The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 8 Early September 997

dgar was determined to build a boat that would please Dreng.

It was hard to like Dreng, and few people did. He was malevolent and miserly. Living at the alehouse, Edgar quickly became familiar with the family. The elder wife, Leaf, was coldly indifferent to Dreng most of the time. The younger woman, Ethel, seemed scared of her husband. She bought the food and cooked it, and cried when he complained about the cost. Edgar wondered whether either woman had ever loved Dreng, and decided not: both were from poor peasant families and had probably married for financial security.

Blod, the slave, hated Dreng. When she was not servicing passing strangers who wanted sex, Dreng kept her busy cleaning the house and outbuildings, tending the pigs and chickens, and changing the rushes on the floor. He always spoke harshly to her, and she in turn was permanently surly and resentful. She would have made more money for him if she had not been so miserable, but he seemed not to realize that.

The women liked Brindle, Edgar’s dog. She won their affection by chasing foxes away from the henhouse. Dreng never petted the dog, and in response she acted as if Dreng did not exist.

However, Dreng seemed to love his daughter, Cwenburg, and she him. He smiled when he saw her, whereas he greeted most people with a sneer or, at best, a smirk. For Cwenburg, Dreng would always drop what he was doing, and the two of them would sit and talk in low voices, sometimes for an hour.

That proved it was possible to have a normal human relationship with Dreng, and Edgar was determined to try. He was not aiming for affection: just a briskly practical liaison without rancor.

Edgar set up an open-air workshop on the riverbank, and by good fortune the hot August sunshine continued into a warm September. He felt happy to be constructing something again, honing his blade, smelling the cut wood, imagining shapes and joins, and then making them real.

When he had fashioned all the wooden parts he laid them out on the ground, and the outlines of the boat became discernible.

Dreng looked and said accusingly: “In a boat, the planks usually overlap.”

Edgar had anticipated questions, and he had answers ready, but he was wary. He needed to convince Dreng without coming across as a know-it-all—always a danger for Edgar, he knew. “That type of hull is called clinker-built. But this boat will be flat bottomed, so it will be carvel-built, with the planks set edge to edge. By the way, we call them strakes, not planks.”

“Planks, strakes, I don’t care, but why is it flat-bottomed?”

“Mainly so that people and cattle can stand upright, and baskets and sacks can be stacked securely. Also, the vessel won’t roll side to side so much, which helps to keep the passengers calm.”

“If that’s such a smart idea, why aren’t all boats built that way?”

“Because most boats have to cut through the waves and currents at speed. That doesn’t apply to the ferry. There are no waves here, the current is steady but not strong, and speed is not the main issue in a journey of fifty yards.”

Dreng grunted, then pointed at the strakes forming the sides of the boat. “I assume the rails will be higher than that.”

“No. There are no waves, so the boat doesn’t need high sides.”

“Boats are usually pointed at the front end. This one seems blunt at both ends.”

“Same reason—it doesn’t need to cut through the water fast. And the square ends make it easier to get on and off. That’s also the reason for the ramps. Even cattle can board this boat.”

“Does it need to be so wide?”

“To take a cart, yes.” Trying to win a word of approval, Edgar added: “The ferry across the estuary at Combe charges a farthing per wheel: one farthing for a wheelbarrow, a halfpenny for a handcart, and a whole penny for an oxcart.”

A greedy look passed across Dreng’s face, but he said: “We don’t get many carts.”

“They all go to Mudeford because your old boat couldn’t manage them. You’ll see more with this one, you wait.”

“I doubt it,” Dreng said. “And it will be damnably heavy to paddle.”

“It won’t have paddles.” Edgar pointed to two long poles. “The river is never more than about six feet deep, so the ferry can be poled across. One strong man can do it.”

“I can’t, I’ve got a bad back.”

“Two women could do it working together. That’s why I made two poles.”

Some of the villagers had drifted down to the river to stare curiously. One of them was the clergyman-jeweler, Cuthbert. He was skilled and knowledgeable, but a timid and unsociable man who was bullied by his master, Degbert. Edgar often spoke to Cuthbert, but got monosyllabic replies except when discussing issues of craftsmanship. Now Cuthbert said: “Did you do all this with a Viking ax?”

“It’s all I’ve got,” said Edgar. “The back of the head serves me as a hammer. And I keep the blade sharp, which is the main thing.”

Cuthbert looked impressed. He said: “How will you fix the strakes to one another edge to edge?”

“I’ll peg them to a timber skeleton.”

“With iron nails?”

Edgar shook his head. “I’ll use treenails.” A treenail was a wooden peg with split ends. The peg was inserted in a hole, then wedges were hammered into the split ends, widening the peg until it was a tight fit. After that the protruding ends of the peg were cut off flush with the strake to make a smooth surface.

“That will work,” said Cuthbert. “But you’ll need to waterproof the joins.”

“I’ll have to go to Combe and buy a barrel of tar and a sack of raw wool.”

Dreng heard that and looked indignant. “More money? You don’t make boats out of wool.”

“The joins between the strakes have to be stuffed with tar-soaked wool to make them watertight.”

Dreng looked resentful. “You’ve got your smart answers, I’ll grant you that,” he said.

It was almost praise.

When the boat was ready, Edgar pushed it into the water.

It was always a special moment. While Pa had been alive the whole family had gathered to watch, and they had usually been joined by many of the townspeople. But now Edgar did it alone. He did not fear that the boat would sink, he just did not want to seem triumphal. As a newcomer here he was trying to fit in, not stand out.

With the vessel roped to a tree so that it could not float away, he eased it away from the bank and studied the way it lay in the water. It was straight and level, he saw with satisfaction. No water trickled through the joins. He undid the rope and stepped onto the ramp. His weight shifted the trim of the boat a fraction, as it should.

Brindle was watching him eagerly, but he did not want her on board for this trip. He wanted to see the boat perform without passengers. “You stay here,” he said, and she lay down with her nose between her paws, watching him.

The two long poles rested in wooden crotchets, a row of three on each side. He drew a pole out, put the end in the water, made contact with the riverbed, and pushed. It was easier than he expected, and the ferry moved smoothly off.

He walked to the forward end then put the pole in the water on the downstream side, heading the vessel slightly upstream, to counteract the current. He found it well within the capability of a strong woman or an average man—Blod or Cwenburg could do it, and Leaf and Ethel would easily manage it together, especially if he gave them a lesson.

As he was crossing the river he glanced at the luxuriant late-summer foliage on the far bank and saw a sheep. Several more emerged from the woods, herded by two dogs; and finally the shepherd appeared, a young man with long hair and a straggly beard.

Edgar had his first passengers.

Suddenly he was nervous. He had designed the vessel to be boarded by livestock, but he knew a lot about boats and nothing about sheep. Would they do what he expected? Or would they panic and stampede? Did sheep stampede? He did not even know that.

He might be about to find out.

Reaching the bank, he disembarked and tied the ferry to a tree.

The shepherd smelled as if he had not washed for years. He looked hard at Edgar for a long moment and then said: “You’re new here.” He appeared pleased with his own perspicacity.

“Yes. I’m Edgar.”

“Ah. And you’ve got a new boat.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Different from the old boat.” With each completed sentence the shepherd paused to enjoy the satisfaction of achievement, and Edgar wondered if that was because he normally had no one to talk to.

“Very different,” Edgar said.

“I’m Saemar, usually called Sam.”

“I hope you’re well, Sam.”

“I’m driving these hoggets to market.”

“I guessed that.” Edgar knew that hoggets were one-year-old sheep. “To cross by the ferry is a farthing for each man or beast.”

“I know.”

“For twenty sheep, two dogs, and you, that will be five pence and three farthings.”

“I know.” Saemar opened a leather purse attached to his belt. “If I give you six silver pennies, you’ll owe me a farthing.”

Edgar was not prepared for financial transactions. He had nowhere to put the money, no change, and no shears to cut coins into halves and quarters. “You can pay Dreng,” he said. “We should be able to take the herd across in one trip.”

“In the old boat, we had to transport them two at a time. It took all morning. And even then, sure enough, one or two of the stupid buggers would fall in the water, or panic and jump in, and have to be rescued. Can you swim?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. I can’t.”

“I don’t think any of your sheep will fall off this boat.”

“If there’s a way to do themselves harm, sheep’ll usually find it.”

Sam picked up a sheep and carried it onto the ferry. His dogs followed him on board and explored excitedly, sniffing the new wood. Sam then gave a distinctive trilling whistle. The dogs responded instantly. They jumped off the ferry, rounded up the sheep, and herded them to the riverbank.

This was the challenging moment.

The leading sheep hesitated, needlessly intimidated by the small watery gap between the ground and the end of the boat. It looked from side to side, searching for an alternative, but the dogs cut off its escape. The sheep looked ready to refuse the next step. Then one of the dogs growled softly, low in its throat, and the sheep jumped.

It landed sure-footedly on the interior ramp and trotted happily down onto the flat bottom of the boat.

The rest of the flock followed, and Edgar smiled with satisfaction.

The dogs followed the sheep on board and stood like sentries on either side. Sam came last. Edgar untied the rope, jumped aboard, and deployed the pole.

As they moved out into midstream, Sam said: “This is better than the old boat.” He nodded sagely. Each banality was uttered like a pearl of wisdom.

“I’m glad you like it,” said Edgar. “You’re my first passenger.”

“Used to be a girl. Cwenburg.”

“She got married.”

“Ah. They do.”

The ferry reached the north bank, and Edgar jumped out. As he was tying the rope, the sheep began to disembark. They did so with more alacrity than they had shown boarding. “They’ve seen the grass,” Sam said in explanation. Sure enough they began to graze beside the river.

Edgar and Sam went into the alehouse, leaving the dogs to mind the sheep. Ethel was preparing the midday dinner, watched by Leaf and Dreng. A moment later Blod came in with an armful of firewood.

Edgar said to Dreng: “Sam hasn’t paid yet. He owes five pence and three farthings, but I didn’t have a farthing to give him in change.”

Dreng said to Sam: “Make it a round six pence and you can fuck the slave girl.”

Sam looked eagerly at Blod.

Leaf spoke up. “She’s too far gone.” Blod was now close to nine months pregnant. No one had wanted sex with her for three or four weeks.

But Sam was keen. “I don’t mind that,” he said.

“I wasn’t worrying about you,” Leaf said scathingly. The sarcasm went over Sam’s head. “This late, the baby could be harmed.”

Dreng said: “Who cares? No one wants a slave bastard.” With a contemptuous gesture he motioned Blod to get down on the floor.

Edgar could not see how Sam could possibly lie on top of the bump of Blod’s pregnancy. But she went down on her hands and knees, then threw up the back of her grubby dress. Sam promptly knelt behind her and pulled up his tunic.

Edgar went out.

He walked down to the water and pretended to check the mooring of the ferry, though he knew perfectly well that he had tied it tight. He felt disgusted. He had never understood the men who paid for sex at Mags’s house in Combe. The whole idea seemed joyless. His brother Erman had said: “When you got to have it, you got to have it,” but Edgar had never felt that way. With Sunni, the two of them had enjoyed it equally, and Edgar thought anything less was hardly worth having.

What Sam was doing was worse than joyless, of course.

Edgar sat on the riverbank and looked across the calm gray water, hoping for more passengers to take his mind off what was going on in the alehouse. Brindle sat beside him, waiting patiently to see what he would do next. After a few minutes she went to sleep.

It was not long before the shepherd emerged from the alehouse and drove his flock up the hill between the houses onto the westbound road. Edgar did not wave.

Blod came down to the river.

Edgar said: “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Blod did not look at him. She stepped into the shallows and washed between her legs.

Edgar looked away. “It’s very cruel,” he said.

He suspected that Blod understood English. She pretended not to: when something went wrong she cursed in the liquid Welsh tongue. Dreng gave her orders with gestures and snarls. But sometimes Edgar had the feeling she was following the conversation in the alehouse, albeit furtively.

Now she confirmed his suspicion. “It’s nothing,” she said. Her English was accented but clear, her voice melodic.

“You’re not nothing,” he said.

She finished washing and stepped onto the bank. He met her eye. She was looking suspicious and hostile. “Why so nice?” she demanded. “You think you’ll get a free fuck?”

He looked away again, directing his gaze across the water to the far trees, and made no reply. He thought she would walk away, but she stayed where she was, waiting for an answer.

Eventually he said: “This dog used to belong to a woman I loved.”

Brindle opened one eye. Strange. Edgar thought, how dogs know when you are talking about them.

“The woman was a little older than me, and married,” Edgar said to Blod. She showed no emotion, but seemed to be listening attentively. “When her husband was drunk she would meet me in the woods and we would make love on the grass.”

“Make love,” she repeated, as if unsure what it meant.

“We decided to run away together.” To his surprise he found himself close to tears, and he realized it was the first time he had spoken about Sunni since talking to Ma on the journey from Combe. “I had the promise of work and a house in another town.” He was telling Blod things even his family did not know. “She was beautiful and clever and kind.” He began to feel choked up, but now that he had started the story, he wanted to go on. “I think we would have been very happy,” he said.

“What happened?”

“On the day we planned to go, the Vikings came.”

“Did they take her?”

Edgar shook his head. “She fought them, and they killed her.”

“She was lucky,” Blod said. “Believe me.”

Thinking about what Blod had just done with Sam, Edgar almost agreed. “Her name . . .” He found it hard to say. “Her name was Sunni.”

“When?”

“A week before Midsummer.”

“I am very sorry, Edgar.”

“Thank you.”

“You still love her.”

“Oh, yes,” said Edgar. “I’ll always love her.”

The weather turned stormy. One night in the second week of September there was a terrific gale. Edgar thought the church tower might be blown down. However, all the buildings in the hamlet survived except one, the flimsiest—Leaf’s brewhouse.

She lost more than the building. She had had a cauldron brewing on the fire, but the huge pot had been overturned, the fire extinguished, and the ale lost. Worse than that, barrels of new ale had been smashed by falling timbers, and sacks of malted barley were soaked beyond rescue by torrential rain.

Next morning, in the calm after the storm, they went out to inspect the damage, and some of the villagers—curious as ever—gathered around the ruins.

Dreng was furious, and raged at Leaf. “That shack was barely standing before the storm. You should have moved the ale and the barley somewhere safer!”

Leaf was not impressed by Dreng’s tantrum. “You could have moved it yourself, or told Edgar to do it,” she said. “Don’t blame me.”

He was impervious to her logic. “Now I’m going to have to buy ale in Shiring and pay to have it carted here,” he went on.

“People will appreciate my ale more when they’ve had to drink Shiring ale for a few weeks,” Leaf said complacently.

Her unconcern drove Dreng wild. “And this isn’t the first time!” he raved. “You’ve burned the brewhouse down twice. Last time you passed out dead drunk and nearly burned yourself to death.”

Edgar had a brainstorm. He said: “You should build a stone brewhouse.”

“Don’t be daft,” Dreng said without looking at him. “You don’t put up a palace to make ale in.”

Cuthbert, the portly jeweler, was in the crowd, and Edgar now noticed that he was shaking his head in disagreement with Dreng. Edgar said: “What do you think, Cuthbert?”

“Edgar’s right,” Cuthbert said. “This will be the third time in five years that you’ve rebuilt the brewhouse, Dreng. A stone building would withstand storms and wouldn’t burn down. You’d save money in the long run.”

Dreng said scornfully: “Who’s going to build it, Cuthbert? You?”

“No, I’m a jeweler.”

“We can’t make ale in a brooch.”

Edgar knew the answer. “I can build it.”

Dreng gave a scornful grunt. “What do you know about building in stone?”

Edgar knew nothing about building in stone, but he felt he could turn his hand to just about any type of construction. And he yearned for the opportunity to show what he could do. Displaying more confidence than he felt, he said: “Stone is just like wood, only a bit harder.”

Dreng’s default position was scorn, but now he hesitated. His gaze flickered to the riverside and the sturdy moneymaking ferryboat tied up there. He turned to Cuthbert. “What would that cost?”

Edgar felt hopeful. Pa had always said: “When the man asks the price, he’s halfway to buying the boat.”

Cuthbert thought for a moment, then said: “Last time repairs were done to the church, the stone came from the limestone quarry at Outhenham.”

Edgar said: “Where’s that?”

“A day’s journey upriver.”

“Where did you get the sand?”

“There’s a sandpit in the woods about a mile from here. You just have to dig it up and carry it.”

“And the lime for the mortar?”

“That’s difficult to make, so we bought ours in Shiring.”

Dreng repeated: “What would it cost?”

Cuthbert said: “The standard rough stones cost a penny each at the quarry, if I remember rightly, and they charged us a penny per stone for delivery.”

Edgar said: “I’ll make a plan, and work it out exactly; but I would probably need about two hundred stones.”

Dreng pretended to be shocked. “Why, that’s almost two pounds of silver!”

“It would still be cheaper than rebuilding in wood and thatch again and again.” Edgar held his breath.

“Work it out exactly,” said Dreng.

Edgar set off for Outhenham at sunrise on a cool morning, with a chill September breeze wafting along the river. Dreng had agreed to pay for a stone brewhouse. Now Edgar had to make good on his boasting and build it well.

He took his ax with him on the journey. He would have preferred to go with one of his brothers, but both were busy on the farm, so he had to take the risk of traveling alone. On the other hand, he had already met the outlaw Ironface, who had gone away the worse for the encounter and might hesitate to attack him again. All the same, he carried the ax in his hand, for readiness, and he was glad to have Brindle to give him early warning of danger.

The trees and bushes along the bank were luxuriant after a fine summer, and it was often a struggle to make progress. Around midmorning he came to a place where he had to detour inland. Fortunately the sky was mostly clear, so he could usually see the sun, and this helped him to keep his bearings, so that eventually he was able to find his way back to the river.

Every few miles he passed through a large or small settlement, the same timber-and-thatch houses clustered on the riverbank or inland around a crossroads, a pond, or a church. He slung his ax in his belt as he approached, to make a peaceable impression, but drew it out as soon as he found himself alone again. He would have liked to stop and rest, drink a cup of ale and eat something, but he had no money, so he just exchanged a few words with the villagers, checked that he was on the right road, and walked on.

He had thought it a simple matter to follow the river. However, numerous streams flowed into it and he could not always be sure which was the main river and which the tributary. On one occasion he made the wrong choice, and learned at the next settlement he came to—a village called Bathford—that he needed to retrace his steps.

Along the way he thought about the brewhouse he would construct for Leaf. Perhaps it should have two rooms, like the nave and chancel of a church, so that valuable stores could be kept away from the fire. The hearth should be made of trimmed stones mortared together, so that it would easily bear the weight of the cauldron and be less likely to collapse.

He had hoped to reach Outhenham by midafternoon, but his detours had delayed him, so the sun was low in the western sky when he thought he might be approaching the end of his journey.

He was in a fertile valley of heavy clay soil that he thought must be the Vale of Outhen. In the surrounding fields peasants were harvesting barley, working late to make the most of dry weather. At a place where a tributary joined the river, he came to a large village of more than a hundred houses.

He was on the wrong side of the water, and there was no bridge or ferry, but he easily swam across, holding his tunic above his head and using only one hand to propel himself. The water was cold and he shivered when he got out.

At the edge of the village was a small orchard where a gray-haired man was picking fruit. Edgar approached with some trepidation, fearing he might be told he was far from his destination. “Good day, friend,” he said. “Is this Outhenham?”

“It is,” the man said amiably. He was a bright-eyed fifty-year-old with a friendly smile and an intelligent look.

“Thank heaven,” said Edgar.

“Where have you come from?”

“Dreng’s Ferry.”

“A godless place, I’ve heard.”

Edgar was surprised that Degbert’s laxity was known about so far away. He was not sure how to respond to that, so he said: “My name is Edgar.”

“And I’m Seric.”

“I’ve come here to buy stone.”

“If you go east to the edge of the village, you’ll see a well-worn track. The quarry is about half a mile inland. There you’ll find Gaberht, called Gab, and his family. He’s the quarrymaster.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

Seric gave him a handful of small pears. Edgar thanked him and went on. He ate the pears, cores and all, right away.

The village was relatively prosperous, with well-built houses and outbuildings. At its center, a stone church faced an alehouse across a green where cows grazed.

A big man in his thirties came out of the alehouse, spotted Edgar, and took up a confrontational stance in the middle of the pathway. “Who the hell are you?” he said as Edgar approached him. He was heavy and red-eyed, and his speech was slurred.

Edgar stopped and said: “Good day to you, friend. I’m Edgar, from Dreng’s Ferry.”

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“To the quarry,” Edgar said mildly. He did not want a quarrel.

But the man was belligerent. “Who said you could go there?”

Edgar’s patience began to wear thin. “I don’t believe I need permission.”

“You need my permission to do anything in Outhenham, because I’m Dudda, the headman of the village. Why are you going to the quarry?”

“To buy fish.”

Dudda looked mystified, then it dawned on him that he was being mocked, and he reddened. Edgar realized he had been too clever for his own good—again—and regretted his wit. Dudda said: “You cheeky dog.” Then he swung a big fist at Edgar’s head.

Edgar stepped back nimbly.

Dudda’s swing failed to connect, and he overbalanced, stumbled, and fell to the ground.

Edgar wondered what the hell to do next. He had no doubt he could beat Dudda in a fight, but what good would that do him? If he antagonized people here, they might refuse to sell stone to him, and his building project would be in trouble when it had barely got started.

He was relieved to hear the calm voice of Seric behind him. “Now, Dudda, let me help you home. You might want to lie down for an hour.” He took Dudda’s arm and helped him to his feet.

Dudda said: “That boy hit me!”

“No, he didn’t, you fell down, because you drank too much ale with your dinner again.” Seric jerked his head at Edgar, indicating that he should make himself scarce, and walked Dudda away. Edgar took the hint.

He found the quarry easily. Four people were working there: an older man who was evidently in charge and therefore must be Gab, two others who might have been his sons, and a boy who was either a late addition to the family or a slave. The quarry rang with the sound of hammers, punctuated at intervals by a dry cough that came from Gab. There was a timber house, presumably their home, and a woman standing in the doorway watching the sun go down. Stone dust hung in the air like a mist, the specks glittering golden in the rays of the evening light.

Another customer was ahead of Edgar. A sturdy four-wheeled cart stood in the middle of the clearing. Two men were carefully loading it with cut stones, while two oxen—presumably there to pull the cart—grazed nearby, their tails flicking at flies.

The boy was sweeping up stone chips, probably to be sold as gravel. He approached Edgar and spoke with a foreign accent, which made Edgar think he was a slave. “Have you come to buy stone?”

“Yes. I need enough for a brewhouse. But there’s no rush.”

Edgar sat on a flat stone, observed Gab for a few minutes, and quickly understood how he worked. He would insert an oak wedge into a small crack in the rock, then hammer the wedge in, widening the crack until it turned into a split and a section of rock fell away. Failing the convenience of a naturally formed crack, Gab would make one with his iron chisel. Edgar guessed that a quarryman would have learned from experience how to locate the weaknesses in the rock that would make the work easier.

Gab split the larger stones into two or sometimes three pieces, just to make them easier to transport.

Edgar turned his attention to the purchasers. They put ten stones on their cart then stopped. That was probably as much weight as the oxen could pull. They began to put the beasts into the shafts, ready to leave.

Gab finished what he was doing, coughed, looked at the sky, and appeared to decide it was time to stop work. He went to the oxcart and conferred with the two buyers for a few moments, then one of the men handed over money.

Then they cracked a whip over the oxen and left.

Edgar went to Gab. The quarryman had picked up a trimmed branch from a pile and was carefully marking it with a neat row of notches. This was how craftsmen and traders kept records: they could not afford parchment, and if they had any they would not know how to write on it. Edgar guessed that Gab had to pay taxes to the lord of the manor, perhaps the price of one stone in five, and so needed a record of how many he had sold.

Edgar said: “I’m Edgar from Dreng’s Ferry. Ten years ago you sold us stones for the repair of the church.”

“I recollect,” said Gab, putting the tally stick in his pocket. Edgar noticed that he had cut only five notches, although he had sold ten stones: perhaps he was going to finish it later. “I don’t remember you, but then you would have been a small child.”

Edgar studied Gab. His hands were covered with old scars, no doubt from his work. He was probably wondering how he could exploit this ignorant youth. Edgar said firmly: “The price was two pence per stone delivered.”

“Was it, now?” Gab said with pretended skepticism.

“If it’s still the same, we want about two hundred more.”

“I’m not sure we can do it for the same price. Things have changed.”

“In that case, I have to return and speak with my master.” Edgar did not want to do this. He was determined to go back and report success. But he could not allow Gab to overcharge him. Edgar mistrusted Gab. Perhaps the man was only negotiating, but Edgar had a feeling he might be dishonest.

The quarryman coughed. “Last time we dealt with Degbert Baldhead, the dean. He didn’t like spending his money.”

“My master, Dreng, is the same. They’re brothers.”

“What’s the stone for?”

“I’m building a brewhouse for Dreng. His wife makes the ale and she keeps burning the wooden buildings down.”

“You’re building it?”

Edgar lifted his chin. “Yes.”

“You’re very young. But Dreng wants a cheap builder, I suppose.”

“He wants cheap stone, too.”

“Did you bring the money?”

I may be young, Edgar thought, but I’m not stupid. “Dreng will pay when the stones arrive.”

“He’d better.”

Edgar guessed the quarrymen would carry the stones, or transport them in a cart, as far as the river, then load them on a raft for the journey downstream to Dreng’s Ferry. It would take them several trips, depending on the size of the raft.

Gab said: “Where are you spending the night? In the tavern?”

“I told you, I’ve no money.”

“You’ll have to sleep here, then.”

“Thank you,” said Edgar.

Gab’s wife was Beaduhild but he called her Bee. She was more welcoming than her husband, and invited Edgar to share the evening meal. As soon as his bowl was empty, he realized how tired he was after his long walk, and he lay down on the floor and fell asleep immediately.

In the morning he said to Gab: “I’m going to need a hammer and chisel like yours, so that I can shape the stones to my needs.”

“So you are,” said Gab.

“May I look at your tools?”

Gab shrugged.

Edgar picked up the wooden hammer and hefted it. It was big and heavy, but otherwise simple and crude, and he could easily make one like it. The smaller, iron-headed hammer was more carefully made, its handle firmly wedged to the head. Best of all was the iron chisel, with a wide, blunt blade and a spreading top that looked like a daisy. Edgar could forge a copy in Cuthbert’s workshop. Cuthbert might not like sharing his space, but Dreng would get Degbert to insist, and Cuthbert would have no choice.

Hanging on pegs next to the tools were several sticks with notches. Edgar said: “I suppose you keep a tally stick for each customer.”

“What business is that of yours?”

“Sorry.” Edgar did not want to appear nosy. However, he could not help noticing that the newest stick had only five notches. Could it be that Gab recorded only half the stones he sold? That would save him a lot in taxes.

But it was no business of Edgar’s if Gab was cheating his lord. The Vale of Outhen was part of the ealdormanry of Shiring, and Ealdorman Wilwulf was rich enough already.

Edgar ate a hearty breakfast, thanked Bee, and set out to walk home.

From Outhenham he thought he could find his way easily, having already made the journey in the opposite direction, but to his dismay he got lost again. Because of the delay it was near dark when he arrived home, thirsty and hungry and weary.

In the alehouse they were getting ready to go to sleep. Ethel smiled at him, Leaf gave a slurred welcome, and Dreng ignored him. Blod was stacking firewood. She stopped what she was doing, straightened up, put her left hand on the back of her hip, and stretched her body as if easing an ache. When she turned around, Edgar saw that she had a black eye.

“What happened to you?” he said.

She did not answer, pretending not to understand. But Edgar could guess how she had got it. Dreng had been more and more angry with her in the last few weeks, as her time approached. There was nothing unusual about a man using violence on his family, of course, and Edgar had seen Dreng kick Leaf’s backside and slap Ethel’s face, but he had a special malice toward Blod.

“Is there any supper left?” Edgar asked.

Dreng said: “No.”

“But I’ve been walking all day.”

“That’ll teach you not to be late.”

“I was on an errand for you!”

“And you get paid, and there’s nothing left, so shut your mouth.”

Edgar went to bed hungry.

Blod was up first in the morning. She went to the river for fresh water, always her first chore of the day. The bucket was made of wood with iron rivets, and it was heavy even when empty. Edgar was putting his shoes on when she came back. He saw that she was struggling, and he moved to take the bucket from her, but before he could do so, she stumbled over Dreng, lying half asleep, and water sloshed from the bucket onto his face.

“You dumb cunt!” he roared.

He jumped up. Blod cowered away. Dreng raised his fist. Then Edgar stepped between them, saying: “Give me the bucket, Blod.”

There was fury in Dreng’s eyes. For a moment Edgar thought the man was going to punch him instead of Blod. Dreng was strong, despite the bad back he mentioned so often: he was tall, with big shoulders. Nevertheless, Edgar made a split-second decision to hit back if attacked. He would undoubtedly be punished, but he would have the satisfaction of knocking Dreng to the ground.

However, like most bullies Dreng was a coward when confronted by someone stronger. The anger gave way to fear, and he lowered his fist.

Blod made herself scarce.

Edgar handed the bucket to Ethel. She poured water into a cooking pot, hung the pot over the fire, added oats to the water, and stirred the mixture with a wooden stick.

Dreng stared at Edgar malevolently. Edgar guessed he would never be forgiven for coming between Dreng and his slave, but he could not find it in his heart to regret what he had done, even though he would probably suffer for it.

When the porridge was ready Ethel ladled it into five bowls. She chopped some ham and added it to one of the bowls, then gave that to Dreng. She handed the others around.

They ate in silence.

Edgar finished his in seconds. He looked over at the pot, then at Ethel. She said nothing but discreetly shook her head. There was no more.

It was Sunday, and after breakfast everyone went to church.

Ma was there with Erman and Eadbald and their shared wife, Cwenburg. The twenty-five or so residents of the hamlet all knew by now of the polyandrous marriage, but no one said much about it. Edgar had gathered, from overheard fragments of conversation, that it was considered unusual but not outrageous. He had heard Bebbe say the same as Leaf: “If a man can have two wives, a woman can have two husbands.”

Seeing Cwenburg standing between Erman and Eadbald, Edgar was struck by the difference in their clothes. The homespun knee-length tunics of his brothers, the brownish color of undyed wool, were old, worn, and patched, just like his own; but Cwenburg had a dress of closely woven cloth, bleached and then dyed a pinkish red. Her father was miserly with everyone but her.

Edgar stood beside Ma. In the past she had never been noticeably devout, but nowadays she seemed to take the service more seriously, bowing her head and closing her eyes as Degbert and the other clergy went through their ritual, her reverence undiminished by their carelessness and haste.

“You’ve become more religious,” he said to her as the service came to an end.

She looked at him speculatively, as if wondering whether to confide in him, and seemed to decide he might understand. “I think about your father,” she said. “I believe he is with the angels above.”

Edgar did not really understand. “You can think about him whenever you like.”

“But this seems the best place and time. I feel I’m not so far away from him. Then, during the week, when I miss him, I can look forward to Sunday.”

Edgar nodded. That made sense to him.

Ma said: “How about you? Do you think of him?”

“When I’m working, and have a problem to solve, a joint that won’t close or a blade that won’t come sharp, I think: ‘I’ll ask Pa.’ Then I remember that I can’t. It happens almost every day.”

“What do you do then?”

Edgar hesitated. He was afraid of seeming to claim that he had miraculous experiences. People who saw visions were sometime revered, but they might just as easily be stoned as agents of the devil. However, Ma would comprehend. “I ask him anyway,” he said. “I say: ‘Pa, what should I do about this?’—in my head.” He added hastily: “I don’t see an apparition, or anything like that.”

She nodded calmly, unsurprised. “And then what?”

“Usually, the answer comes to me.”

She said nothing.

A bit nervously he said: “Does that sound peculiar?”

“Not at all,” she said. “That’s how spirits work.” She turned away and spoke to Bebbe about eggs.

Edgar was intrigued. That’s how spirits work. It would bear thinking about.

But his reflections were interrupted. Erman came to him and said: “We’re going to make a plough.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

Edgar was jerked from mysticism back into everyday practicalities. He guessed they had chosen to do this on a Sunday so that he would be available. None of them had ever made a plough, but Edgar could build anything. “Shall I come and help you?” he said.

“If you want.” Erman did not like to acknowledge that he needed assistance.

“Have you got the timber ready?”

“Yes.”

It seemed that anyone could take timber from the forest. At Combe the thane, Wigelm, had made Pa pay for felling an oak. But there, Edgar reflected, it was easier to police the woodcutters, for they had to bring the timber into the town in full view. Here it was not clear whether the forest belonged to Degbert Baldhead or the reeve of Mudeford, Offa, and neither of them claimed payment: no doubt it would involve much surveillance for little reward. In practice timber was free to anyone willing to chop down the trees.

Everyone was moving out of the little church. “We’d better get on with it,” Erman said.

They walked to the farmhouse together: Ma, the three brothers, and Cwenburg. Edgar noticed that the bond between Erman and Eadbald seemed unchanged: they were basically in harmony, despite a continuous low level of petty squabbling. Their uncommon marriage clearly worked.

Cwenburg kept giving Edgar triumphant looks. “You turned me down,” her expression seemed to say, “but see what I got instead!” Edgar did not mind. She was happy and so were his brothers.

Edgar himself was not unhappy, for that matter. He had built a ferry and was working on a brewhouse. His wages were so low they amounted to theft, but he had escaped from farming.

Well, almost.

He looked at the wood his brothers had piled up outside the barn and visualized a plough. Even town dwellers knew what one of those looked like. It would have an upright pointed stick to loosen the soil, and an angled moldboard to undercut the furrow and turn the soil over. Both had to be attached to a frame that could be pulled from the front and guided from behind.

Erman said: “Eadbald and I will draw the plough and Ma will steer it.”

Edgar nodded. The loamy soil here was soft enough to yield to a man-drawn plough. The clay soil of a place such as Outhenham required the strength of oxen.

Edgar drew his belt knife, knelt down, and began to mark the wood for Erman and Eadbald to shape. Although the youngest brother was taking charge, the other two made no protest. They recognized Edgar’s superior skill, though they never admitted it aloud.

While they went to work on the timbers, Edgar began to make the ploughshare, a blade fixed to the front of the moldboard to cut more easily through the soil. The others had found a rusting iron spade in the barn. Edgar heated it in the house fire, then beat it into shape with a rock. The result looked a bit rough. He could have done better with an iron hammer and an anvil.

He sharpened the blade with a stone.

When they got thirsty they went down to the river and drank from their cupped hands. They had no ale and no cups either.

They were almost ready to join the pieces together with pegs when Ma called them for the midday meal.

She had prepared smoked eel with wild onions and pan bread. Edgar’s mouth watered so violently that he felt a sharp pain under his jawbone.

Cwenburg whispered something to Erman. Ma frowned—whispering in company was bad manners—but she said nothing.

When Edgar reached for a third piece of bread, Erman said: “Go easy, will you?”

“I’m hungry!”

“We haven’t got much food to spare.”

Edgar was outraged. “I’ve given up my day of rest to help you build your plough—and you begrudge me a piece of bread!”

Anger flared quickly, as it always had between the brothers. Erman said hotly: “You can’t eat us out of house and home.”

“I had no supper yesterday, and only one small bowl of porridge this morning. I’m starved.”

“I can’t help that.”

“Then don’t ask me to help you, you ungrateful dog.”

“The plough is almost finished—you should have gone back to the alehouse for your dinner.”

“Precious little I get to eat there.”

Eadbald was more temperate than Erman. He said: “The thing is, Edgar, that Cwenburg needs more, being pregnant.”

Edgar saw Cwenburg smother a smirk, which annoyed him even more. He said: “So eat less yourself, Eadbald, and leave me to my dinner. I’m not the one who made her pregnant.” He added in an undertone: “Thank heaven.”

Erman, Eadbald, and Cwenburg all began shouting at the same time. Ma clapped her hands, and they fell silent. She said: “What did you mean, Edgar, when you said you get precious little to eat at the tavern? Surely Dreng can afford plenty of food.”

“Dreng may be rich, but he’s mean.”

“But you had breakfast today.”

“A small bowl of porridge. He has meat with his, but the rest of us don’t.”

“And supper last night?”

“Nothing. I walked here from Outhenham and arrived late. He said it was all gone.”

Ma looked angry. “Then eat as much as you want here,” she said. “As for the rest of you, shut up, and try to remember that my family will always be fed at my house.”

Edgar ate his third piece of bread.

Erman looked surly. Eadbald said: “How often are we going to have to feed Edgar, then, if Dreng won’t?”

“Don’t you worry,” said Ma, tight-lipped. “I’ll deal with Dreng.”

For the rest of the day Edgar wondered how Ma was going to fulfill her promise and “deal with” Dreng. She was resourceful and bold, but Dreng was powerful. Edgar had no physical fear of his master—Dreng punched women, not men—but he was the master of everyone in the house: husband of Leaf and Ethel, owner of Blod, and employer of Edgar. He was the second most important man in the little hamlet, and the number one was his brother. He could do more or less anything he liked. It was unwise to cross him.

Monday began like any other weekday. Blod went for water and Ethel made porridge. As Edgar was sitting down to his inadequate breakfast, Cwenburg came storming in, indignant and furious. Pointing an accusing finger at Edgar, she said: “Your mother is an old witch!”

Edgar had a feeling this was going to be welcome news. “I’ve often thought so myself,” he said good-humoredly. “But what has she done to you?”

“She wants to starve me to death! She says I can have only one bowl of porridge!”

Edgar guessed where this was going, and he smothered a grin.

Dreng spoke in the confident tones of the powerful. “She can’t do that to my daughter.”

“She just did!”

“Did she give any reason for it?”

“She said she’s not going to feed me any more than you feed Edgar.”

Dreng was startled. Clearly he had not anticipated anything like this. He looked baffled and said nothing for a moment. Then he turned on Edgar. “So you went crying to your mother, did you?” he sneered.

It was a feeble attack, and Edgar was untroubled. “That’s what mothers are for, isn’t it?”

“Right, that’s it, I’ve heard enough,” said Dreng. “You’re out of here, go home.”

But Cwenburg was not having that. “You can’t send him back to us,” she said to Dreng. “He’s another mouth, and there’s hardly enough to eat as it is.”

“Then you’ll come here.” Dreng was pretending to be in full control, but he was looking a bit desperate.

“No,” said Cwenburg. “I’m married, and I like it. And my baby needs a father.”

Dreng realized he was cornered, and he looked livid.

Cwenburg said: “You have to give Edgar more to eat, that’s all. You can afford it.”

Dreng turned to Edgar with a look loaded with malevolence. “You’re a sly little rat, aren’t you?”

“This wasn’t my idea,” Edgar said. “Sometimes I wish I were as clever as my mother.”

“You’re going to regret your mother’s cleverness, I promise you that.”

Cwenburg said: “I like something nice in my porridge.” She opened the chest where Ethel kept foodstuffs and took out a jar of butter. Using her belt knife she took a generous scoop and put it in Edgar’s bowl.

Dreng looked on helplessly.

“Tell your mother I did that,” Cwenburg said to Edgar.

“All right,” Edgar said.

He ate the buttered porridge fast, before anyone could stop him. It made him feel good. But Dreng’s sentence echoed in his mind: You’re going to regret your mother’s cleverness, I promise you that.

It was probably true.