Page 156 of The Evening and the Morning
“Is your family here?”
Godric pointed. A woman and two children were waiting anxiously in the background.
Wynstan said: “Your wife is too old to be worth much, and your children are too small. I won’t take any of you. Try someone else. Widow Ymma, the furrier, is rich.”
“My lord—”
“Get out of my sight. Headman, if Godric hasn’t paid by the end of today, find another peasant for the west-sloping land. And make sure the new man understands the need for drainage furrows. This is the west of England, for heaven’s sake—it rains here.”
There were several like Godric during the day, and Wynstan gave each the same treatment. If peasants were allowed to skip payments, they would all show up on quarter days with empty hands and sad stories.
Wynstan was also collecting rents for Wilwulf, and beside him Ithamar was carefully keeping the two sets of accounts separate. Wynstan took a modest rake-off from Wilf’s money. The bishop was keenly aware that his wealth and power were magnified by his relationship to the ealdorman, and he was not going to endanger that relationship.
At the end of the afternoon Wynstan summoned servants to transport Wilf’s rents in kind to the compound, but Wynstan carried the silver himself, liking to deliver it personally, so that it looked like a gift from him. He found Wilf in the great hall. “There’s not as much in the chest as there used to be, before you gave the Vale of Outhen to the lady Ragna,” he said.
“She’s there now,” Wilf said.
Wynstan nodded. This was the third quarter-day on which Ragna had collected her rents personally. After her showdown with him on Lady Day she clearly was in no hurry to delegate to an underling. “She’s remarkable,” he said, speaking as if he liked her. “So beautiful, and so smart. I understand why you seek her advice so often—even though she’s a woman.”
The compliment was barbed. A man who was dominated by hiswife was subject to many jibes, most of them obscene. Wilf did not miss the nuance. He said: “I seek your advice, and you’re a mere priest.”
“True.” Wynstan smiled, acknowledging the riposte. He sat down, and a servant poured him a glass of wine. “She made a fool of your son over that ball game.”
Wilf made a sour face. “Garulf is a fool, I’m sorry to say. He showed that in Wales. He’s no coward—he’ll fight against any odds. But he’s no general either. His notion of strategy is to charge into battle yelling at the top of his voice. However, the men follow him.”
They moved on to talk about the Vikings. This year the raids had been farther east, in Hampshire and Sussex, and Shiring had largely escaped, by contrast with the previous year, when Combe and other places in Wilf’s domain had been ravaged. However, Shiring had suffered from this year’s unseasonal rain. “Perhaps God is displeased with the people of Shiring,” Wilf said.
“For not giving enough of their money to the church, probably,” said Wynstan, and Wilf laughed.
Before returning to his residence, Wynstan went to see his mother, Gytha. He kissed her and sat by her fire. She said: “Brother Aldred went to see Sheriff Den.”
Wynstan was intrigued. “Did he, now?”
“He went alone, and was quite discreet. He probably thinks no one noticed. But I heard about it.”
“He’s a sly dog. He went behind my back to the archbishop of Canterbury, and tried to take over my minster at Dreng’s Ferry.”
“Does he have a weakness?”
“There was an incident in his youth, an affair with another young monk.”
“Anything since?”
“No.”
“Useful ammunition, perhaps, but if the behavior hasn’t been repeated then it’s not enough to bring him down. Living without women, I should think half those monks are diddling one another in the dorm.”
“I’m not worried about Aldred. I squashed him once, I can do it again.”
Gytha was not reassured. “I don’t understand it,” she fretted. “What would a monk want with the sheriff?”
“I’m more worried about the Norman bitch.”
Gytha nodded agreement. “Ragna is smart and she’s bold.”
“She outmaneuvered me at Outhenham. Not many people can do that.”
“And she got Wilf to sack the head groom, Wignoth, who lamed her horse for me.”
