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Updated: May 1, 2025
On the eighth day the minster was in a light low over Archbishop Aldred's new-made grave. All was burnt, minster, churches, old Roman palaces, and all the glories of Constantine the Great and the mythic past. The besiegers, hewing and hammering gate after gate, had now won all but the Keep itself. Then Malet's heart failed him.
"Get you gone as soon as you may," he said sullenly. "There is one thing that I must ask you, Erpwald," Owen said. "It is what one may ask of one brave man concerning another. Let Aldred's people bury him in all honour, as they will." "There you ask too much, Welshman. But I will bury him myself in all honour in the way that I think best.
One of the men flew at him on that, and bided where he fell, across the doorway of the porch; none stirred to follow him. "Swear that you will not go to Ina for a month's time with any tales, and you and all shall go free," Erpwald said. The man who had spoken before put in at once: "What of the blood feud, Erpwald? There is Aldred's son yet."
One of Aldred's most perfect make, dark Spanish yew and more than fifty years old, flew to splinters just because a treacherous string parted in the center. Sturdy hunting bows are not so liable to this catastrophe, but be sure you are not caught out in a game country with a broken string and no second. You will see endless opportunities to shoot.
Thomas, Aldred's successor, claimed them by a pretended jurisdiction over Worcester, and the decision was put off for a court of the great men of the realm, which did not take place till several fresh appointments had been made. Lanfranc, the Italian, Abbot of Bec, had become Archbishop of Canterbury, and was, of course, interested in guarding the jurisdiction of the Archiepiscopal see.
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