.
Aldred was terrified, but he managed to hide it.
Wynstan roared: “Which one of you is Wigferth of Canterbury?”
Aldred could not have said why, but he was the one who stepped forward to confront Wynstan. “My lord bishop,” he said, “you are interrupting the monks at the service of Nones.”
“I’ll interrupt whoever I like,” Wynstan shouted.
“Even God?” said Aldred.
Wynstan reddened with anger and his eyes seemed to bulge. Aldred almost stepped back a pace, but forced himself to stand his ground. He saw Cnebba’s hand go to his sword.
Behind Aldred, Abbot Osmund spoke from the altar in a voiceshaky but determined. “You’d better not draw that sword in church, Cnebba, unless you want God’s eternal curse on your mortal soul.”
Cnebba paled, and his hand flew up as if the sword hilt had burned him.
Perhaps Osmund was not completely without courage, Aldred thought.
Wynstan had lost a little of his momentum. His rage was formidable, but the monks had not succumbed.
Wynstan turned his furious gaze on the abbot. “Osmund,” he said, “how dare you complain to the archbishop about a minster that comes under my authority? You’ve never even been there!”
“But I have,” said Aldred. “With my own eyes I witnessed the depravity and sin of the church at Dreng’s Ferry. It was my duty to report what I had seen.”
