by Ken Follett
Aldred said: “This may not be entirely a bad thing. Probably more townspeople will come to listen to the proceedings—and they’ll be against Wynstan: anyone who messes with the currency is unpopular, because it’s the town tradesmen who end up with dud coins in their purses.”
Den looked dubious. “I don’t suppose the feelings of the crowd will make much difference.”
Aldred was afraid he was right.
The townspeople began to gather, early arrivers securing places with a good view. People were curious about the contents of Den’s basket. Aldred told him to let them look. “Wynstan may try to prevent your showing the evidence during the proceedings,” he said. “Better if everyone sees it beforehand.”
A group gathered around them, and Den answered their questions. Everyone had already heard about the forgery, but seeing the precision dies, the perfect imitation coins, and the big cold lump of brown alloy made the whole thing real to them, and they were shocked all over again.
Wigbert, the captain of the sheriff’s men, brought the two prisoners, Cuthbert and Degbert, their hands tied and their ankles roped together so that they could not make a sudden dash for freedom.
A servant arrived carrying the ealdorman’s seat and its red plush cushion. He placed it just in front of the great oak door. Next, a priest set a small table beside the seat and placed on it a reliquary—an engraved silver container for the relics of a saint—on which people could swear.
The crowd thickened, and the air became heavy with the dunghill smell of unwashed people. Soon the bell tolled in the tower, announcing the court, and the magnates of the region—the thanes and senior clergy—arrived and stood around the ealdorman’s still-empty seat, pushing the ordinary townspeople back. Aldred bowed to Ragna as she appeared, and nodded to Edgar, who was beside her.
When the booming notes died away, a choir inside the church began a hymn. Den was furious. “This is a court, not a service!” he said. “What does Wynstan think he’s doing?”
Aldred knew exactly what Wynstan was doing. In the next moment the bishop came out through the great west door. He wore a white ecclesiastical robe embroidered with biblical scenes and a tall conical hat with fur trim. He was doing all he could to make it difficult for people to regard him as a criminal.
Wynstan walked to the ealdorman’s seat and stood beside it, eyes closed, hands folded in prayer.
“This is outrageous,” Den fumed.
“It won’t work,” Aldred said. “People know him too well.”
Finally Wilwulf arrived with a large escort of men-at-arms. Aldred wondered briefly why he had such a large bodyguard. The crowd fell quiet. Somewhere a hammer rang on iron as a busy blacksmith worked on despite the attraction of a big trial. Wilwulf strode through the crowd, nodding to the assembled magnates, and made himself comfortable on the cushion. He was the only person sitting.
The proceedings opened with the swearing of oaths. Everyone who was to be accused, accuser, or oath helper had to put his hand on the silver box and promise God that he would tell the truth, convict the guilty, and free the innocent. Wilwulf looked bored, but Wynstan watched carefully, as if he thought he might catch someone making an imperfect vow. He was normally careless of ritual details, Aldred knew, but today he pretended to be meticulous.
When it was done, Aldred felt Sheriff Den tense up, ready to begin his prosecution speech. But Wilwulf turned to Wynstan and nodded, and to Aldred’s astonishment Wynstan addressed the court. “A dreadful crime has been committed,” he said, his voice booming out in tones of deep sorrow. “A crime, and a terrible sin.”
Den stepped forward. “Wait!” he shouted. “This is wrong!”
Wilwulf said: “Nothing is wrong, Den.”
“I am the sheriff and I am here to prosecute this case. Forgery is a crime against the king.”
“You’ll have your chance to speak.”
Aldred frowned worriedly. He could not quite figure out what the two brothers were up to, but he was sure it was not good.
Den said: “I insist! I speak for the king, and the king must be heard!”
“I, too, speak for the king, who appointed me ealdorman,” said Wilwulf. “And now you will shut your mouth, Den, or I will shut it for you.”
Den put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Wilwulf’s men-at-arms tensed.
Aldred looked around swiftly and counted twelve men-at-arms with Wilwulf. Now he understood why there were so many. Den, who had not foreseen violence, had only Wigbert.
Den made the same calculation and took his hand off his sword.
Wilwulf said: “Carry on, Bishop Wynstan.”
This was why King Ethelred wanted courts to follow procedures, Aldred reflected; so that noblemen could not make arbitrary decisions as Wilwulf had just done. Opponents of Ethelred’s reform argued that rules made no difference, and justice was guaranteed only by having a wise nobleman use his judgment. The people who said that were usually noblemen.
Wynstan pointed at Degbert and Cuthbert. “Untie those priests,” he said.
Den protested: “They are my prisoners!”
Wilwulf said: “They are the court’s prisoners. Untie them.”
Den had to give in. He nodded to Wigbert, who undid the ropes.
The two priests looked less guilty now.
Wynstan raised his voice again so that all could hear. “The crime, and the sin, is forgery of the king’s currency.” He pointed straight at Wigbert, who looked startled. “Come forward,” Wynstan said. “Show the court what is in the basket.”
Wigbert looked at Den, who shrugged.
Aldred was mystified. He had expected Wynstan to try to conceal the physical evidence, yet here he was demanding that it be shown. What was he up to? He had made an elaborate pretense of innocence—but now he seemed to be prosecuting himself.
He took the objects out of the basket one by one. “The adulterated metal!” he said dramatically. “The pile. The trussel. The collar. And finally, the coins, half silver, half copper.”
The assembled magnates looked as puzzled as Aldred felt. Why was Wynstan underlining his own wickedness?
“And worse of all,” Wynstan cried, “these belonged to a priest!”
Yes, Aldred thought; they belonged to you.
Then Wynstan pointed dramatically and said: “Cuthbert!”
Everyone looked at Cuthbert.
Wynstan said: “Imagine my surprise—imagine my horror—when I learned that this foul crime was being committed under my very nose!”
Aldred’s mouth dropped open in shock.
There was a stunned silence in the crowd: everyone was astonished. They had all thought Wynstan was the culprit.
Wynstan said: “I should have known. I accuse myself of negligence. A bishop must be vigilant, and I failed.”
Aldred found his voice. He shouted at Wynstan: “But you were the instigator!”
Wynstan said sorrowfully: “Ah—I knew wicked men would try to implicate me. It’s my own fault. I gave them the opening.”
Cuthbert said: “You told me to forge money. I just wanted to make ornaments for the church. You made me do it!” He was crying.
Wynstan maintained his regretful expression. “My son, you think you will make your crime seem less if you pretend you were talked into it by your superiors—”
“I was!”
Wynstan shook his head sadly. “It won’t work. You did what you did. So don’t add perjury to your list of crimes.”
Cuthbert turned to Wilwulf. “I confess,” he said miserably. “I forged pennies. I know I will be punished. But the bishop dreamed up the whole scheme. Don’t let him escape blame.”
Wilwulf said: “Remember that false accusation is a serious matter, Cuthbert.” He turned to Wynstan. “Carry on, bishop.”
Wynstan turned his attention to
the assembled magnates, all of whom were watching raptly. “The crime was well hidden,” he said. “Dean Degbert himself did not know what Cuthbert was up to in his little workshop attached to the minster.”
Cuthbert said piteously: “Degbert knew everything!”
Wynstan said: “Step forward, Degbert.”
Degbert did as he was told, and Aldred noted that he was now standing among the magnates, as if one of them, rather than a criminal they had to judge.
Wynstan said: “The dean admits his fault. Like me, he was negligent—but in his case the fault was worse, because he was at the minster every day, whereas I was only an occasional visitor.”
Aldred said: “Degbert helped you spend the money!”
Wynstan ignored that. “I have taken it upon myself, as bishop, to punish Degbert. He has been expelled from the minster and stripped of his title of dean. Today he is a simple, humble priest, and I have brought him under my personal supervision.”
Aldred thought: So he moves from the minster to the cathedral—no great hardship.
Could this possibly be happening?
Den shouted out: “That’s no punishment for a forger!”
“I agree,” said Wynstan. “And Degbert is no forger.” He looked around. “Nobody here denies that it was Cuthbert who made the coins.”
That was the truth, Aldred thought ruefully. It was not the whole truth, not by a long way, but it was not actually a lie.
And he could see that the magnates were beginning to come around to Wynstan’s version of events. They might not believe him—they knew what he was like, after all—but his guilt could not be proved. And he was a bishop.
Wynstan’s masterstroke had been to prosecute the case himself, thereby robbing the sheriff of the chance to tell the whole convincing story: Wynstan’s visits to Dreng’s Ferry after each quarter day, his gifts to the residents, his trips to Combe with Degbert, and their free-spending evenings in the town’s alehouses and brothels. None of that had come out, and if raised now it would seem feeble and circumstantial.
Wynstan had gambled with forged money, but no one could prove that. His victim, Monsieur Robert, was the skipper of an oceangoing ship and might now be at any port in Europe.
The only hole in Wynstan’s story was that he had not “discovered” Cuthbert’s crime until the minster was raided by the sheriff. That was surely too much of a coincidence for the magnates to swallow.
Aldred was about to point this out when Wynstan forestalled him. “I see the hand of God in this,” said the bishop, his voice increasingly sonorous, like a church bell. “It must have been divinely ordained that, at the very hour I discovered Cuthbert’s crime, Sheriff Den came to Dreng’s Ferry—just in time to arrest the wicked priest! Heaven be praised.”
Aldred was amazed by Wynstan’s sheer nerve. The hand of God! Did the man have no concern for how he might explain himself on the Day of Judgment? Wynstan was constantly changing. At Combe he had seemed no worse than a slave to pleasure, a clergyman who had lost his self-discipline; then when he had been found out at Dreng’s Ferry he had become possessed, screaming and foaming at the mouth; but now he was sane again, and more wily than ever, yet plunging more deeply into wickedness. This must be how the devil made a man his own, Aldred thought; by stages, one sin leading to a worse.
Wynstan’s logic, and the confidence with which he told his deceitful story, were so overwhelming that Aldred almost found himself wondering if it could be true; and he could see by the faces of the magnates that they were going to go along with it, even if they might have private reservations.
Wilwulf sensed the mood and moved to take advantage of it. “Degbert having been dealt with already, we need only sentence Cuthbert.”
“Wrong!” shouted Sheriff Den. “You have to deal with the accusation against Wynstan.”
“No one has accused Wynstan.”
“Cuthbert did.”
Wilwulf mimed astonishment. “Are you suggesting that the oath of a lowly priest is worth more than that of a bishop?”
“Then I accuse Wynstan myself. When I entered the minster I found Wynstan in the workshop with Cuthbert while the forgery was going on!”
“Bishop Wynstan has explained that he had at that very moment discovered the crime—by divine providence, no doubt.”
Den looked around, meeting the eyes of the magnates. “Do any of you really believe that?” he said. “Wynstan was in the workshop, standing by Cuthbert as he made false coins out of base metal, but he had only just discovered it was going on?” He swiveled to Wynstan. “And don’t tell us that was the hand of God. This is something much more earthly—a plain, old-fashioned lie.”
Wilwulf said to the magnates: “I think we may agree that the charge against Bishop Wynstan is malicious and false.”
Aldred gave it one last try. “The king will hear of this, naturally. Do you really think he will believe Wynstan’s story? And how will he feel about the magnates who have exonerated Wynstan and Degbert and punished no one but a lowly priest?”
They looked uneasy, but no one spoke up in support of Aldred, and Wilwulf said: “Then the court is agreed that Cuthbert is guilty. Because of his wicked attempt to put the blame on two senior clergymen, his punishment will be more severe than is usual. I sentence Cuthbert to be blinded and castrated.”
Aldred said: “No!” But it was hopeless to protest further.
Cuthbert’s legs gave way under him and he fell to the ground.
Wilwulf said: “See to it, sheriff.”
Den hesitated, then reluctantly nodded to Wigbert, who picked up Cuthbert and carried him away.
Wynstan spoke again. Aldred thought the bishop had already won everything he wanted, but there was more drama to come. “I accuse myself!” Wynstan said.
Wilwulf showed no surprise, and Aldred deduced that this, like everything that had happened so far, had been planned in advance.
Wynstan said: “When I discovered the crime, I was so enraged that I destroyed much of the forger’s equipment. With his hammer I smashed a red-hot crucible, and molten metal flew through the air and killed an innocent man called Godwine. It was an accident, but I accept the blame.”
Once again, Aldred saw, Wynstan gained an advantage by prosecuting himself. He could put the murder in its best light.
Wilwulf said gravely: “What you did was still a crime. You are guilty of unlawful killing.”
Wynstan bowed his head in a gesture of humility. Aldred wondered how many people were fooled.
Wilwulf went on: “You must pay the murder price to the victim’s widow.”
An attractive young woman with a baby in her arms emerged from the crowd, looking intimidated.
Wilwulf said: “The murder price of a man-at-arms is five pounds of silver.”
Ithamar stepped forward and handed a small wooden chest to Wynstan.
Wynstan bowed to the widow, handed her the chest, and said: “I pray constantly that God and you will forgive me for what I have done.”
Around him, many of the magnates were nodding approval. It made Aldred want to scream. They all knew Wynstan! How could they believe he was humbly repentant? But his display of Christian remorse had made them forget his true nature. And the large fine was a severe punishment—which also diverted attention from the way he had wriggled out of a more serious charge.
The widow took the box and left without speaking.
And so, Aldred thought, great ones sin with impunity while lesser men are brutally chastised. What could God’s purpose be in this travesty of justice? But perhaps there was some small advantage to be gained. It occurred to Aldred that he should act now, while Wynstan was still pretending to be virtuous. Almost without thinking he said: “Ealdorman Wilwulf, after what we’ve heard today it’s clear that the minster at Dreng’s Ferry should be closed.” This was the time to clean out the rat’s n
est, he thought, but he did not need to say it: the implication was obvious.
He saw a flash of rage cross Wynstan’s face, but it vanished quickly and the look of pious meekness returned.
Aldred went on: “The archbishop has already given his approval to a plan to turn the minster into a branch of Shiring Abbey and staff it with monks. When first broached the plan was shelved, but this seems a good moment to reconsider it.”
Wilwulf looked at Wynstan for guidance.
Aldred could guess what Wynstan was thinking. The minster had never been rich, and it was of little benefit to him now that the forgery racket had been stopped. It had been a useful sinecure for his cousin Degbert, but now Degbert had had to be moved. Its loss cost him next to nothing.
No doubt, Aldred thought, Wynstan was unhappy letting Aldred have even such a small victory, but he needed also to think about the impression he would make if he now tried to protect the minster. He had pretended to be shocked and appalled by the forgery, and people would expect him to be glad to turn his back on the place where it had happened. If he renewed his opposition to Aldred’s plan, skeptical people might even suspect that Wynstan wanted to revive the counterfeit workshop.
“I agree with Brother Aldred,” said Wynstan. “Let all the priests be reassigned to other duties, and let the minster become a monastery.”
Aldred thanked God for one piece of good news.
Wilwulf turned to Treasurer Hildred. “Brother Hildred, is this still the wish of Abbot Osmund?”
Aldred was not sure what Hildred would say. The treasurer generally opposed anything Aldred wanted. But this time he concurred. “Yes, ealdorman,” he said. “The abbot is keen to see this plan implemented.”
“Then be it so,” said Wilwulf.
But Hildred was not finished. “And furthermore . . .”
“Yes, Brother Hildred?”
“It was Aldred’s notion to turn the minster into a monastery, and he has now revived the idea. All along, Abbot Osmund thought the best choice for prior of the new institution would be . . . Brother Aldred himself.”
Aldred was taken by surprise. He had not anticipated this. And he did not want it. He had no wish to run a tiny monastery in the middle of nowhere. He wanted to become abbot of Shiring and create a world-class center of learning and scholarship.