Outside, Cnebba said: “Why do you want Cuthbert?”
“To give him an eel.”
“You can give it to me.”
“I can give it to the devil, but it’s for Cuthbert.”
“Cuthbert is busy. Now piss off.”
“And a very good day to you, too, kind sir.”
“Insolent dog.”
They waited in silence, but there was no more conversation, and after a minute Cuthbert resumed his work. He sped up, inserting the blanks and banging the trussel and popping the pennies out almostlike a kitchen maid podding peas. The real moneyer, Elfwine of Shiring, working in a team of three, could produce something like seven hundred coins per hour. Cuthbert dropped the brown pennies in the acid and stopped his work every few minutes to retrieve the newly silvered coins.
Wynstan looked on, fascinated, hardly noticing the passage of time. The hard part, he reflected wryly, was spending the cash. Because copper was not as heavy as silver, the forged coins could not be used for any transaction large enough to require the money to be weighed. But Wynstan used Cuthbert’s pennies in alehouses and whorehouses and gambling dens, where he enjoyed spending freely.
He was watching Cuthbert lift the crucible of molten metal out of the charcoal a second time when his reverie was disturbed by another noise outside. “What now?” he murmured irritably.
This time Cnebba’s tone was different. Speaking to Edgar, he had sounded scornful; now he seemed startled and intimidated, causing Wynstan to frown uneasily. Cnebba said: “Who are you?” in a voice that was loud but anxious. “Where did you all come from? What do you mean by sneaking up on a man like that?”
Cuthbert set the crucible down on the workbench and said: “Oh, Jesus save me. Who is it?”
Someone rattled the door, but it was firmly barred.
Wynstan heard a voice he thought he knew. “There’s another entrance,” it said. “Through the main house.”
Who was that? The name came to him in a moment: Brother Aldred from Shiring Abbey.
Wynstan remembered telling his mother that Aldred was no threat.
“I will have him crucified,” Wynstan muttered.
Cuthbert was standing stock still, paralyzed by fright.
Wynstan looked around quickly. There was incriminating evidence everywhere: adulterated metal, illicit dies, and forged coins. It would be impossible to hide everything: molten metal in a red-hot crucible could not be tucked away into a chest. His only hope was to keep the visitors out of the workshop.
He stepped through the interior door that led into the minster. The clergy and their families were around the room, the men talking, the women preparing vegetables, the children playing. They all looked up suddenly when Wynstan slammed the door.
A moment later, Sheriff Den came in through the main entrance.
He and Wynstan stared at each other for a moment. Wynstan was shocked and dismayed. Aldred had clearly brought Den here, and there could only be one reason for that.
My mother warned me, Wynstan thought, and I didn’t listen.
He recovered his composure with an effort. “Sheriff Den!” he said. “This is a surprise visit. Come in, sit down, have a cup of ale.”
Aldred entered behind Den and pointed to the door behind Wynstan. “The workshop is through there,” he said.
They were followed in by two armed men Wynstan knew as Wigbert and Godwine.
Wynstan had four men-at-arms. Cnebba was guarding the outer door of the workshop. The other three had spent the night in the stables. Where were they now?
More of the sheriff’s men entered the minster, and Wynstan realized that it hardly mattered where his men were: they were hopelessly outnumbered. The wretched cowards had probably lain down their arms already.
Aldred strode across the room, but Wynstan stood squarely infront of the workshop door, blocking his way. Aldred looked at him but spoke to Den. “It’s in there.”
Den said: “Stand aside, my lord bishop.”
