The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 2 Saturday, June 19, 997

ishop Wynstan of Shiring reined in his horse at the top of a rise and looked down over Combe. There was not much left of the town: the summer sun shone on a gray wilderness. “It’s worse than I expected,” he said. There were some ships and boats undamaged in the harbor, the only hopeful sign.

His brother Wigelm came alongside and said: “Every Viking should be roasted alive.” He was a thane, a member of the landholding elite. Five years younger than Wynstan at thirty, he was quick to anger.

But this time Wynstan agreed with him. “Over a slow fire,” he said.

Their elder half brother heard them. As was the custom, the brothers had names that sounded alike, and the oldest was Wilfwulf, forty, usually called Wilf. He was ealdorman of Shiring, ruler of a part of the west of England that included Combe. He said: “You’ve never seen a town after a Viking raid. This is how it looks.”

They rode on into the devastated town, followed by a small entourage of armed men. They made an imposing sight, Wynstan knew: three tall men in costly clothes riding fine horses. Wilf had a blue knee-length tunic and leather boots; Wigelm a similar outfit but in red. Wynstan had a plain black ankle-length robe, as appropriate to a priest, but the fabric was finely woven. He also wore a large silver cross on a leather thong around his neck. Each brother had a luxuriant fair mustache but no beard, in the style fashionable among wealthy Englishmen. Wilf and Wigelm had thick fair hair; Wynstan had the top of his head shaved in a tonsure, like all priests. They looked wealthy and important, which they were.

The townspeople were moving disconsolately among the ruins, sifting and digging and making pathetic piles of their recovered possessions: twisted pieces of iron kitchenware, bone combs blackened by fire, cracked cooking pots and ruined tools. Chickens pecked and pigs snuffled, searching for anything edible. There was an unpleasant smell of dead fires, and Wynstan found himself taking shallow breaths.

As the brothers approached, the townspeople looked up at them, faces brightening with hope. Many knew them by sight, and those who had never seen them could tell by their appearance that they were powerful men. Some called out greetings, others cheered and clapped. They all left what they were doing and followed. Surely, the people’s expressions said, such mighty beings would be able to save them somehow?

The brothers reined in at a patch of open ground between the church and the monastery. Boys competed to hold their horses as they dismounted. Prior Ulfric appeared to greet them. There were black smuts in his white hair. “My lords, the town stands in desperate need of your help,” he said. “The people—”

“Wait!” said Wynstan, in a voice that carried to the crowd all around. His brothers were unsurprised: Wynstan had forewarned them of his intention.

The townspeople fell silent.

Wynstan took the cross from around his neck and held it high over his head, then turned and walked with slow ceremonial steps toward the church.

His brothers came after him, and everyone else followed.

He entered the church and slow-marched up the aisle, noticing the rows of wounded lying on the floor but not turning his head. Those who were able bowed or knelt as he passed, still holding the cross high. He could see more bodies at the far end of the church, but those were dead.

When he reached the altar, he prostrated himself, lying completely still, facedown on the earth floor, his right arm extended toward the altar, holding the cross upright.

He stayed there for a long moment, while the people watched in silence. Then he rose to his knees. He spread his arms in a beseeching gesture and said loudly: “What have we done?”

There was a sound from the crowd like a collective sigh.

“Wherein did we sin?” he declaimed. “Why do we deserve this? Can we be forgiven?”

He went on in the same vein. It was half prayer, half sermon. He needed to explain to the people how what had happened to them was God’s will. The Viking raid had to be seen as punishment for sin.

However, there was practical work to do, and this was only the preliminary ceremony, so he was brief. “As we begin the task of rebuilding our town,” he said in conclusion, “we pledge to redouble our efforts to be devout, humble, God-fearing Christians, in the name of Jesus our Lord. Amen.”

The congregation said: “Amen.”

He stood up and turned, showing his tearstained face to the crowd. He hung the cross around his neck again. “And now, in the sight of God, I call upon my brother, Ealdorman Wilwulf, to hold court.”

Wynstan and Wilf walked side by side down the nave, followed by Wigelm and Ulfric. They went outside and the townspeople followed.

Wilf looked around. “I’ll hold court right here.”

“Very good, my lord,” said Ulfric. He snapped his fingers at a monk. “Bring the great chair.” He turned again to Wilf. “Shall you want ink and parchment, ealdorman?”

Wilf could read but not write. Wynstan could read and write, like most senior clergy. Wigelm was illiterate.

Wilf said: “I doubt we’ll need to write anything down.”

Wynstan was distracted by a tall woman of about thirty wearing a torn red dress. She was attractive, despite the ash smeared on her cheek. She spoke in a low voice, but he could hear the desperation in her tone. “You must help me, my lord bishop, I beg you,” she said.

Wynstan said: “Don’t talk to me, you stupid bitch.”

He knew her. She was Meagenswith, known as Mags. She lived in a large house with ten or twelve girls—some slaves, others volunteers—all of whom would have sex with men for money. Wynstan replied without looking at her. “You can’t be the first person in Combe I commiserate with,” he said, speaking quietly but urgently.

“But the Vikings took all my girls as well as my money!”

They were all slaves now, Wynstan thought. “I’ll discuss it with you later,” he muttered. Then he raised his voice for the benefit of people nearby. “Get out of my sight, you filthy fornicator!”

She backed away immediately.

Two monks brought a big oak chair and set it in the middle of the open space. Wilf sat down, Wigelm stood on his left, Wynstan on his right.

While the townspeople gathered around, the brothers held a worried conversation in low tones. All three drew income from Combe. It was the second most important town in the ealdormanry, after the city of Shiring. Every house paid rent to Wigelm, who shared the proceeds with Wilf. The people also paid tithes to the churches, which shared them with Bishop Wynstan. Wilf collected customs duties on imports and exports passing through the harbor. Wynstan took an income from the monastery. Wigelm sold the timber in the forest. As of two days ago, all those streams of wealth had dried up.

Wynstan said grimly: “It will be a long time before anyone here can pay anything.” He would have to reduce his spending. Shiring was not a rich diocese. Now, he thought, if I were archbishop of Canterbury I would never need to worry: all the wealth of the Church in the south of England would be under my control. But as mere bishop of Shiring he was limited. He wondered what he could cut out. He hated to renounce a pleasure.

Wigelm was scornful. “All these people have money. You find it when you slice their bellies open.”

Wilf shook his head. “Don’t be stupid.” It was something he said often to Wigelm. “Most of them have lost everything,” he went on. “They have no food, no money to buy any, and no means of earning anything. Come wintertime they’ll be gathering acorns to make soup. Those who survived the Vikings will be enfeebled by hunger. The children will catch diseases and die; the old will fall over and break their bones; the young and strong will leave.”

Wigelm looked petulant. “Then what can we do?”

“We will be wise to reduce our demands.”

“We can’t let them live rent free!”

“You fool, dead people pay no rent. If a few survivors can get back to fishing and making things and trading, they may be able to recommence payments next spring.”

Wynstan agreed. Wigelm did not, but he said no more: Wilf was the eldest and outranked him.

When everyone was ready, Wilf said: “Now, Prior Ulfric, tell us what happened.”

The ealdorman was holding court.

Ulfric said: “The Vikings came two days ago, at the glimmer of dawn, when all were asleep.”

Wigelm said: “Why didn’t you fight them off, you cowards?”

Wilf held up a hand for silence. “One thing at a time,” he said. He turned to Ulfric. “This is the first time Vikings have attacked Combe in my memory, Ulfric. Do you know where this particular group came from?”

“Not I, my lord. Perhaps one of the fishermen might have seen the Viking fleet on their voyages?”

A burly man with gray in his beard said: “We never see them, lord.”

Wigelm, who knew the townspeople better than his brothers did, said: “That’s Maccus. He owns the biggest fishing boat in town.”

Maccus went on: “We believe the Vikings make harbor on the other side of the Channel, in Normandy. It’s said they take on supplies there, then raid across the water, and go back to sell their loot to the Normans, God curse their immortal souls.”

“That’s plausible, but not very helpful,” Wilf said. “Normandy has a long coastline. I suppose Cherbourg must be the nearest harbor?”

“I believe so,” Maccus said. “I’m told it’s on a long headland that sticks out into the Channel. I haven’t been there myself.”

“Nor have I,” said Wilf. “Has anyone from Combe been there?”

“In the old days, perhaps,” said Maccus. “Nowadays we don’t venture so far. We want to avoid the Vikings, not meet them.”

Wigelm was impatient with this kind of talk. He said: “We should assemble a fleet and sail to Cherbourg and burn the place the way they burned Combe!” Some of the younger men in the crowd shouted approval.

Wilf said: “Anyone who wants to attack the Normans doesn’t know anything about them. They’re descended from Vikings, remember. They may be civilized now but they’re no less tough. Why do you think the Vikings raid us but not the Normans?”

Wigelm looked crushed.

Wilf said: “I wish I knew more about Cherbourg.”

A young man in the crowd spoke up. “I went to Cherbourg once.”

Wynstan looked at him with interest. “Who are you?”

“Edgar, the boatbuilder’s son, my lord bishop.”

Wynstan studied the lad. He was of medium height, but muscular, as boatbuilders generally were. He had light-brown hair and no more than a wisp of a beard. He spoke politely but fearlessly, evidently not intimidated by the high status of the men he was addressing.

Wynstan said: “How did it happen that you went to Cherbourg?”

“My father took me. He was delivering a ship we had built. But that was five years ago. The place may have changed.”

Wilf said: “Any information is better than none. What do you remember?”

“There’s a good, big harbor with room for many ships and boats. It was ruled by Count Hubert—probably still is, he wasn’t old.”

“Anything else?”

“I remember the count’s daughter, Ragna. She had red hair.”

“A boy would remember that,” Wilf said.

Everyone laughed, and Edgar blushed.

The lad raised his voice over the laughter and said: “And there was a stone tower.”

“What did I tell you?” Wilf said to Wigelm. “It’s not easy to attack a town with stone fortifications.”

Wynstan said: “Perhaps I can make a suggestion.”

“Of course,” said his brother.

“Could we make friends with Count Hubert? He might be persuaded that Christian Normans and Christian Englishmen should work together to defeat murderous Odin-worshipping Vikings.” Those Vikings who had made their homes in the north and east of England had generally converted to Christianity, Wynstan knew, but the seafarers still clung to their heathen gods. “You can be persuasive when you want something, Wilf,” he said with a grin. It was true: Wilf had charm.

“I’m not sure about that,” Wilf said.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Wynstan said quickly. He lowered his voice, to speak of matters that were over the heads of the townspeople. “You wonder how King Ethelred would feel about it. International diplomacy is a royal prerogative.”

“Exactly.”

“Leave that to me. I’ll make it right with the king.”

“I have to do something before these Vikings ruin my ealdormanry,” Wilf said. “And this is the first practical suggestion I’ve heard.”

The people shifted and muttered. Wynstan sensed that talk of befriending the Normans was too theoretical. They needed help today, and they were looking to the three brothers to provide it. The nobility had a duty to protect the people—it was the justification for their status and their riches—and the three brothers had failed to keep Combe safe. Now they were expected to do something about it.

Wilf picked up the same pulse. “Now to practical matters,” he said. “Prior Ulfric, how are the people being fed?”

“From the monastery’s stores, which were not despoiled,” Ulfric answered. “The Vikings disdained the monks’ fish and beans, preferring to steal gold and silver.”

“And where do the people sleep?”

“In the nave of the church, where the wounded lie.”

“And the dead?”

“At the east end of the church.”

Wynstan said: “If I may, Wilf?”

Wilf nodded.

“Thank you.” Wynstan raised his voice so that all could hear. “Today before sundown I will hold a collective service for the souls of all the dead, and I will authorize a communal grave. In this warm weather there is a danger that the corpses will cause an outbreak of disease, so I want every dead body underground before the end of tomorrow.

“Very good, my lord bishop,” said Ulfric.

Looking at the crowd, Wilf frowned and said: “There must be a thousand people here. Half the population of the town has survived. How did so many manage to escape the Vikings?”

Ulfric answered: “A boy who was up early saw them coming and ran to the monastery to warn us, and the bell was rung.”

“That was smart,” said Wilf. “Which boy?”

“Edgar, who just spoke up about Cherbourg. He is the youngest of the three sons of the boatbuilder.”

A bright lad, Wynstan thought.

Wilf said: “You did well, Edgar.”

“Thank you.”

“What are you going to do now?”

Edgar tried to look brave, but Wynstan could see he was fearful of the future. “We don’t know,” Edgar said. “My father was killed, and we’ve lost our tools and our stock of timber.”

Wigelm said impatiently: “We can’t get into discussions about individual families. We need to decide what is going to happen to this whole town.”

Wilf nodded agreement and said: “The people must try to rebuild their houses before winter comes. Wigelm, you will forgo rents due on Midsummer Day.” Rents were usually payable four times a year, on the quarter days: Midsummer, which was the twenty-fourth day of June; Michaelmas, the twenty-ninth of September; Christmas, the twenty-fifth of December; and Lady Day, the twenty-fifth of March.

Wynstan glanced at Wigelm. He looked disgruntled, but said nothing. He was stupid to be angry about this: the people had no means with which to pay their rents, so Wilf was giving away nothing.

A woman in the crowd called out: “And the Michaelmas rents, please, lord.”

Wynstan looked at her. She was a small, tough-looking woman of about forty.

“When Michaelmas comes, we’ll see how you’re getting on,” Wilf said cannily.

The same woman said: “We’ll need timber to rebuild our houses, but we can’t pay for it.”

Wilf spoke aside to Wigelm: “Who’s she?”

“Mildred, the boatbuilder’s wife,” Wigelm answered. “She’s a troublemaker.”

Wynstan was struck by a thought. “I may be able to rid you of her, brother,” he murmured.

Wilf said quietly: “She may be a troublemaker, but she’s right. Wigelm is going to have to let them have free timber.”

“Very well,” said Wigelm reluctantly. Raising his voice, he said to the crowd: “Free timber, but only for Combe townspeople, only for houses, and only until Michaelmas.”

Wilf stood up. “That’s all we can do, for now,” he said. He turned to Wigelm. “Speak to that man Maccus. Find out if he’s willing to take me to Cherbourg, and what he might want by way of payment, and how long the voyage is likely to take, and so on.”

The crowd was muttering discontentedly. They were disappointed. That was the disadvantage of power, Wynstan thought; people expected miracles. Several people surged forward to demand some kind of special treatment. The men-at-arms moved to keep order.

Wynstan stepped away. At the church door he ran into Mags again. She had decided to change her tone, and instead of desperate she was wheedling. “Would you like me to suck your cock around the back of the church?” she said. “You always say I do it better than the young girls.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Wynstan said. A sailor or a fisherman might not care who saw him being sucked off, but a bishop had to be discreet. “Get to the point,” he said. “How much do you need?”

“What do you mean?”

“To replace the girls,” Wynstan said. He had had good times at Mags’s house, and he hoped to do so again. “How much money do you need to borrow from me?”

Mags was practiced at responding quickly to men’s changes of mood, and she adjusted her demeanor again, becoming businesslike. “If they’re young and fresh, slave girls cost about a pound each at Bristol market.”

Wynstan nodded. There was a big slave market at Bristol, several days’ journey from here. He made up his mind quickly, as always. “If I lend you ten pounds today, can you pay me back twenty a year from now?”

Her eyes lit up, but she pretended to be doubtful. “I don’t know whether custom will come back that fast.”

“There will always be visiting sailors. And fresh girls will attract more men. You’re in a profession that never lacks for clients.”

“Give me eighteen months.”

“Pay me twenty-five pounds at Christmas next year.”

Mags looked worried but she said: “All right.”

Wynstan summoned Cnebba, a big man in an iron helmet who was custodian of the bishop’s money. “Give her ten pounds,” he said.

“The chest is in the monastery,” Cnebba said to her. “Come with me.”

“And don’t cheat her,” Wynstan said. “You can fuck her if you like, but give her the full ten pounds.”

Mags said: “God bless you, my lord bishop.”

Wynstan touched her lips with a finger. “You can thank me later, when it gets dark.”

She took his hand and licked his finger lasciviously. “I can’t wait.”

Wynstan stepped away before anyone noticed.

He scanned the crowd. They were disconsolate and resentful, but nothing could be done about that. The boatbuilder’s son met his eye, and Wynstan beckoned him. Edgar came to the church door with a brown-and-white dog at his heel. “Fetch your mother,” Wynstan said. “And your brothers. I may be able to help you.”

“Thank you, lord!” said Edgar with eager enthusiasm. “Do you want us to build you a ship?”

“No.”

Edgar’s face fell. “What, then?”

“Fetch your mother and I’ll tell you.”

“Yes, lord.”

Edgar went away and came back with Mildred, who looked warily at Wynstan, and two young men who were evidently his brothers, both bigger than Edgar but lacking his look of inquiring intelligence. Three strong boys and a tough mother: it was a good combination for what Wynstan had in mind.

He said: “I know of a vacant farm.” Wynstan would be doing Wigelm a favor by ridding him of the seditious Mildred.

Edgar looked dismayed. “We’re boatbuilders, not farmers!”

Mildred said: “Shut your mouth, Edgar.”

Wynstan said: “Can you manage a farm, widow?”

“I was born on a farm.”

“This one is beside a river.”

“But how much land is there?”

“Thirty acres. That’s generally considered enough to feed a family.”

“That depends on the soil.”

“And on the family.”

She was not to be fobbed off. “What’s the soil like?”

“Much as you’d expect: a bit swampy beside the river, light and loamy farther up the slope. And there’s a crop of oats in the ground, just shooting green. All you’ll have to do is reap it, and you’ll be set for the winter.”

“Any oxen?”

“No, but you won’t need them. A heavy plough is unnecessary on that light soil.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why is it vacant?”

It was a shrewd question. The truth was that the last tenant had been unable to grow enough on the poor soil to feed his family. The wife and three small children had died, and the tenant had fled. But this family was different, with three good workers and only four mouths to feed. It would still be a challenge, but Wynstan had a feeling they would manage. However, he was not going to tell them the truth. “The tenant died of a fever and his wife went back to her mother,” he lied.

“The place is unhealthy, then.”

“Not in the least. It’s by a small hamlet with a minster. A minster is a church served by a community of priests living together, and—”

“I know what a minster is. It’s like a monastery but not as strict.”

“My cousin Degbert is the dean, and also landlord of the hamlet, including the farm.”

“What buildings does the farm have?”

“A house and a barn. And the previous tenant left his tools.”

“What’s the rent?”

“You’ll have to give Degbert four fat piglets at Michaelmas, for the priests’ bacon. That’s all!”

“Why is the rent so low?”

Wynstan smiled. She was a suspicious cow. “Because my cousin is a kindly man.”

Mildred snorted skeptically.

There was a silence. Wynstan watched her. She did not want the farm, he could see; she did not trust him. But there was desperation in her eyes, for she had nothing else. She would take it. She had to.

She said: “Where is this place?”

“A day and a half’s journey up the river.”

“What’s it called?”

“Dreng’s Ferry.”