Page 42 of The Evening and the Morning

“Nothing at all,” said Aldred in his most reassuring voice. “I saw the light and worried that something might be on fire.” He was improvising, not wanting to seem nosy. “I’m Brother Aldred, from Shiring Abbey.”

“I’m Cuthbert, a priest here at the minster. But visitors aren’t allowed in my workshop.”

Aldred frowned. “What are you so anxious about?”

Cuthbert hesitated. “I thought you were a thief.”

“I suppose you have precious metals here.”

Involuntarily Cuthbert looked over his shoulder. Aldred followed his gaze to an ironbound chest by the door into the house. That would be Cuthbert’s treasury, where he kept the gold, silver, and copper he used, Aldred guessed.

Many priests practiced different arts: music, poetry, wall painting. There was nothing strange about Cuthbert’s being a jeweler. He would make ornaments for the church, probably, and might have a profitable sideline in jewelry for sale: there was no shame in a clergyman making money. So why did he act guilty?

“You must have good eyes, to do such precise work.” Aldred looked at what was on the workbench. Cuthbert seemed to be engraving an intricate picture of strange animals into the silver disc. “What are you making?”

“A brooch.”

A new voice said: “What the devil are you doing, poking your nose in here?”

The man addressing Aldred was not partially bald in the usual way, but completely hairless. He must be Degbert Baldhead, the dean. Aldred said calmly: “My word, you folks are touchy. The door was open and I looked in. What on earth is the matter with you? It almost seems as if you might have something to hide.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Degbert said. “Cuthbert needs quiet and privacy to do highly delicate work, that’s all. Please leave him alone.”

“That’s not the story Cuthbert told. He said he was worried about thieves.”

“Both.” Degbert reached past Aldred and pulled the door so that it slammed, shutting himself and Aldred out of the workshop. “Who are you?”

“I’m the armarius at Shiring Abbey. My name is Aldred.”

“A monk,” said Degbert. “I suppose you expect us to give you supper.”

“And a place to sleep tonight. I’m on a long journey.”

Degbert was clearly reluctant, but he could not refuse hospitality to a fellow clergyman, not without some strong reason. “Well, just try to keep your questions to yourself, he said, and he walked away and entered the house by the main door.

Aldred stood thinking for a few moments, but he could not imagine the reason for the hostility he had experienced.

He gave up puzzling and followed Degbert into the house.

It was not what he expected.

There should have been a large crucifix on prominent display, to indicate that the building was dedicated to the service of God. A minster should always have a lectern bearing a holy book so that passages could be read to the clergy while they ate their frugal meals. Any wall hangings should feature biblical scenes that would remind them of God’s laws.

This place had no crucifix or lectern, and a tapestry on the wall showed a hunting scene. Most of the men present had the shaved patch on top of the head called a tonsure, but there were also women and children who looked as if they were at home. It had the air of a large, affluent family house. “This is a minster?” he said incredulously.

Degbert heard him. “Who do you think you are, to come in here with that attitude?” he said.

Aldred was not surprised at his reaction. Lax priests were often hostile to the stricter monks, suspecting them of a holier-than-thou attitude—sometimes with reason. This minster was beginning to look like the kind of place that the reform movement was directedat. However, Aldred suspended judgment. Degbert and his team might be carrying out all the required services impeccably, and that was the most important thing.

Aldred put his box and his saddlebag up against the wall. From the saddlebag he took some grain. He went outside and fed it to Dismas, then hobbled the pony’s hind legs so that it could not wander far in the night. Then he returned inside.

He had hoped that the minster might be an oasis of calm contemplation in a bustling world. He had imagined spending the evening talking to men with interests similar to his own. They might discuss some question of biblical scholarship, such as the authenticity of the Epistle of Barnabas. They could talk about the troubles of the beleaguered English king, Ethelred the Misled, or even about issues in international politics, such as the war between Muslim Iberia and the Christian north of Spain. He had hoped they would be keen to hear all about Normandy, and in particular Jumièges Abbey.

But these men were not leading that kind of life. They were talking to their wives and playing with their children, drinking ale and cider. One man was attaching an iron buckle to a leather belt; another cutting the hair of a little boy. No one was reading or praying.

There was nothing wrong with domestic life, of course; a man should take care of his wife and children. But a clergyman had other duties, too.

The church bell rang. The men unhurriedly stopped what they were doing and prepared themselves for the evening service. After a few minutes they ambled out, and Aldred followed. The women and children stayed behind, and no one came from the village.