said reprovingly, as though I should have known that. ‘And he cannot see every man who comes here. You can talk to me.’
I smiled and raised my voice a little. ‘In Cippanhamm, two years ago,’ I said, ‘your bishop was friends with Eanflæd. She has red hair and works her trade out of the Corncrake tavern. Her trade is whoring.’
The priest’s hands were flapping again in an attempt to persuade me to lower my voice.
‘I’ve been with Eanflæd,’ I said, ‘and she told me about the bishop. She said …’
The monks had stopped making beehives and were listening, but the priest cut me off by half shouting. ‘The bishop might have a moment free.’
‘Then tell him I’m here,’ I said pleasantly.
‘You are Uhtred of Oxton?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I am the Lord Uhtred of Bebbanburg.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Sometimes known as Uhtredærwe,’ I added mischievously. Uhtred the Wicked.
‘Yes, lord,’ the priest said again and hurried away.
The bishop was called Alewold and he was really the bishop of Cridianton, but that place had not been thought as safe as Exanceaster and so for years the bishops of Cridianton had lived in the larger town which, as Guthrum had shown, was not the wisest decision. Guthrum’s Danes had pillaged the cathedral and the bishop’s house, which was still scantily furnished and I discovered Alewold sitting behind a table that looked as if it had once belonged to a butcher, for its hefty top was scored with knife cuts and stained with old blood. He looked at me indignantly. ‘You should not be here,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘You have business before the court tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow,’ I said, ‘you sit as a judge. Today you are a bishop.’
He acknowledged that with a small nod. He was an elderly man with a heavy jowled face and a reputation as a severe judge. He had been with Alfred in Scireburnan when the Danes arrived in Exanceaster, which is why he was still alive, and, like all the bishops in Wessex, he was a fervent supporter of the king, and I had no doubt that Alfred’s dislike of me was known to Alewold, which meant I could expect little clemency when the court sat.
‘I am busy,’ Alewold said, gesturing at the parchments on the stained table. Two clerks shared the table and a half-dozen resentful priests had gathered behind the bishop’s chair.
‘My wife,’ I said, ‘inherited a debt to the church.’
Alewold looked at Iseult who alone had come into the house with me. She looked beautiful, proud and wealthy. There was silver at her throat and in her hair, and her cloak was fastened with two brooches, one of jet and the other of amber. ‘Your wife?’ the bishop asked snidely.
‘I would discharge the debt,’ I said, ignoring his question, and I tipped a bag onto his butcher’s table and the big silver plate we had taken from Ivar slid out. The silver made a satisfying noise as it thumped down and suddenly, in that small dark room ill-lit by three rush lights and a small, wood-barred window, it seemed as if the sun had come out. The heavy silver glowed and Alewold just stared at it.
There are good priests. Beocca is one and Willibald another, but I have discovered in my long life that most churchmen preach the merits of poverty while they lust after wealth. They love money and the church attracts money like a candle brings moths. I knew Alewold was a greedy man, as greedy for wealth as he was for the delights of a red-haired whore in Cippanhamm, and he could not take his eyes from that plate. He reached out and caressed the thick rim as if he scarce believed what he was seeing, and then he pulled the plate towards him and examined the twelve apostles. ‘A pyx,’ he said reverently.
‘A plate,’ I said casually.
One of the other priests leaned over a clerk’s shoulder. ‘Irish work,’ he said.
‘It looks Irish,’ Alewold agreed, then looked suspiciously at me. ‘You are returning it to the church?’
‘Returning it?’ I asked innocently.
‘The plate was plainly stolen,’ Alewold said, ‘and you do well, Uhtred, to bring it back.’
‘I had the plate made for you,’ I said.
He turned the plate over, which took some effort for it was heavy, and once it was inverted he pointed to the scratches in the silver. ‘It is old,’ he said.
‘I had it made in Ireland,’ I said grandly, ‘and doubtless it was handled roughly by the men who brought it across the sea.’
He knew I was lying. I did not care. ‘There are silversmiths in Wessex who could have made you a pyx,’ one of the priests snapped.
‘I thought you might want it,’ I said, then leaned forward and pulled the plate out of the bishop’s hands, ‘but if you prefer West Saxon work,’ I went on, ‘then I can …’
‘Give it back!’ Alewold said and, when I made no move to obey, his voice became pleading. ‘It is a beautiful thing.’ He could see it in his church, or perhaps in his hall, and he wanted it. There was silence as he stared at it. If he had known that the plate existed, if I had told Mildrith of it, then he would have had a response ready, but as it was he was overwhelmed by desire for the heavy silver. A maid brought in a flagon and he waved her out of the room. She was, I noted, red-haired. ‘You had the plate made,’ Alewold said sceptically.
‘In Dyflin,’ I said.
‘Is that where you went in the king’s ship?’ the priest who had snapped at me asked.
‘We patrolled the coast,’ I said, ‘nothing more.’
‘The value of the plate,’ Alewold began, then stopped.
‘Is far and above the debt Mildrith inherited,’ I said. That was probably not true, but it was close to the amount, and I could see Alewold did not care. I was going to get what I wanted.
The debt was discharged. I insisted on having that written down, and written three times, and I surprised them by being able to read and so discovering that the first scrap of parchment made no mention of the church yielding their rights to the future produce of my estate, but that was corrected and I let the bishop keep one copy while I took two. ‘You will not be arraigned for debt,’ the bishop said as he pressed his seal into the wax of the last copy, ‘but there is still the matter of Oswald’s wergild.’
‘I rely on your good and wise judgment, bishop,’ I said, and I opened the purse hanging at my waist and took out a small lump of gold, making sure he could see there was more gold inside as I placed the small lump on the plate. ‘Oswald was a thief.’
‘His family will make oaths that he was not,’ the priest said.
‘And I will bring men who will swear he was,’ I said. A trial relied heavily on oaths, but both sides would bring as many liars as they could muster, and judgment usually went to the better liars or, if both sides were equally convincing, to the side who had the sympathy of the onlookers. It was better, though,
