The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 3 Late June 997

hey walked for a day and a half, following a barely visible footpath beside the meandering river, three young men, their mother, and a brown-and-white dog.

Edgar felt disoriented, bewildered, and anxious. He had planned a new life for himself, but not this one. Destiny had taken a turn that was completely unexpected, and he had had no time to prepare for it. In any case, he and his family still had little idea of what was ahead of them. They knew almost nothing of the place called Dreng’s Ferry. What would it be like? Would the people be suspicious of newcomers, or welcome them? How about the farm? Would the ground be light soil, easy to cultivate, or recalcitrant heavy clay? Were there pear trees or honking wild geese or wary deer? Edgar’s family believed in plans. His father had often said that you had to build the entire boat in your imagination before picking up the first piece of timber.

There would be a lot of work to do to reinvigorate an abandoned farm, and Edgar found it difficult to summon up enthusiasm. This was the funeral of his hopes. He was never going to have his own boatyard, never build ships. He felt sure he would never marry.

He tried to interest himself in his surroundings. He had never walked this far before. He had once sailed many miles, to Cherbourg and back, but in between he had looked at nothing but water. Now for the first time he was discovering England.

There was a lot of forest, just like the one in which the family had been felling trees for as long as he could remember. The woodland was broken up by villages and a few large estates. The landscape became more undulating as they trudged farther inland. The woods grew thicker but there were still habitations: a hunting lodge, a lime pit, a tin mine, a horse-catcher’s hut, a small family of charcoal burners, a vineyard on a south-facing slope, a flock of sheep grazing a hilltop.

They met a few travelers: a fat priest on a skinny pony, a well-dressed silversmith with four grim-faced bodyguards, a burly farmer driving a big black sow to market, and a bent old woman with brown eggs to sell. They stopped and talked to each one, exchanging news and information about the road ahead.

Everyone they met had to be told about the Viking raid on Combe: this was how people got their news, from travelers. Ma gave most people a short version, but in affluent settlements she sat down and told the whole story, and the four of them got food and drink in return.

They waved at passing boats. There were no bridges, and just one ford, at a place called Mudeford Crossing. They could have spent the night in the alehouse there, but the weather was fine and Ma decided they would sleep outside and save money. However, they made their beds within shouting distance of the building.

The forest could be dangerous, Ma said, and she warned the boys to be alert, increasing Edgar’s sense of a world suddenly without rules. Lawless men lived rough here and stole from travelers. At this time of year such men could easily hide in the summer foliage and spring out unexpectedly.

Edgar and his brothers could fight back, he told himself. He still carried the ax he had taken from the Viking who killed Sunni. And they had a dog. Brindle was no use in a fight, as she had shown during the Viking raid, but she might sniff out a robber in a bush and bark a warning. More important, the four of them evidently had little worth stealing: no livestock, no fancy swords, no ironbound chest that might contain money. Nobody robs a pauper, Edgar thought. But he was not really sure even of that.

Ma set the walking pace. She was tough. Few women lived to her age, which was forty: most died in the prime childbearing years between marriage and midthirties. It was different for men. Pa had been forty-five, and there were plenty of men even older.

Ma was herself when dealing with practical problems, making decisions, and giving advice; but in the long miles of silent walking Edgar could see that she was possessed by grief. When she thought no one was looking she let down her guard and her face became drawn with sorrow. She had been with Pa more than half her life. Edgar found it hard to imagine that they had once experienced the storm of passion that he and Sunni had had for each other, but he supposed it must be so. They had produced three sons and raised them together. And after all those years they had still woken up to embrace each other in the middle of the night.

He would never know such a relationship with Sunni. While Ma mourned for what she had lost, Edgar grieved for what he would never have. He would never marry Sunni, or raise children with her, or wake up in the night for middle-aged sex; there would never be time for him and Sunni to grow accustomed to each other, to fall into routines, to take each other for granted; and he felt so sad he could hardly bear it. He had found buried treasure, something worth more than all the gold in the world, and then he had lost it. Life stretched ahead of him, empty.

On the long walk, when Ma sank into bereavement, Edgar was assaulted by flashes of remembered violence. The lush abundance of oak and hornbeam leaves around him seemed to vanish. Instead he saw the opening in Cyneric’s neck, like something on a butcher’s block; he felt Sunni’s soft body cooling in death; and he was appalled all over again to look at what he had done to the Viking, the blond-bearded Nordic face a bloody mess, disfigured by Edgar himself in a fit of uncontrollable, insane hatred. He saw the field of ash where there had been a town, the scorched bones of the old mastiff Grendel, and his father’s severed arm on the beach like jetsam. He thought of Sunni now lying in a mass grave in Combe cemetery. Although he knew her soul was with God, still he found it horrible to think that the body he loved was buried in the cold ground, tumbled with hundreds of others.

On the second day, when by chance Edgar and Ma were walking fifty yards or so ahead, she said thoughtfully: “Obviously you were some distance away from home when you saw the Viking ships.”

He had been waiting for this. Erman had asked puzzled questions, and Eadbald had guessed that something clandestine had been going on, but Edgar did not have to explain himself to them. However, Ma was different.

All the same, he was not sure where to begin, so he just said: “Yes.”

“I suppose you were meeting some girl.”

He felt embarrassed.

She went on: “No other reason for you to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night.”

He shrugged. It had always been hard to hide things from her.

“But why were you secretive about it?” she asked, following the chain of logic. “You’re old enough to woo a girl. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She paused. “Unless she was already married.”

He said nothing, but he felt his cheeks flame red.

“Go ahead, blush,” she said. “You deserve to feel ashamed.”

Ma was strict, and Pa had been the same. They believed in obeying the rules of the Church and the king. Edgar believed in it, too, but he had told himself that his affair with Sunni had been exceptional. “She hated Cyneric,” he said.

Ma was not going to buy that. She said sarcastically: “So you think the commandment says: ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery, unless the woman hates her husband.’”

“I know what the commandment says. I broke it.”

Ma did not acknowledge his confession. Her thoughts moved on. “The woman must have died in the raid,” she said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have come with us.”

Edgar nodded.

“I suppose it was the dairyman’s wife. What was her name? Sungifu.”

She had guessed it all. Edgar felt foolish, like a child caught in a lie.

Ma said: “Were you planning to run away that night?”

“Yes.”

Ma took Edgar’s arm, and her voice became softer. “Well, you chose well, I’ll give you that. I liked Sunni. She was intelligent and hardworking. I’m sorry she’s dead.”

“Thank you, Ma.”

“She was a good woman.” Ma released his arm, and her voice changed again. “But she was someone else’s woman.”

“I know.”

Ma said no more. Edgar’s conscience would judge him, and she knew that.

They stopped by a stream to drink the cold water and rest. It was hours since they had eaten, but they had no food.

Erman, the eldest brother, was as depressed as Edgar but did not have the sense to shut up about it. “I’m a craftsman, not an ignorant peasant,” he grumbled as they resumed walking. “I don’t know why I’m going to this farm.”

Ma had little patience for whining. “What was your alternative, then?” she snapped, interrupting his lament. “What would you have done if I had not made you take this journey?”

Erman had no answer to that, of course. He mumbled that he would have waited to see what might turn up.

“I’ll tell you what would have turned up,” said Ma. “Slavery. That’s your alternative. That’s what happens to people when they’re starving to death.”

Her words were directed at Erman, but Edgar was the more shocked. It had not occurred to him that he might face the prospect of becoming a slave. The thought was unnerving. Was that the fate that awaited the family if they could not make the farm viable?

Erman said petulantly: “No one’s going to enslave me.”

“No,” said Ma. “You’d volunteer for it.”

Edgar had heard of people enslaving themselves, though he did not know anyone who had actually done it. He had met plenty of slaves in Combe, of course: about one person in ten was a slave. Young and good-looking girls and boys became the playthings of rich men. The others pulled a plough, were flogged when they got tired, and spent their nights chained up like dogs. Most of them were Britons, people from the wild western fringes of civilization, Wales and Cornwall and Ireland. Every now and again they raided the wealthier English, stealing cattle and chickens and weapons; and the English would punish them by raiding back, burning their villages and taking slaves.

Voluntary slavery was different. There was a prescribed ritual, and Ma now depicted it scornfully to Erman. “You’d kneel down in front of a nobleman or woman with your head bowed low in supplication,” she said. “The noble might reject you, of course; but if the person put hands on your head, you would be a slave for life.”

“I’d rather starve,” Erman said in an attempt at defiance.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Ma said. “You’ve never gone hungry for as much as a day. Your father made sure of that, even when he and I had to do without to feed you boys. You don’t know what it’s like to eat nothing for a week. You’ll bow your head in no time, just for the sake of that first plate of food. But then you’ll have to work the rest of your life for no more than sustenance.”

Edgar was not sure he believed Ma. He felt he might rather starve.

Erman spoke with sulky defiance. “People can get out of slavery.”

“Yes, but do you realize how difficult it is? You can buy your freedom, true, but where would you get the money? People sometimes give slaves tips, but not often, and not much. As a slave, your only real hope is that a kindly owner may make a will that frees you. And then you’re back where you started, homeless and destitute, but twenty years older. That’s the alternative, you stupid boy. Now tell me you don’t want to be a farmer.”

Eadbald, the middle brother, stopped suddenly, wrinkled his freckled brow, and said: “I think we might be there.”

Edgar looked across the river. On the north bank was a building that looked like an alehouse: longer than a regular home, with a table and benches outside, and a large patch of green where a cow and two goats grazed. A crude boat was tied up nearby. A footworn track ran up the slope from the alehouse. To the left of the road were five more timber houses. To the right was a small stone church, another large house, and a couple of outbuildings that might have been stables or barns. Beyond that, the road disappeared into woodland.

“A ferry, an alehouse, and a church,” Edgar said with rising excitement. “I think Eadbald is right.”

“Let’s find out,” said Ma. “Give them a yell.”

Eadbald had a big voice. He cupped his hands around his mouth, and his shout boomed across the water. “Hey! Hey! Anybody there? Hello? Hello?”

They waited for a response.

Edgar glanced downstream and noticed that the river divided around an island that seemed to be about a quarter of a mile long. It was heavily wooded but he could see, through the trees, what looked like part of a stone building. He wondered with eager curiosity what it could be.

“Shout again,” Ma said.

Eadbald repeated his cries.

The alehouse door opened and a woman came out. Peering across the river, Edgar made her out to be little more than a girl, probably four or five years younger than he. She looked across the water at the newcomers but made no acknowledgment. She was carrying a wooden bucket, and she walked unhurriedly to the water’s edge, emptied the bucket into the river, rinsed it out, then went back into the tavern.

Erman said: “We’ll have to swim across.”

“I can’t swim,” said Ma.

Edgar said: “That girl is making a point. She wants us to know that she’s a superior person, not a servant. She’ll bring the boat over when she’s good and ready, and she’ll expect us to be grateful.”

Edgar was right. The girl emerged from the tavern again. This time she walked at the same leisurely pace to where the boat was moored. She untied the rope, picked up a single paddle, got into the boat, and pushed off. Using the paddle on alternate sides, she rowed out into the river. Her movements were practiced and apparently effortless.

Edgar studied the boat with consternation. It was a hollowed-out tree trunk, highly unstable, though the girl was evidently used to it.

He studied her as she came closer. She was ordinary looking, with midbrown hair and spotty skin, but he could not help noticing that she had a plump figure, and he revised his estimate of her age to fifteen.

She rowed to the south bank and expertly halted the canoe a few yards from the shore. “What do you want?” she said.

Ma answered with a question. “What place is this?”

“People call it Dreng’s Ferry.”

So, Edgar thought, this is our new home.

Ma said to the girl: “Are you Dreng?”

“That’s my father. I’m Cwenburg.” She looked with interest at the three boys. “Who are you?”

“We’re the new tenants of the farm,” Ma told her. “The bishop of Shiring sent us here.”

Cwenburg refused to be impressed. “Is that so?”

“Will you take us across?”

“It’s a farthing each and no haggling.”

The only coin issued by the king was a silver penny. Edgar knew, because he was interested in such things, that a penny weighed one-twentieth of an ounce. There were twelve ounces in a pound, so a pound was two hundred and forty pennies. The metal was not pure: thirty-seven parts in forty were silver, the rest copper. A penny would buy half a dozen chickens or a quarter of a sheep. For cheaper items, a penny had to be cut into two halfpennies or four farthings. The exact division caused constant quarrels.

Ma said: “Here’s a penny.”

Cwenburg ignored the proffered coin. “There’s five of you, with the dog.”

“The dog can swim across.”

“Some dogs can’t swim.”

Ma became exasperated. “In that case she can either stand on the bank and starve or jump in the river and drown. I’m not paying for a dog to ride in a ferry.”

Cwenburg shrugged, brought the boat to the water’s edge, and took the coin.

Edgar boarded first, kneeling down and holding both sides to stabilize the boat. He noticed that the old tree trunk had tiny cracks, and there was a puddle in the bottom.

Cwenburg said to him: “Where did you get that ax? It looks expensive.”

“I took it from a Viking.”

“Did you? What did he say about that?”

“He couldn’t say much, because I split his head in half with it.” Edgar took some satisfaction in saying that.

The others boarded and Cwenburg pushed off. Brindle jumped into the river without hesitation and swam after the boat. Away from the shade of the forest, the sun was hot on Edgar’s head.

He asked Cwenburg: “What’s on the island?”

“A nunnery.”

Edgar nodded. That would be the stone building he had glimpsed.

Cwenburg added: “There’s a gang of lepers, too. They live in shelters they make out of branches. The nuns feed them. We call the place Leper Island.”

Edgar shuddered. He wondered how the nuns survived. People said that if you touched a leper you could catch the disease, though he had never heard of anyone who had actually done that.

They reached the north bank, and Edgar helped Ma out of the boat. He smelled the strong brown odor of fermenting ale. “Someone’s brewing,” he said.

Cwenburg said: “My mother makes very good ale. You should come into the house and refresh yourselves.”

“No, thanks,” Ma said immediately.

Cwenburg persisted. “You may want to sleep here while you fix up the farm buildings. My father will give you dinner and breakfast for a halfpenny each. That’s cheap.”

Ma said: “Are the farm buildings in bad condition, then?”

“There were holes in the roof of the house last time I walked past.”

“And the barn?”

“Pigsty, you mean.”

Edgar frowned. This did not sound good. Still, they had thirty acres: they would be able to make something of that.

“We’ll see,” said Ma. “Which house does the dean live in?”

“Degbert Baldhead? He’s my uncle.” Cwenburg pointed. “The big one next to the church. All the clergy live there together.”

“We’ll go and see him.”

They left Cwenburg and walked a short distance up the slope. Ma said: “This dean is our new landlord. Act nice and friendly. I’ll be firm with him if necessary, but we don’t want him to take against us for any reason.”

The little church looked almost derelict, Edgar thought. The entrance arch was crumbling, and was prevented from collapse only by the support of a stout tree trunk standing in the middle of the doorway. Next to the church was a timber house, double the normal size, like the alehouse. They stood outside politely, and Ma called: “Anyone home?”

The woman who came to the door carried a baby on her hip and was pregnant with another, and a toddler hid behind her skirts. She had dirty hair and heavy breasts. She might have been beautiful once, with high cheekbones and a straight nose, but now she looked as if she were so tired she could barely stand. It was the way many women looked in their twenties. No wonder they died young, Edgar thought.

Ma said: “Is Dean Degbert here?”

“What do you want with my husband?” said the woman.

Clearly, Edgar thought, this was not the stricter kind of religious community. In principle the Church preferred priests to be celibate, but the rule was broken more often than it was kept, and even married bishops were not unheard of.

Ma said: “The bishop of Shiring sent us.”

The woman shouted over her shoulder: “Degsy? Visitors.” She stared at them a moment longer then disappeared inside.

The man who took her place was about thirty-five, but had a head like an egg, without even a monkish fringe. Perhaps his baldness was due to some illness. “I’m the dean,” he said, with his mouth full of food. “What do you want?”

Ma explained again.

“You’ll have to wait,” Degbert said. “I’m in the middle of my dinner.”

Ma smiled and said nothing, and the three brothers followed her example.

Degbert seemed to realize he was being inhospitable. All the same he did not offer to share his meal. “Go to Dreng’s alehouse,” he said. “Have a drink.”

Ma said: “We can’t afford to buy ale. We’re destitute. The Vikings raided Combe, where we lived.”

“Wait there, then.”

“Why don’t you just tell me where the farm is?” Ma said pleasantly. “I’m sure I can find it.”

Degbert hesitated, then said in a tone of irritation: “I suppose I’ll have to take you.” He looked back. “Edith! Put my dinner by the fire. I’ll be an hour.” He came out. “Follow me,” he said.

They walked down the hill. “What did you do in Combe?” Degbert asked. “You can’t have been farmers there.”

“My husband was a boatbuilder,” Ma said. “The Vikings killed him.”

Degbert crossed himself perfunctorily. “Well, we don’t need boats here. My brother, Dreng, has the ferry and there’s no room for two.”

Edgar said: “Dreng needs a new vessel. That canoe is cracking. One day soon it will sink.”

“Maybe.”

Ma said: “We’re farmers now.”

“Well, your land begins here.” Degbert stopped on the far side of the tavern. “From the water’s edge to the tree line is yours.”

The farm was a strip about two hundred yards wide beside the river. Edgar studied the ground. Bishop Wynstan had not told them how narrow it was, so Edgar had not imagined that such a large proportion of the land would be waterlogged. As the ground rose away from the river it improved, becoming a sandy loam, with green shoots growing.

Degbert said: “It goes west for about seven hundred yards, then there’s forest again.”

Ma set off to walk between the marsh and the rising ground, and the others followed.

Degbert said: “As you see, there’s a nice crop of oats coming up.”

Edgar did not know oats from any other grain, and he had thought the shoots were plain grass.

Ma said: “There’s as much weeds as there is oats.”

They walked for less than half a mile and came to a pair of buildings at the crest of a rise. Beyond the buildings, the cleared land came to an end and the woods went down to the bank of the river.

Degbert said: “There’s a useful little orchard.”

It was not really an orchard. There were a few small apple trees and a cluster of medlar shrubs. The medlar was a winter-ripening fruit that was hardly palatable to humans, and was sometimes fed to pigs. The flesh was tart and hard, though it could be softened either by frost or by overripening.

“The rent is four fat piglets, payable at Michaelmas,” Degbert said.

That was it, Edgar realized; they had seen the whole farm.

“It’s thirty acres, all right,” said Ma, “but they’re very poor acres.”

“That’s why the rent is low.”

Ma was negotiating, Edgar knew. He had seen her do this many times with customers and suppliers. She was good at it, but this was a challenge. What did she have to offer? Degbert would prefer the farm to be tenanted, of course, and he might want to please his cousin the bishop; but on the other hand he was clearly not much in need of the small rent, and he could easily tell Wynstan that Ma had refused to take on such an unpromising prospect. Ma was bargaining from a weak position.

They inspected the house. Edgar noted that it had earth-set timber posts with wattle-and-daub walls between the posts. The reeds on the floor were moldy and smelled bad. Cwenburg had been right; there were holes in the thatched roof, but they could be patched.

Ma said: “The place is a dump.”

“A few simple repairs.”

“It looks like a lot of work to me. We’ll have to take timber from the forest.”

“Yes, yes,” said Degbert impatiently.

Despite the peevish tone Degbert had made an important concession. They could fell trees, and there was no mention of payment. Free timber was worth a lot.

The smaller building was in worse condition than the house. Ma said: “The barn is practically falling down.”

Degbert said: “At the moment you have no need of a barn. You have nothing to store there.”

“You’re right, we’re broke,” Ma said. “So we won’t be able to pay the rent come Michaelmas.”

Degbert looked foolish. He could hardly argue. “You can owe me,” he said. “Five piglets at Michaelmas next year.”

“How can I buy a sow? These oats will be barely enough to feed my sons this winter. I won’t have anything left over to trade.”

“Are you refusing to take the farm?”

“No, I’m saying that if the farm is to be viable you have to give me more help. I need a rent holiday, and I need a sow. And I need a sack of flour on credit—we have no food.”

It was a bold set of demands. Landlords expected to be paid, not to pay out. But sometimes they had to help tenants get started, and Degbert had to know that.

Degbert looked frustrated, but he gave in. “All right,” he said. “I’ll lend you flour. No rent this year. I’ll get you a female piglet, but you’ll have to owe me one from your first litter, and that’s on top of the rent.”

“I suppose I’ll have to accept that,” said Ma. She spoke with apparent reluctance, but Edgar was pretty sure she had made a good bargain.

“And I’ll have to get back to my dinner,” Degbert said grumpily, sensing that he had been defeated. He left, heading back to the hamlet.

Ma called after him: “When do we get the piglet?”

He answered without looking back. “Soon.”

Edgar surveyed his new home. It was dismal, but he felt surprisingly good. They had a challenge to meet, and that was a lot better than the despair he had felt earlier.

Ma said: “Erman, go into the forest and gather firewood. Eadbald, go to that alehouse and beg a burning stick from their fireplace—use your charm on that ferry girl. Edgar, see if you can make temporary patches for the holes in the roof—we’ve no time now to repair the thatch properly. Snap to it, boys. And tomorrow we’ll start weeding the field.”

Degbert did not bring a piglet to the farmhouse in the next few days.

Ma did not mention it. She weeded the oats with Erman and Eadbald, the three of them bending double in the long, narrow field, while Edgar repaired the house and barn with timber from the forest, using the Viking ax and a few rusty tools left behind by the previous tenant.

But Edgar worried. Degbert was no more trustworthy than his cousin Bishop Wynstan. Edgar feared that Degbert would see them settling in, decide that they were now committed, and go back on his word. Then the family would struggle to pay the rent—and once they defaulted it would be desperately difficult to catch up, as Edgar knew from observing the fate of improvident neighbors in Combe.

“Don’t fret,” Ma said when Edgar voiced his concern. “Degbert can’t escape me. The worst of priests has to go to church sooner or later.”

Edgar hoped she was right.

When they heard the church bell on Sunday morning they walked the length of their farm to the hamlet. Edgar guessed they were the last to arrive, having the farthest to come.

The church was nothing more than a square tower attached to a one-story building to the east. Edgar could see that the entire structure was leaning downhill: one day it would fall over.

To enter they had to step sideways through an entrance that was partly blocked by the tree trunk supporting the round arch. Edgar could see why the arch was collapsing. The mortared joints between the stones of a round arch formed lines that should all point to the center of one imaginary circle, like the spokes of a well-made cart wheel, but in this arch they were random. That made the structure weaker, and it looked ugly, too.

The nave was the ground floor of the tower. Its high ceiling made the place seem even more cramped. A dozen or so adults and a few small children stood waiting for the service to begin. Edgar nodded to Cwenburg and Edith, the only two he had met before.

One of the stones making up the wall was carved with an inscription. Edgar could not read, but he guessed that someone was buried here, perhaps a nobleman who had built the church to be his last resting place.

A narrow archway in the east wall led into the chancel. Edgar peered through the gap to see an altar bearing a wooden cross with a wall painting of Jesus behind it. Degbert was there with several more clergymen.

The members of the congregation were more interested in the newcomers than in the clergy. The children stared openly at Edgar and his family, while their parents sneaked furtive glances then turned away to talk in low voices about what they had observed.

Degbert went through the service rapidly. It seemed hasty to the point of irreverence, Edgar thought, and he was not a particularly devout person. Perhaps it did not matter, for the congregation did not understand the Latin words anyway; but Edgar had been used to a more measured pace in Combe. In any event it was not his problem, so long as his sins were forgiven.

Edgar was not much troubled by religious feelings. When people discussed how the dead spent their time in heaven, or whether the devil had a tail, Edgar became impatient, believing that no one would ever know the truth of such things in this life. He liked questions that had definite answers, such as how high the mast of a ship should be.

Cwenburg stood near him and smiled. Evidently she had decided to be nice. “You should come to my house one evening,” she said.

“I’ve no money for ale.”

“You can still visit your neighbors.”

“Maybe.” Edgar did not want to be unfriendly, but he had no desire to spend an evening in Cwenburg’s company.

At the end of the service Ma determinedly followed the clergy out of the building. Edgar went with her, and Cwenburg followed. Ma accosted Degbert before he could get away. “I need that piglet you promised me,” she said.

Edgar was proud of his mother. She was determined and fearless. And she had picked her moment perfectly. Degbert would not want to be accused of reneging on a promise in front of the entire village.

“Speak to Fat Bebbe,” he said curtly and walked on.

Edgar turned to Cwenburg. “Who’s Bebbe?”

Cwenburg pointed to a fat woman squeezing herself around the tree trunk. “She supplies the minster with eggs and meat and other produce from her smallholding.”

Edgar identified the woman to Ma, who approached her. “The dean told me to speak to you about a piglet,” she said.

Bebbe was red-faced and friendly. “Oh, yes,” she said. “You’re to be given a weaned female piglet. Come with me and you can take your pick.”

Ma went with Bebbe, and the three boys followed.

“How are you getting on?” Bebbe asked kindly. “I hope that farmhouse isn’t too ruinous.”

“It’s bad, but we’re repairing it,” Ma said.

The two women were about the same age, Edgar thought. It looked as if they might get along. He hoped so: Ma needed a friend.

Bebbe had a small house on a large lot. At the back of the building was a duck pond, a henhouse, and a tethered cow with a new calf. Attached to the house was a fenced enclosure where a big sow had a litter of eight. Bebbe was well off, though probably dependent on the minster.

Ma studied the piglets intently for several minutes then pointed to a small, energetic one. “Good choice,” said Bebbe, and picked up the little animal with a swift, practiced movement. It squealed with fright. She drew a handful of leather thongs from the pouch at her belt and tied its feet together. “Who’s going to carry it?”

“I will,” said Edgar.

“Put your arm under its belly, and take care it doesn’t bite you.”

Edgar did as instructed. The piglet was filthy, of course.

Ma thanked Bebbe.

“I’ll need those thongs back as soon as convenient,” Bebbe said. All kinds of string were valuable, whether hide, sinew, or thread.

“Of course,” said Ma.

They moved away. The piglet squealed and wriggled frantically as it was taken away from its mother. Edgar closed its jaws with his hand to stop the noise. As if in retaliation, the piglet did a stinking liquid shit all down the front of his tunic.

They stopped at the tavern and begged Cwenburg to give them some scraps to feed the piglet. She brought an armful of cheese rinds, fish tails, apple cores, and other leftovers. “You stink,” she said to Edgar.

He knew that. “I’ll have to jump in the river,” he said.

They walked back to the farmhouse. Edgar put the piglet in the barn. He had already repaired the hole in the wall, so the little animal could not escape. He would put Brindle in the barn at night to guard it.

Ma heated water on the fire and threw in the scraps to make a mash. Edgar was glad they had a pig, but it was another hungry mouth. They could not eat it: they had to feed it until it was mature then breed from it. For a while it would be just another drain on their scarce resources.

“She’ll soon feed herself from the forest floor, especially when the acorns begin to fall,” Ma said. “But we have to train her to come home at night, otherwise she’ll be stolen by outlaws or eaten by wolves.”

Edgar said: “How did you train your pigs when you were growing up on the farm?”

“I don’t know—they always came to my mother’s call. I suppose they knew she might give them something to eat. They wouldn’t come to us children.”

“Our piglet could learn to respond to your voice, but then she might not come to anyone else. We need a bell.”

Ma gave a skeptical snort. Bells were costly. “I need a golden brooch and a white pony,” she said. “But I’m not going to get them.”

“You never know what you might get,” said Edgar.

He went to the barn. He had remembered something he had seen there: an old sickle, its handle rotted and its curved blade rusted and broken in two. He had thrown it into a corner with other odds and ends. Now he retrieved the broken-off end of the blade, a foot-long crescent of iron that was of no apparent use for anything.

He found a smooth stone, sat down in the morning sunshine, and started to rub the rust off the blade. It was a strenuous and tedious task, but he was used to hard work, and he kept going until the metal was clean enough for the sun to glint off it. He did not sharpen the edge: he was not going to cut anything with it.

Using a pliant twig as a rope, he suspended the blade from a branch, then struck it with the stone. It rang out, not with a bell-like tone but with an unmusical clang that was nevertheless quite loud.

He showed it to Ma. “If you bang that before you feed the piglet every day, she will learn to come at the sound,” he said.

“Very good,” Ma said. “How long will it take you to make the golden brooch?” Her tone was bantering, but there was a touch of pride in it. She thought Edgar had inherited her brains, and she was probably right.

The midday meal was ready, but it was only flat bread with wild onions, and Edgar wanted to wash before he ate. He walked along the river until he came to a little mud beach. He took off his tunic and washed it in the shallows, rubbing and squeezing the woolen cloth to get rid of the stink. Then he spread it on a rock to dry in the sun.

He immersed himself in the water, ducking his head to wash his hair. People said that bathing was bad for your health, and Edgar never bathed in winter, but those who never bathed at all stank all their lives. Ma and Pa had taught their sons to keep themselves fresh by bathing at least once a year.

Edgar had been brought up by the sea, and he had been able to swim for as long as he could walk. Now he decided to cross the river, just for the fun of it.

The current was moderate and the swim was easy. He enjoyed the sensation of the cool water on his bare skin. When he reached the far side he turned and came back. Near the shore he found his footing and stood up. The surface was at the level of his knees, and the water dripped from his body. The sun would soon dry him.

At that moment he realized he was not alone.

Cwenburg was sitting on the bank, watching him. “You look nice,” she said.

Edgar felt foolish. Embarrassed, he said: “Would you please go away?”

“Why should I? Anyone can walk along the bank of a river.”

“Please.”

She stood up and turned around.

“Thank you,” Edgar said.

But he had misunderstood her intention. Instead of walking away, she pulled her dress over her head with a swift movement. Her naked skin was pale.

Edgar said: “No, no!”

She turned around.

Edgar stared in horror. There was nothing wrong with her appearance—in fact some part of his mind noted that she had a nice round figure—but she was the wrong woman. His heart was full of Sunni, and no one else’s body could move him.

Cwenburg stepped into the river.

“Your hair’s a different color down there,” she said, with a smile of uninvited intimacy. “Sort of gingery.”

“Keep away from me,” he said.

“Your thing is all shriveled up with the cold water—shall I warm it up?” She reached for him.

Edgar pushed her away. Because he was tense and embarrassed, he shoved her harder than he needed to. She lost her balance and fell over in the water. While she was recovering, he went past her and onto the beach.

Behind him, she said: “What’s the matter with you? Are you a girlie-boy who likes men?”

He picked up his tunic. It was still damp, but he put it on anyway. Feeling less vulnerable, he turned to her. “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “I’m a girlie-boy.”

She was glaring angrily at him. “No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re making that up.”

“Yes, I’m making it up.” Edgar’s self-control began to slip. “The truth is that I don’t like you. Now will you leave me alone?”

She came out of the water. “You pig,” she said. “I hope you starve to death on this barren farm.” She pulled her dress on over her head. “Then I hope you go to hell,” she said, and she walked off.

Edgar was relieved to be rid of her. Then, a moment later, he felt sorry that he had been unkind. It was partly her fault for being insistent, but he could have been gentler. He often regretted his impulses and wished he had more self-discipline.

Sometimes, he thought, it was difficult to do the right thing.

The countryside was quiet.

At Combe there was always noise: herring gulls’ raucous laughter, the ring of hammers on nails, a crowd’s murmur, and the cry of a lone voice. Even at night there was the creaking of boats as they rose and fell on the restless water. But the countryside was often completely silent. If there was a wind, the trees would whisper discontentedly, but if not, it could be as quiet as the tomb.

So when Brindle barked in the middle of the night, Edgar came awake fast.

He stood up immediately and took his ax from its peg on the wall. His heart was beating hard and his breath was shallow.

Ma’s voice came out of the gloom. “Be careful.”

Brindle was in the barn, and her bark was distant but alarmed. Edgar had put her there to guard the piglet, and something had alerted her to danger.

Edgar went to the door, but Ma was there ahead of him. He saw the firelight glint ominously on the knife in her hand. He had cleaned and sharpened it himself, to save her the effort, so he knew it was deadly keen.

She hissed: “Step back from the door. One of them may be lying in wait.”

Edgar did as he was told. His brothers were behind him. He hoped that they, too, had picked up weapons of some kind.

Ma lifted the bar carefully, making almost no noise. Then she threw the door wide.

Right away a figure stepped into the doorway. Ma had been right to warn Edgar: the thieves had anticipated that the family would wake, and one thief had stood ready to ambush them if they incautiously came running out of the house. There was a bright moon, and Edgar clearly saw the long dagger in the thief’s right hand. The man thrust blindly into the darkness of the house, stabbing nothing but air.

Edgar hefted his ax, but Ma was quicker. Her knife gleamed and the thief roared in pain and fell to his knees. She stepped closer and her blade flashed across the man’s throat.

Edgar pushed past them both. As he emerged into the moonlight, he heard the piglet squeal. A moment later he saw two more figures coming out of the barn. One of them wore some kind of headgear that partly covered his face. In his arms he held the wriggling piglet.

They saw Edgar and ran.

Edgar was outraged. That pig was precious. If they lost it, they would not get another one: people would say they could not look after their livestock. In a moment of piercing anxiety Edgar acted without thinking. He swung the ax back over his head then hurled it at the back of the thief with the pig.

He thought it was going to miss, and he groaned in despair; but the sharp blade bit into the fugitive’s upper arm. He gave a high-pitched scream, dropped the pig, and fell to his knees, clutching the wound.

The second man helped him up.

Edgar dashed toward them.

They ran on, leaving the pig behind.

Edgar hesitated for a heartbeat. He wanted to catch the thieves. But if he let the pig go it might run a long way in its terror, and he might never find it. He abandoned pursuit of the men and went after the animal. It was young and its legs were short, and after a minute he caught up, threw himself on top of it, and got hold of a leg with both hands. The pig struggled but could not escape his grip.

He got the little beast securely in his arms, stood up, and walked back to the farmhouse.

He put the pig in the barn. He took a moment to congratulate Brindle, who wagged her tail proudly. He retrieved his ax from where it had fallen and wiped the blade on the grass to clean off the thief’s blood. Finally he rejoined his family.

They were standing over the other thief. “He’s dead,” said Eadbald.

Erman said: “Let’s throw him in the river.”

“No,” said Ma. “I want other thieves to know we killed him.” She was in no danger from the law: it was well established that a thief caught red-handed could be killed on the spot. “Follow me, boys. Bring the corpse.”

Erman and Eadbald picked it up. Ma led them into the woods and went a hundred yards along a just-visible path through the undergrowth until she came to a place where it crossed another almost imperceptible track. Anyone coming to the farm through the forest would have to pass this junction.

She looked at the surrounding trees in the moonlight and pointed to one with low, spreading branches. “I want to hang the body up in that tree,” she said.

Erman said: “What for?”

“To show people what happens to men who try to rob us.”

Edgar was impressed. He had never known his mother to be so harsh. But circumstances had changed.

Erman said: “We haven’t got any rope.”

Ma said: “Edgar will think of something.”

Edgar nodded. He pointed to a forked branch at a height of about eight feet. “Wedge him in there, with one bough under each armpit,” he said.

While his brothers were manhandling the corpse up into the tree, Edgar found a stick a foot long and an inch in diameter and sharpened one end with his ax blade.

The brothers got the body into position. “Now pull his arms together until his hands are crossed in front.”

When the brothers were holding the arms in position, Edgar held one dead hand and stuck the stick into the wrist. He had to tap it with the head of the ax to push it through the flesh. Very little blood flowed: the man’s heart had stopped some time ago.

Edgar lined up the other wrist and hammered the stick through that, too. Now the hands were riveted together and the body was firmly hung from the tree.

It would remain there until it rotted away, he thought.

But the other thieves must have returned, for the corpse was gone in the morning.

A few days later Ma sent Edgar to the village to borrow a length of stout cord to tie up her shoes, which had broken. Borrowing was common among neighbors, but no one ever had enough string. However, Ma had told the story of the Viking raid twice, first in the priests’ house and then at the alehouse; and although peasants were never quick to accept newcomers, the inhabitants of Dreng’s Ferry had warmed to Ma on hearing of her tragedy.

It was early evening. A small group sat on the benches outside Dreng’s alehouse, drinking from wooden cups as the sun went down. Edgar still had not tasted the ale, but the customers seemed to like it.

He had met all the villagers now, and he recognized the members of the group. Dean Degbert was talking to his brother, Dreng. Cwenburg and red-faced Bebbe were listening. There were three other women present. Leofgifu, called Leaf, was Cwenburg’s mother; Ethel, a younger woman, was Dreng’s other wife or perhaps concubine; and Blod, who was filling the cups from a jug, was a slave.

As Edgar approached, the slave looked up and said to him in broken Anglo-Saxon: “You want ale?”

Edgar shook his head. “I’ve no money.”

The others looked at him. Cwenburg said with a sneer: “Why have you come to an alehouse if you can’t afford a cup of ale?”

Clearly she was still smarting from Edgar’s rejection of her advances. He had made an enemy. He groaned inwardly.

Addressing the group, rather than Cwenburg herself, he said humbly: “My mother asks to borrow a length of stout cord to mend her shoe.”

Cwenburg said: “Tell her to make her own cord.”

The others were silent, watching.

Edgar was embarrassed, but he stood his ground. “The loan would be a kindness,” he said through gritted teeth. “We will repay it when we get back on our feet.”

“If that ever happens,” Cwenburg said.

Leaf made an impatient noise. She looked about thirty, so she must have been fifteen when she gave birth to Cwenburg. She had once been pretty, Edgar guessed, but now she looked as if she drank too much of her own strong brew. However, she was sober enough to be embarrassed by her daughter’s rudeness. “Don’t be so unneighborly, girl,” she said.

Dreng said angrily: “Leave her alone. She’s all right.”

He was an indulgent father, Edgar noted; that might account for his daughter’s behavior.

Leaf stood up. “Come inside,” she said to Edgar in a kindly tone. “I’ll see what I can find.”

He followed her into the house. She drew a cup of ale from a barrel and handed it to him. “Free of charge,” she said.

“Thank you.” He took a mouthful. It lived up to its reputation: it was tasty, and it instantly lifted his spirits. He drained the cup and said: “That’s very good.”

She smiled.

It crossed Edgar’s mind that Leaf might have the same kind of designs on him as her daughter. He was not vain and did not believe that all women must be attracted to him; but he guessed that in a small place every new man must be of interest to the women.

However, Leaf turned away and rummaged in a chest. A moment later she came up with a yard of string. “Here you are.”

She was just being kind, he realized. “It’s most neighborly of you,” he said.

She took his empty cup. “My best wishes to your mother. She’s a brave woman.”

Edgar went out. Degbert, evidently having been relaxed by what he was drinking, was holding forth. “According to the calendars, we are in the nine hundred and ninety-seventh year of our Lord,” he said. “Jesus is nine hundred and ninety-seven years old. In three years’ time it will be the millennium.”

Edgar understood numbers, and he could not let that pass. “Wasn’t Jesus born in the year one?” he said.

“He was,” said Degbert. He added snootily: “Every educated man knows that.”

“Then he must have had his first birthday in year two.”

Degbert began to look unsure.

Edgar went on: “In year three, he became two years old, and so on. So this year, nine hundred and ninety-seven, he becomes nine hundred and ninety-six.”

Degbert blustered. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you arrogant young pup.”

A quiet voice in the back of Edgar’s mind told him not to argue, but the voice was overwhelmed by his wish to correct an arithmetical error. “No, no,” he said. “In fact Jesus’ birthday will be on Christmas Day, so as of now he’s still only nine hundred and ninety-five and a half.”

Leaf, watching from the doorway, grinned and said: “He’s got you there, Degsy.”

Degbert was livid. “How dare you speak like that to a priest?” he said to Edgar. “Who do you think you are? You can’t even read!”

“No, but I can count,” Edgar said stubbornly.

Dreng said: “Take your string and be off with you, and don’t come back until you’ve learned to respect your elders and betters.”

“It’s just numbers,” Edgar said, backtracking when it was too late. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

Degbert said: “Get out of my sight.”

Dreng added: “Go on, get lost.”

Edgar turned and walked away, heading back along the riverbank, despondent. His family needed all the help it could get, but he had now made two enemies.

Why had he opened his fool mouth?