“Please, madam, I beg you!”
“The answer is no, Agnes, and that is the end of the matter. Someone take her away.”
“How could you do this to me?” As the sheriff’s men took hold of Agnes, her face twisted in hatred. “You’re killing my husband, you murderer!” Drool came from her mouth. “You witch, you devil!” She spat, and the saliva landed on the skirt of Ragna’s green dress. “I hope your husband dies, too!” she screamed, and then they dragged her away.
Wynstan watched the altercation between Ragna and Agnes with great interest. Agnes was in a poisonous rage, and Ragna felt guilty. Wynstan could use that, although he did not immediately see how.
The guilty were hanged at dawn the next day. Later Wynstan gave a modest banquet for the notables who had attended the court.March was not a good month for a feast, because the year’s lambs and calves had not yet been born; so the table in the bishop’s residence was laid with smoked fish and salt meat, plus several dishes of beans flavored with nuts and dried fruit. Wynstan made up for the poor food by serving plenty of wine.
He listened more than he talked during the meal. He liked to know who was prospering or running out of money, which noblemen bore grudges against others, and what the ugly rumors were, whether true or false. He was also mulling over the Agnes question. He made only one significant contribution to the conversation, and that had to do with Prior Aldred.
The frail Thane Cenbryht of Trench, too old for battle, mentioned that Aldred had visited him and asked for a donation to the priory at Dreng’s Ferry, either money or—preferably—a grant of land.
Wynstan knew about Prior Aldred’s fundraising. Unfortunately he had enjoyed some successes, albeit small: the priory was now landlord of five hamlets in addition to Dreng’s Ferry. However, Wynstan was doing all he could to discourage donors. “I hope you weren’t overgenerous,” he said.
“I’m too poor to be generous,” said the thane. “But what makes you say that?”
“Well...” Wynstan never missed an opportunity to belittle Aldred. “I hear unpleasant stories,” he said, feigning reluctance. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say too much, as it may be no more than gossip, but there’s talk of orgies with slaves.” This was not even gossip: Wynstan was making it up.
“Oh, dear,” said the thane. “I only gave him a horse, but now I wish I hadn’t.”
Wynstan pretended to backtrack. “Well, the reports may not betrue—although Aldred has misbehaved before, when he was a novice at Glastonbury. Right or wrong, I would have clamped down right away, if only to dispel rumors, but I’m no longer in authority at Dreng’s Ferry.”
Archdeacon Degbert, at the other end of the table, said: “More’s the pity.”
Thane Deglaf of Wigleigh started talking about the news from Exeter, and no more was said about Aldred; but Wynstan was satisfied. He had planted a doubt, not for the first time. Aldred’s ability to raise funds was severely limited by the perpetual undercurrent of nasty tales. The monastery at Dreng’s Ferry must always be a backwater, with Aldred doomed to spend the rest of his life there.
When the guests left, Wynstan retired to his private room with Degbert and they discussed how the court had gone. Ragna had dispensed justice rapidly and fairly, it could not be denied. She had a good instinct for guilt and innocence. She had shown much mercy to the unfortunate and none to the wicked. Naively, she made no attempt to use the law to further her own interests by winning friends and punishing enemies.
In fact she had made an enemy of Agnes—a foolish mistake, in Wynstan’s view, but one that he might be able to exploit.
“Where do you think Agnes could be found at this hour?” he asked Degbert.
Degbert rubbed his bald pate with the palm of his hand. “She’s in mourning, and will not leave her house without a pressing reason.”
“I might pay her a visit.” Wynstan stood up.
“Shall I come with you?”
“I don’t think so. This will be an intimate little chat: just the grieving widow and her bishop, come to give her spiritual consolation.”
Degbert told Wynstan where Agnes lived, and Wynstan put on his cloak and went out.
He found Agnes at her table, sitting over a bowl of stew that appeared to have gone cold without being touched. She was startled to see him and jumped to her feet. “My lord bishop!”
“Sit down, sit down, Agnes,” Wynstan said in a low, quiet voice. He studied her with interest, never having taken much notice of her before. She had bright blue eyes and a sharp nose. Her face had a shrewd look that Wynstan found attractive. He said: “I come to offer you God’s solace in your time of grief.”
“Solace?” she said. “I don’t want solace. I want my husband.”
She was angry, and Wynstan began to see how he could make use of that. “I can’t bring back your Offa, but I might be able to give you something else,” he said.
“What?”
“Revenge.”
“God offers me that?” she said skeptically. She was quick-witted, he realized. That made her all the more useful.
“God’s ways are mysterious.” Wynstan sat down and patted the bench beside him.
