“Yes, you did,” said the abbot.
Theodric began to look defeated. He backtracked. “Then I should not have said that, and I withdraw it.”
Aldred sensed that he was close to success, and he pushed hisadvantage, at the risk of appearing grasping. “The abbey has a few bones of Saint Adolphus—the skull and an arm.”
“Adolphus?” said Elfweard. “Martyred for possessing the Gospel of Saint Matthew, if I remember rightly.”
“Yes,” said Aldred, delighted. “He was killed over a book. That’s why I remembered him.”
“He should be the patron saint of librarians.”
Aldred felt he was an inch away from triumph. He said: “It’s my dearest wish to create a great library at Dreng’s Ferry.”
“A creditworthy ambition,” Elfweard said. “Well, Theodric, the remains of Saint Adolphus certainly do not constitute the greatest treasure of Glastonbury.”
Aldred remained silent, afraid of breaking the spell.
Theodric said sulkily: “I don’t suppose anyone will even notice their absence.”
Aldred fought to conceal his glee.
Elfweard’s assistant reappeared carrying a cope, a wide-shouldered liturgical cloak made of white wool embroidered with biblical scenes in red. “It’s time for Nones,” he said.
Elfweard stood up and the assistant placed the cope over his shoulders and fastened it at the front. Dressed for the service, Elfweard turned to Aldred. “You realize, I’m sure, that the nature of the relic doesn’t matter as much as the use you make of it. You must create the circumstances in which miracles are likely.”
“I promise you, I will make the most of the bones of Saint Adolphus.”
“And you’ll have to transport them to Dreng’s Ferry with all due ceremony. You don’t want the saint to take against you from the start.”
“Never fear,” said Aldred. “I have great things planned.”
Bishop Wynstan stood at an upstairs window in his palace at Shiring, looking across the busy market square to the silent monastery on the opposite side. There was no glass in the window—glass was a luxury for kings—and the shutter had been thrown open to let in a fresh spring breeze.
A four-wheeled cart pulled by an ox was approaching along the Dreng’s Ferry road. It was escorted by a small group of monks led by Prior Aldred.
It was astounding that the penniless prior of a remote monastery could be so irritating. The man just did not know when he was defeated. Wynstan turned to Archdeacon Degbert, who was there with his wife, Edith. Between them, Degbert and Edith picked up most of the town gossip. “What the devil is that damned monk up to now?” he said.
Edith said: “I’m going out to look.” She left the room.
“I can guess,” said Degbert. “Two weeks ago he was at Glastonbury. The abbot gave him a partial skeleton of Saint Adolphus.”
“Adolphus?”
“He was martyred by a Saxon king.”
“Yes, I remember now.”
“Aldred is on his way to Glastonbury again, this time to perform the necessary rites for removal of the relics. But that’s only a box of bones. I don’t know why he needs a cart.”
Wynstan watched the cart pull up at the entrance to Shiring Abbey. A small crowd gathered, curious. He saw Edith join them. He said: “How could Aldred even pay for a four-wheel cart and an ox?”
Degbert knew the answer to that. “Thane Deorman of Norwood gave him three pounds.”
“More fool Deorman.”
The people crowded closely around. Aldred pulled away a covering of some kind, but Wynstan could not see what was on the cart. Then the covering was replaced, the cart entered the abbey, and the crowd dispersed.
Edith returned a minute later. “It’s a life-size effigy of Saint Adolphus!” she said excitedly. “He has a lovely face, holy and sad at the same time.”
