The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 10 Late September 997

he only master Edgar had known for the first eighteen years of his life had been his father, who could be harsh but was never cruel. After that, Dreng had come as a shock. Edgar had never before suffered sheer malice for its own sake.

However, Sunni had, from her husband. Edgar thought a lot about how Sunni had handled Cyneric. She let him have his own way most of the time, but on the rare occasions that she went against him, she was bold and stubborn. Edgar tried to deal with Dreng in a similar way. He avoided confrontations, and put up with petty persecution and minor injustices, but when he could not avoid a quarrel he fought to win.

He had prevented Dreng from punching Blod on at least one occasion. He had steered Ragna to the nunnery against the will of Dreng, who had clearly wanted her to spend the night at the alehouse. And with his mother’s help he had forced Dreng to feed him decently.

Dreng would have liked to get rid of Edgar, undoubtedly. But there were two snags. One was his daughter, Cwenburg, who was now part of Edgar’s family. Dreng had been taught a firm lesson by Ma: he could not hurt Edgar without bringing repercussions to Cwenburg. The other problem was that Dreng would never find another competent builder for only a farthing a day. A good craftsman would demand three or four times as much in payment. And, Edgar reflected, Dreng’s parsimony outweighed his malice.

Edgar knew he was walking on the edge of a cliff. At heart Dreng was not completely rational, and one day he might lash out regardless of the consequences. But there was no safe way to deal with him—other than to lie down under his heel like the rushes on the floor, and Edgar could not bring himself to do that.

So he went on alternately pleasing and defying Dreng, while watching carefully for signs of a coming storm.

The day after Ragna left, Blod came to him and said: “Do you want a free go? I’m too big to fuck, but I can give you a lovely suck.”

“No!” he said; and then, feeling embarrassed, he added: “Thank you.”

“Why not? Am I ugly?”

“I told you about my girl, Sunni, who died.”

“Then why are you so nice to me?”

“I’m not nice to you. But I’m different from Dreng.”

“You are nice to me.”

He changed the subject. “Do you have names for your baby?”

“I don’t know that I’ll be allowed to name him or her.”

“You should give it a Welsh name. What are your parents called?”

“My father is Brioc.”

“I like that, it sounds strong.”

“It’s the name of a Celtic saint.”

“What about your mother?”

“Eleri.”

“Pretty name.”

Tears came to her eyes. “I miss them so much.”

“I’ve made you sad. I’m sorry.”

“You’re the only English person who ever asked me about my family.”

A shout came from inside the alehouse. “Blod! Get in here.”

Blod left, and Edgar resumed work.

The first consignment of stones had come downstream from Outhenham on a raft steered by one of Gab’s sons, and had been unloaded and stacked near the ruins of the old brewhouse. Edgar had prepared the foundations of the new building, digging a trench and half filling it with loose stones.

He had to guess how deep the foundations should go. He had checked those of the church, digging a small hole alongside the wall of the chancel, and found that there were almost no foundations at all, but that would explain why it was falling down.

He poured mortar over the stones, and here he came across another problem: how to make sure the surface of the mortar was level. He had a good eye, but that was not enough. He had seen builders at work, and now he wished he had watched them more carefully. In the end he invented a device. He made a thin, flat stick a yard long and carved out the inside to form a smooth channel. The result was a miniature version of the log canoe Dreng had used as a ferry. Edgar got Cuthbert to make a small, polished iron ball in his forge. He laid the stick on the mortar, put the ball in the channel, and tapped the stick. If the ball rolled to one end, that showed that the mortar was not level and the surface had to be adjusted.

It was a lengthy process, and Dreng was impatient. He came out of the alehouse and stood with his hands on his hips, watching Edgar, for a few minutes. Eventually he said: “You’ve been working on this a week, and I don’t see any wall rising.”

“I have to get the foundations level,” Edgar explained.

“I don’t care if it’s level,” Dreng said. “It’s a brewhouse, not a cathedral.”

“If it’s not level it will fall down.”

Dreng looked at Edgar, not sure whether to believe him but unwilling to reveal his ignorance. He walked away saying: “I need Leaf to make ale as soon as possible. I’m losing money buying it from Shiring. Work faster!”

While Edgar was working, his mind often went back to Ragna. She had appeared in Dreng’s Ferry like a visitor from paradise. She was so tall, and poised, and beautiful that when you looked at her it was hard to believe she was a member of the human race. But as soon as she spoke she revealed herself to be charmingly human: down-to-earth and warmly sympathetic and capable of weeping over a lost belt. Ealdorman Wilwulf was a lucky man. The two of them would make a remarkable couple. Wherever they went, all eyes would follow them, the dashing ruler and his lovely bride.

Edgar was flattered that she had talked to him, even though she had told him frankly that her motive was to keep Dreng away. He was inordinately pleased that he had been able to find her a place to sleep that suited her better than the tavern. He sympathized with her wish not to lie down on the floor with everyone else. Even quite plain-looking women were liable to be pestered by men in alehouses.

On the following morning he had poled the ferry across to Leper Island to pick her up. Mother Agatha had walked Ragna with Cat and Agnes down to the waterside, and in that short distance Edgar had seen clearly that Agatha, too, was enchanted by Ragna, hanging on her words and hardly able to take her eyes off her. The nun had stayed at the water’s edge, waving, until the boat reached the other side and Ragna went into the alehouse.

Before they left, Agnes had told Edgar that she hoped she would see him again soon. The thought had crossed his mind that her interest in him might be romantic. If that were so he would have to confess to her that he was not able to fall in love, and explain about Sunni. He wondered how many times he was going to have to tell that story.

Toward evening he was startled by a cry of pain from within the tavern. It sounded like Blod, and Edgar thought Dreng might be beating her. He dropped his tools and ran inside.

But there was no beating. Dreng was sitting at the table looking irritated. Blod was slumped on the floor with her back to the wall. Her black hair was wet with sweat. Leaf and Ethel were standing up, watching her. As Edgar arrived she gave another shriek of pain.

“God save us,” said Edgar. “Did something terrible happen?”

“What’s the matter with you, you stupid boy?” Dreng jeered. “Haven’t you ever seen a woman giving birth?”

Edgar had not. He had seen animals giving birth, but that was different. He was the youngest in the family and had not been alive when his brothers were born. He knew about human childbirth in theory, so he was aware that it might hurt, and—now that he came to think about it—he had sometimes heard cries of pain from neighboring houses, and he recalled his mother saying: “Her time has come.” But he had never experienced it close up.

The only thing he knew for sure was that the mother often died.

He found it harrowing to look at a girl in pain and be unable to help her. “Should we give her a sip of ale?” he said in desperation. Strong drink was usually good for people in pain.

Leaf said: “We can try.” She half filled a cup and handed it to Edgar.

He knelt beside Blod and held the cup to her mouth. She gulped the ale then grimaced with pain again.

Dreng said: “It was original sin that caused this. In the garden of Eden.”

Leaf said sarcastically: “My husband, the priest.”

“It’s true,” Dreng said. “Eve disobeyed. That’s why God punishes all women.”

Leaf said: “I expect Eve was driven mad by her husband.”

Edgar did not see what more he could do, and the others seemed to feel the same. Perhaps it was all in the hands of God. Edgar went back outside and resumed his work.

He wondered what childbirth would have been like for Sunni. Obviously their lovemaking was likely to lead to pregnancy, but Edgar had never thought very hard about that. He realized now that he would have found it unbearable to see her in such pain. It was bad enough watching Blod, who was no more than an acquaintance.

He finished mortaring the foundation as it began to get dark. He would double-check the level in the morning, but all being well he would lay the first course of stones tomorrow.

He went into the alehouse. Blod was lying on the floor and seemed to be dozing. Ethel served supper, a stew of pork and carrots. This was the time of year when everyone had to decide which animals would live through the winter and which should be slaughtered now. Some of the meat was eaten fresh, the rest smoked or salted for the winter.

Edgar ate heartily. Dreng threw bad-tempered looks his way but said nothing. Leaf drank more ale. She was getting tipsy.

As they finished the meal, Blod began to moan again, and the pains seemed to come more frequently. Leaf said: “It won’t be long now.” Her words were slurred, as often happened by this time in the evening, but she was still making sense. “Edgar, go to the river and get fresh water to wash the baby with.”

Edgar was surprised. “Do you have to wash a baby?”

Leaf laughed. “Of course—you wait and see.”

He picked up the bucket and made his way to the river. It was dark, but the sky was clear and there was a bright half-moon. Brindle followed him, hoping for a boat ride. Edgar dipped the bucket in the river and carried it to the alehouse. Back inside he saw that Leaf had laid out clean rags. “Put the bucket near the fire, so that the water can warm up a bit,” she said.

Blod’s cries were more anguished now. Edgar saw that the rushes under her hips were soaked with some kind of fluid. Surely this could not be normal? He said: “Shall I ask Mother Agatha to come?” The nun was usually called upon in medical emergencies.

Dreng said: “I can’t afford to pay her.”

“She doesn’t charge a fee!” Edgar said indignantly.

“Not officially, but she expects a donation, unless you’re poor. She’d want money from me. People think I’m a rich man.”

Leaf said: “Don’t worry, Edgar. Blod is going to be all right.”

“Do you mean to say this is normal?”

“Yes, it is.”

Blod tried to get up. Ethel helped her. Edgar said: “Shouldn’t she lie down?”

“Not now,” Leaf said.

She opened a chest. She took out two thin strips of leather. Then she threw a bunch of dried rye on the fire. Burning rye was supposed to drive away evil spirits. Finally she picked up a large clean rag and draped it over her shoulder.

Edgar realized there was a ritual here that he knew nothing about.

Blod stood with her legs apart and bent forward. Ethel stood at her head, and Blod put her arms around Ethel’s thin waist for support. Leaf knelt behind Blod and lifted her dress. “The baby’s coming,” she said.

Dreng said: “Oh, disgusting.” He stood, pulled on his cloak, picked up his tankard, and limped outside.

Blod made heaving noises, as if she were lifting a weight so heavy that she was in agony. Edgar stared, fascinated and horrified at the same time: how could something as big as a baby come out of there? But the opening got larger. Some object seemed to be pushing through. “What’s that?” said Edgar.

“The baby’s head,” said Leaf.

Edgar was aghast. “God help Blod.”

The baby did not come out in one smooth motion. Rather, the skull seemed to push outward for a few moments, widening the opening, then stop, as if to rest. Blod cried in pain with every surge.

Edgar said: “It’s got hair.”

Leaf said: “They generally do.”

Then, like a marvel, the baby’s entire head came into the world.

Edgar was possessed by a powerful emotion he could not name. He was awed by what he was seeing. His throat constricted as if he were about to weep, yet he was not sad; in fact, he felt joyous.

Leaf took the rag from her shoulder and held it between Blod’s thighs, supporting the baby’s head with her hands. The shoulders appeared, then its belly with something attached, which, he realized immediately, was the cord. The whole body was covered with some slimy fluid. At last the legs appeared. It was a boy, he saw.

Ethel said: “I feel strange.”

Leaf looked at her and said: “She’s going to faint—catch her, Edgar.”

Ethel’s eyes rolled up and she went limp. Just in time, Edgar caught her under the arms and laid her carefully on the floor.

The boy opened his mouth and cried.

Blod slowly lowered herself to her hands and knees. Leaf wrapped the rag around the tiny baby and laid him gently in the rushes on the floor. Then she deployed the mysterious thin strips of leather. She tied both tightly around the cord, one close to the baby’s belly and the other a couple of inches away. Finally she drew her belt knife and cut the cord.

She dipped a clean rag in the bucket and washed the baby, gently cleaning blood and mucus from his face and head, then the rest of his body. He cried again at the feel of the water. She patted him dry then wrapped him up again.

Blod groaned with effort, as if she were giving birth again, and the thought of twins crossed Edgar’s mind briefly; but what came out was a shapeless lump, and when he frowned in puzzlement, Leaf said: “The afterbirth.”

Blod rolled over and sat with her back to the wall. Her normal expression of guarded hostility had been wiped away, and she just looked pale and exhausted. Leaf gave her the baby, and Blod’s face changed again, softening and brightening at the same time. She looked with love at the tiny body in her arms. The baby’s head turned toward her, so that his face pressed against her chest. She pulled down the front of her dress and put the baby to her breast. He seemed to know what to do: his mouth closed eagerly around the nipple and he began to suck.

Blod closed her eyes and looked contented. Edgar had never seen her like that before.

Leaf helped herself to another cup of ale and drained it in a gulp.

Brindle stared at the baby, fascinated. A tiny foot stuck out from the bundle and Brindle licked it.

Getting rid of spoiled straw was normally Blod’s job, and Edgar decided that now he had better do it. He picked up the mess where Blod had stood, including the afterbirth, and took it outside.

Dreng was sitting on a bench in the moonlight. Edgar said: “The baby is born.”

Dreng put his cup to his mouth and drank.

Edgar said: “It’s a boy.”

Dreng said nothing.

Edgar dumped the straw next to the dunghill. When it was dry he would burn it.

Back inside, both Blod and the baby seemed to be sleeping. Leaf was lying down with her eyes closed, exhausted or drunk or both. Ethel was still out cold.

Dreng came in. Blod opened her eyes and looked warily at him, but he only went to the barrel and refilled his tankard. Blod closed her eyes again.

Dreng took a long draught of ale, then put his tankard on the table. In a swift, confident move he bent over Blod and picked up the baby. The rag fell to the floor and he said: “A boy it is, the little bastard.”

Blod said: “Give him to me!”

“Oh, so you can speak English!” said Dreng.

“Give me my baby.”

Ethel did not stir, but Leaf said: “Give her the baby, Dreng.”

“I think he needs fresh air,” Dreng said. “Too smoky in here for a baby.”

“Please,” said Blod.

Dreng took the baby outside.

Leaf went after him. Blod tried to get up but fell back. Edgar followed Leaf. “Dreng, what are you doing?” Leaf cried fearfully.

“There,” Dreng said to the baby. “Taste the clean air from the river. Isn’t that better?” He moved down the slope to the water’s edge.

The fresh air probably was better for the baby, Edgar thought, but was that really what was on Dreng’s mind? Edgar had never seen him be kind to anyone other than Cwenburg. Had the drama of childbirth reminded him of when Cwenburg came into the world? Edgar followed Dreng at a distance, watching.

Dreng turned to face Edgar and Leaf. The moonlight shone white on the baby’s tiny body. Summer had turned to autumn, and the cold air on bare skin woke the baby and made him cry.

Leaf cried: “Keep him warm!”

Dreng grasped the baby by the ankle and held him upside down. The crying became urgent. Edgar did not know what was happening but he felt sure it was bad, and in sudden fear he dashed at Dreng.

With a rapid, vigorous motion Dreng swung the baby, windmilling his arm, and hurled it out across the water.

Leaf screamed.

The baby’s crying was abruptly silenced as he splashed into the river.

Edgar crashed into Dreng and they both fell into the shallows.

Edgar sprang up immediately. He jerked off his shoes and pulled his tunic over his head.

Dreng, spluttering, said: “You tried to drown me, you madman!”

Edgar dived naked into the water.

The little body had gone far out into midstream: Dreng was a big man, and the bad back of which he constantly complained did not much affect his throwing ability. Edgar swam strongly, heading for the place where he thought the baby had splashed down. There was no cloud and the moon was bright, but as he looked ahead he saw, with dismay, that there was nothing on the surface. Surely the baby would float? Human bodies did not normally sink to the bottom, did they? All the same, people drowned.

He reached and passed what he thought was the spot without seeing anything. He waved his arms around under water, hoping to touch something, but he felt nothing.

The urge to save the child was overpowering. He felt desperate. It had something to do with Sunni, he was not sure how—and he did not let the thought distract him. He trod water and turned in a circle, staring hard, wishing the light were brighter.

The current always took flotsam downstream. He swam in that direction, going as fast as he could while scanning the surface left and right. Brindle came alongside him, paddling hard to keep up. Perhaps she would smell the baby before Edgar saw him.

The current moved him toward the north side of Leper Island, and he had to assume it had done the same with the baby. Debris from the hamlet sometimes washed up opposite the island, and Edgar decided his best hope was to look there for the baby. He swam to the edge. Here the bank was not clearly defined: instead there was puddled swampy ground, part of the farm though not productive. He swam along, peering in the moonlight. He saw plenty of litter: bits of wood, nutshells, animal bones, and a dead cat. If the baby was there Edgar would surely see his white body. But he was disappointed.

Feeling increasingly frantic, he gave up on that stretch and swam across the river to Leper Island. Here the bank was overgrown, and he could not easily see the ground. He came up out of the water and walked along, going toward the nunnery, scanning the water’s edge as best he could in the moonlight. Brindle growled, and Edgar heard movement nearby. He guessed the lepers were watching him: they were known to be shy, perhaps reluctant to let people see their deformities. But he decided to speak. “Hey, anybody,” he said loudly. The shuffling stopped abruptly. “A baby fell into the river,” he said. “Have you seen anything?”

The silence continued some moments, then a figure appeared from behind a tree. The man was dressed in rags but did not appear misshapen: perhaps the rumors were exaggerated. “No one saw a baby,” the man said.

Edgar said: “Will you help me look?”

The man hesitated, then nodded.

Edgar said: “He may have been washed up somewhere along the shore.”

There was no response to this so Edgar just turned and resumed searching. Gradually he became aware that he was accompanied. Someone was moving through the bushes alongside him, and another was treading the shallows behind him. He thought he saw movement farther ahead, too. He was grateful for the extra eyes: it would be easy to miss something small.

But as he moved back in the direction of the alehouse, closing the circle, he found it hard to maintain hope. He was exhausted and shivering: what state would a naked baby be in? If it had not drowned it might now have died of the cold.

He drew level with the convent building. There were lights in its windows and outside, and he saw hurried movement. A nun approached him, and he recognized Mother Agatha. He remembered that he was stark naked, but she seemed not to notice.

She carried a bundle in her arms. Edgar’s hoped leaped. Had the nuns found the baby?

Agatha must have seen the eagerness in his face, for she shook her head sadly, and Edgar was filled with alarm.

She came close and showed him what she held in her arms. Wrapped in a white wool blanket was Blod’s baby. His eyes were closed and he was not breathing.

“We found him on the shore,” Agatha said.

“Was he . . .”

“Dead or alive? I don’t know. We took him into the warm, but we were too late. We baptized him, though, so he’s with the angels now.”

Edgar was overwhelmed by grief. He cried and shivered at the same time, and his eyes blurred with tears. “I saw him born,” he said between sobs. “It was like a miracle.”

“I know,” said Agatha.

“And then I saw him murdered.”

Agatha unwrapped the blanket and gave the tiny baby to Edgar. He held the cold body to his bare chest and wept.