The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 12 Mid−October 997

n the day of the hundred court, Edgar was nervous but determined.

The hundred of Dreng’s Ferry consisted of five small settlements, widely scattered. Bathford was the largest village, but Dreng’s Ferry was the administrative center, and the dean of the minster traditionally presided over the court.

Court was held every four weeks. It took place out of doors, regardless of the weather, but today happened to be bright, though cold. The big wooden chair was positioned outside the west end of the church, and a small table was set beside it. Father Deorwin, the oldest priest, brought from underneath the altar the pyx. Made by Cuthbert, this was a round, silver container with a hinged lid, its sides engraved with images of the Crucifixion. It held a consecrated wafer from the Mass, and it would be used today for administering oaths.

Men and women from all five villages came, including children and slaves, some on horseback but most on foot. Everyone showed up if they possibly could, because the court made decisions that affected their everyday lives. Even Mother Agatha was there, though not any of the other nuns. Women were not allowed to testify, at least in theory, but strong characters such as Edgar’s Ma often spoke their minds.

Edgar had attended court many times in Combe. On several occasions his father had been obliged to bring suit against people who were slow to pay their bills. His brother Eadbald had gone through a phase of minor delinquency and had twice been charged with fighting in the street. So Edgar was not unfamiliar with the law and legal proceedings.

Today there was more excitement than usual, because an accusation of murder was to be heard.

Edgar’s brothers had tried to talk him out of bringing the charge. They did not want trouble. “Dreng is our father-in-law,” Eadbald had said, watching Edgar trimming a rough-hewn stone into a neat oblong shape, using his new hammer and chisel.

Anger made Edgar’s arm strong as he struck flakes off the stone. “That doesn’t mean he can break the law.”

“No, but it means my brother can’t be his accuser.” Eadbald was the more intelligent of Edgar’s two brothers, capable of a persuasive, rational argument.

Edgar had put down his tools to give Eadbald his full attention. “How can I keep silent?” he had replied. “A murder has been done, here in our village. We can’t pretend it never happened.”

“I don’t see why not,” Eadbald had said. “We’re just getting settled here. People are accepting us. Why do you have to make trouble?”

“Murder is wrong!” Edgar had said. “What other reason should I need?”

Eadbald had made a frustrated noise and walked away.

The other brother, Erman, had accosted Edgar that evening outside the tavern. He had taken a different tack. “Degbert Baldhead presides over the hundred court,” he had said. “He will make sure the court doesn’t convict his brother.”

“He may not be able to do that,” Edgar had replied. “The law is the law.”

“And Degbert is the dean, and our landlord.”

Edgar knew that Erman was right, but it made no difference. “Degbert may do what he wants, and answer for it on the Day of Judgment, but I won’t condone the killing of a child.”

“Aren’t you scared? Degbert is the power here.”

“Yes,” said Edgar. “I’m scared.”

Cuthbert had also tried to dissuade him. Edgar had made his new tools in Cuthbert’s workshop, which was the only forge in Dreng’s Ferry. There was more sharing here than there had been in the town of Combe, Edgar had learned: a small place had limited facilities and everyone needed help sooner or later. As Edgar was shaping his new tools on Cuthbert’s anvil, the clergyman had said: “Degbert is furious with you.”

Edgar guessed that Cuthbert had been told to say this. The man was too timid ever to venture a criticism on his own initiative.

“I can’t help that,” Edgar had said.

“He’s a bad man to have as an enemy.” Genuine fear was audible in Cuthbert’s tone: clearly he was terrified of the dean.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“And he comes from a powerful family. Ealdorman Wilwulf is his cousin.”

Edgar knew all that. Exasperated, he said: “You’re a man of God, Cuthbert. Can you stand silently by when murder is done?”

Cuthbert could, of course; he was weak. But he took offense at Edgar’s question. “I didn’t see any murder,” he had said peevishly, and he had walked away.

As the people were assembling, Father Deorwin spoke to the most important of them, especially the head men of each village. Edgar knew, from having attended previous hundred courts, that Deorwin was asking whether they had issues they needed to bring before the court, and making a mental list to communicate to Degbert.

Finally Degbert emerged from the priests’ house and sat in the chair.

In principle, what happened at a hundred court was that the people of the neighborhood reached a collective decision. In practice, the court was often presided over by a rich nobleman or a senior clergyman who might dominate proceedings. However, some degree of consensus was needed, because it was difficult for one side to compel the other. A nobleman could make life difficult for the peasants in a dozen different ways, but the peasants could simply refuse to obey him. There was no machinery for enforcing court decisions other than general consent. So court often involved a power struggle between two more or less equal forces, as when a sailor found that the wind was blowing his boat one way while the tide took it another.

Degbert announced that the court would first discuss the sharing of the ox team.

There was no rule that said he had the right to set the agenda. In some places the headman of the largest village would take that role. But Degbert had long ago seized the privilege.

The sharing of the ox team was a perennial issue. Dreng’s Ferry had no heavy ploughland, but the other four settlements had clay soil and shared a team of eight oxen, which had to be driven from one place to another during the winter ploughing season. The ideal time was when it got cold enough to stop the weeds growing and wet enough for the ground to have softened after the dryness of summer. But everyone wanted the ox team first, because villages that ploughed later might have to contend with drenched and slimy soil.

On this occasion the headman of Bathford, a wise old graybeard called Nothelm, had worked out a reasonable compromise, and Degbert, who had no interest in ploughing, made no objection.

Next Degbert invited Offa, the reeve of Mudeford, to speak. He had been ordered by Ealdorman Wilwulf to search—again—for the hideout of Ironface, who had had the temerity to rob Wilwulf’s bride-to-be. Offa was a big man of about thirty with a twisted nose, probably from some battle. He said: “I searched the south bank between here and Mudeford, and questioned everyone I met, even Saemar the smelly shepherd.” There was a chuckle from the crowd: everyone knew Sam. “We think Ironface must live on the south bank, because he always robs there, but I searched the north bank anyway. Same as always, there’s no trace of him.”

No one was surprised. Ironface had been evading justice for years.

At last it was time to hear Edgar. First Degbert called on him to swear an oath. Edgar put his hand on the silver pyx and said: “By Almighty God I say that Dreng the ferryman murdered an unnamed boy born to Blod the slave by throwing the newborn baby into the river twelve days ago. I saw this with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears. Amen.”

There was a murmur of revulsion from the crowd. They had known in advance what the charge was, but perhaps they had been unaware of the details; or maybe they knew but were horrified to hear them spoken out loud in Edgar’s clear voice. Whatever the reason, Edgar was glad they were shocked. They should be. And perhaps their indignation would shame Degbert into agreeing to some kind of justice.

Now, before the case went further, Edgar said: “Dean Degbert, you cannot preside over this trial. The accused man is your brother.”

Degbert pretended to be affronted. “Are you suggesting that I might judge corruptly? You may be punished for that.”

Edgar had anticipated this reaction, and he had his answer ready. “No, dean, but a man should not be asked to condemn his own brother.” He saw some among the crowed nod approvingly. Villagers were jealous of their rights and resentful of the tendency of nobleman to domineer over local courts.

Degbert said: “I am a priest, the dean of the minster, and the lord of the village. I shall continue to preside over this hundred court.”

Edgar persisted, not because he thought he could win the argument, but to emphasize Degbert’s bias more strongly to the villagers. “The headman of Bathford, Nothelm, could perfectly well preside.”

“Quite unnecessary.”

Edgar conceded defeat with a nod. He had made his point.

Degbert said: “Do you wish to call any oath helpers?”

An oath helper was someone who would swear that someone else was telling the truth, or simply that he was an honest man. The weight of the oath was greater if the swearer was someone of high status.

Edgar said: “I call Blod.”

“A slave can’t testify,” said Degbert.

Edgar had seen slaves testify in Combe, though not often, and he said: “That’s not the law.”

“I’ll tell you what the law is and is not,” said Degbert. “You can’t even read.”

He was right, and Edgar had to give in. He said: “In that case I call Mildred, my mother.”

Mildred put her hand on the pyx and said: “By the Lord, the oath is pure and not false that Edgar swore.”

Degbert said: “Any more?”

Edgar shook his head. He had asked Erman and Eadbald, but they had refused to swear against their father-in-law. He had not even bothered to ask Leaf or Ethel, who could not testify against their husband.

Degbert said: “What does Dreng say to the accusation?”

Dreng stepped forward and put his hand on the pyx.

Now, Edgar thought, will he risk his immortal soul?

Dreng said: “By the Lord, I am guiltless both of deed and instigation of the crime with which Edgar charges me.”

Edgar gasped. It was perjury, and his hand was on the holy object. But Dreng seemed oblivious to the damnation he was risking.

“Any oath helpers?”

Dreng called Leaf, Ethel, Cwenburg, Edith, and all the clergy of the minster. They formed an impressively high-status group, but they were all dependent in some way on either Dreng or Degbert. How would the villagers of the hundred weigh their oaths? Edgar could not guess.

Degbert asked him: “Anything else to say?”

Edgar realized that he did. “Three months ago the Vikings killed my father and the girl I loved,” he said. The crowd had not been expecting this, and they went quiet, wondering what was coming. “There was no justice, because the Vikings are savages. They worship false gods, and their gods laugh to see them murder men and rape women and steal from honest families.”

There was a hum of agreement. Some of the crowd had direct experience of the Vikings, and most of the others probably knew people who had suffered. They all hated the Vikings.

Edgar went on: “But we’re not like that, are we? We know the true God and we obey his laws. And he tells us: Thou shalt not kill. I ask the court to punish this murderer, in accordance with God’s will, and prove that we are not savages.”

Degbert said quickly: “That’s the first time I’ve been lectured on God’s will by an eighteen-year-old boatbuilder.”

It was a clever put-down, but the onlookers had been rendered solemn by the horror of the case, and they were in no mood to laugh at witticisms. Edgar felt he had won their support. People were looking at him with approval in their eyes.

But would they defy Degbert?

Degbert invited Dreng to speak. “I’m not guilty,” Dreng said. “The baby was stillborn. It was dead when I picked it up. That’s why I threw it in the river.”

Edgar was outraged by this blatant lie. “He wasn’t dead!”

“Yes, it was. I tried to say that at the time, but no one was listening: Leaf was screaming her head off and you jumped straight into the river.”

Dreng’s confident tone made Edgar even angrier. “He cried when you threw him—I heard it! And then the crying stopped when he fell naked into the cold water.”

A woman in the crowd murmured: “Oh, the poor mite!” It was Ebba, who did laundry for the minster, Edgar saw. Even those who depended on Degbert for their living were shocked. But would that be enough?

Dreng continued in the same sneering tone: “How could you hear him cry, with Leaf screaming?”

For a moment Edgar was floored by the question. How could he have heard? Then the answer came to him. “The same way you can hear two people talking. Their voices are different.”

“No, lad.” Dreng shook his head. “You made a mistake. You thought you saw a murder when you didn’t. Now you’re too proud to admit that you were wrong.”

Dreng’s voice was unattractive and his attitude arrogant, but his story was infuriatingly plausible, and Edgar feared that the people might believe him.

Degbert said: “Sister Agatha, when you found the baby on the beach, was it alive or dead?”

“He was near death, but still alive,” said the nun.

A voice in the crowd spoke up, and Edgar recognized Theodberht Clubfoot, a sheep farmer with pastures a couple of miles downriver. He said: “Did Dreng touch the body? Afterward, I mean?”

Edgar knew why he was asking the question. People believed that if the murderer touched the corpse it would bleed afresh. Edgar had no idea whether that was true.

Blod shouted out: “No, he did not! I kept my baby’s body away from that monster.”

Degbert said: “What do you say, Dreng?”

“I’m not sure whether I did or not,” Dreng said. “I would have, if necessary, but I don’t believe I had any reason to.”

It was inconclusive.

Degbert turned to Leaf. “You were the only one there, other than Dreng and his accuser, when Dreng threw the baby.” That was true: Ethel had passed out in the alehouse. “You screamed, but are you now sure it was alive? Could you have made a mistake?”

All Edgar wanted was for Leaf to tell the truth. But would she have the courage?

She said defiantly: “The baby was born alive.”

“But it died before Dreng threw the body into the river,” Degbert persisted. “However, at the time you imagined it was still alive. That was your mistake, wasn’t it?”

Degbert was bullying Leaf outrageously, but no one could stop him.

Leaf looked from Degbert to Edgar to Dreng, with panic in her eyes. Then she looked at the floor. She was silent for a long moment, and then when she spoke it was almost a whisper. “I think”—the crowd went quiet as everyone strained to hear her words—“I might have made a mistake,” she said.

Edgar despaired. She was obviously a terrified woman giving false evidence under pressure. But she had said what Dreng needed her to say.

Degbert looked at the crowd. “The evidence is clear,” he announced. “The baby was dead. Edgar’s accusation is not proved.”

Edgar stared at the villagers. They looked unhappy, but he saw at once that they were not angry enough to go against the two most powerful men in the neighborhood. He felt sick. Dreng was going to get away with it. Justice had been refused.

Degbert went on: “Dreng is guilty of the crime of improper burial.”

That was clever, Edgar saw bitterly. The baby had now been buried in the churchyard, but at the time Dreng had, by his own account, disposed of a body illicitly. More importantly, he would now be punished for a minor offense, and that would make it a bit easier for the villagers to accept that he had got away with the greater crime.

Degbert said: “He is fined six pence.”

It was too little, and the villagers muttered, but they were discontented rather than rebellious.

Then Blod cried out: “Six pence?”

The crowd went silent. Everyone looked at Blod.

Tears were streaming down her face. “Six pence, for my baby?” she said.

She turned her back on Degbert eloquently. She strode away, but after half a dozen paces she stopped, turned, and spoke again. “You English,” she said, her voice choked with grief and rage.

She spat on the ground.

Then she walked away.

Dreng had won, but something shifted in the hamlet. Attitudes to Dreng had changed, Edgar mused as he ate his midday meal in the alehouse. People such as Edith, the wife of Degbert, and Bebbe, who supplied the minster with food, would in the past have stopped to talk to Dreng when their paths crossed, but now they just spoke a brief word and hurried on. Most evenings the alehouse was empty, or nearly so: Degbert sometimes came to drink Leaf’s strong ale, but others stayed away. People were polite to Degbert and Dreng, to the point of deference, but there was no warmth. It was as if the inhabitants were trying to make amends for their failure to insist on justice. Edgar did not think God would consider that sufficient.

When those who had testified for Dreng walked past Edgar, as he worked on building the new brewhouse, they looked shamefaced and avoided his eye. One day on Leper Island, as he was delivering a barrel of ale to the nuns, Mother Agatha went out of her way to speak to him and tell him he had done the right thing. “Justice will be done in the next life,” she had said. Edgar had felt grateful for her support, but he wanted justice in this life, too.

In the alehouse Dreng was more bad-tempered than ever. He slapped Leaf for giving him a cup of ale with dregs in it, punched Ethel in the stomach when his porridge was cold, and knocked Blod to the ground with a blow to the head for no reason at all. Each time he acted quickly, giving Edgar no chance to intervene; and then, after the blow was struck, he directed a challenging look at Edgar, defying him to do something about it. Unable to prevent what had already been done, Edgar would just look away.

Dreng never hit Edgar. Edgar was glad. He had within him such a buildup of rage that if a fight started it might not stop until Dreng was dead. And Dreng seemed to sense that and hold back.

Blod was oddly calm. She did her work and obeyed orders without protest. Dreng continued to treat her with contempt. However, when she looked at him her eyes blazed with hatred, and as the days went by Edgar could see that Dreng was scared of her. Perhaps he feared she would kill him. Perhaps she would.

While Edgar was eating, Brindle barked a warning. A stranger was approaching. As it was probably a ferry passenger, Edgar got up from the table and went outside. Two poorly dressed men with a packhorse were approaching from the north. Tanned hides were piled high on the back of the horse.

Edgar greeted them and said: “Do you want to cross the river?”

“Yes,” said the older of the two. “We’re going to Combe to sell our leather to an exporter.”

Edgar nodded. The English killed many cows, and their hides were often sold to France. But something about the men made Edgar wonder whether they had acquired the leather honestly. “The fare is a farthing per person or animal,” he said, not sure they could afford it.

“All right, but we’ll take a bite to eat and a pot of ale first, if this is an alehouse.”

“It is.”

They unloaded the beast, to give it a rest, and put it to graze while they went inside. Edgar returned to his dinner, and Leaf gave the travelers ale while Ethel served them from the stew pot. Dreng asked them what was the news.

“The ealdorman’s bride has arrived from Normandy,” said the older visitor.

“We knew that—the lady Ragna spent a night here on the way,” Dreng said proudly.

Edgar said: “When’s the wedding?”

“All Saints’ Day.”

“So soon!”

“Wilwulf is impatient.”

Dreng sniggered. “I’m not surprised. She’s a beauty.”

“That, too, but he needs to ride against the Welsh raiders, and he won’t go until he’s married.”

“I don’t blame him,” Dreng said. “It would be a shame to die and leave her a virgin.”

“The Welsh have taken advantage of his delay.”

“I’m sure they have, the barbarians.”

Edgar almost laughed. He wanted to ask whether the Welsh were so barbaric as to murder newborn babies, but he held his tongue. He shot a look at Blod, but she seemed oblivious to the slur on her people.

The older traveler continued: “They’ve already penetrated farther than anyone can remember. There’s a lot of discontent about it. Some say it’s the ealdorman’s duty to protect people first and get married after.”

“None of their damn business,” Dreng said. He did not like to hear people criticize the nobility. “I don’t know who these people think they are.”

“We hear the Welsh have reached Trench.”

Edgar was startled, as was Dreng. “That’s only a couple of days from here!” said Dreng.

“I know. I’m glad we’re headed in the opposite direction, with our valuable load.”

Edgar finished his food and went back to work. The brewhouse was rising quickly, one course of stones on top of another. Soon he would have to shape timbers for the roof.

Dreng’s Ferry had no defenses of any kind against a Welsh incursion, he reflected; nor, for that matter, against a Viking raid should the Vikings ever get this far upriver. On the other hand, raiders might think there was not much for them in a little place such as this—unless they knew about Cuthbert and his jewelry workshop. England was a dangerous place, Edgar thought, with the Vikings in the east and the Welsh in the west, and men such as Dreng in the middle.

After an hour the travelers reloaded their horse and Edgar poled them across the river.

When he got back he found Blod hiding inside the half-built brewhouse. She was crying, and there was blood on her dress. “What happened?” he said.

“Those two men paid to fuck me,” she said.

Edgar was shocked. “But it’s not two weeks since you had the baby!” He was not sure how long women were supposed to abstain, but surely it would take a month or two to recover from what he had seen Blod go through.

“That’s why it hurt so much,” she said. “Then the second one wouldn’t pay the full amount because he said I spoiled it by crying. So now Dreng is going to beat me.”

“Oh, merciful Jesus,” Edgar said. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to kill him before he kills me.”

Edgar did not think she should do that, but he asked a practical question. “How?” Blod had a knife, as did everyone over the age of about five, but hers was small, like a child’s, and she was not allowed to keep it too sharp. She could not kill anyone with that.

She said: “I’m going to get up in the night, take your ax off its hook, and sink the blade into Dreng’s heart.”

“They’ll execute you.”

“But I’ll die satisfied.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” said Edgar. “Why don’t you run away? You could sneak out when they go to sleep—they’re usually drunk by nightfall, they won’t wake. This is a good time: the Welsh raiders are only two days away. Travel by night and hide by day. You could join up with your own people.”

“What about the hue and cry?”

Edgar nodded. The hue and cry was the means by which offenders were arrested. All men were obliged, by law, to chase after anyone who committed a crime within the hundred. If they refused, they were liable for the cost of the damage caused by the crime, usually the value of the goods stolen. Men rarely refused: it was in their interest to capture criminals, and anyway the chase was exciting. If Blod ran away, Dreng would start a hue and cry, and in all probability Blod would be recaptured.

But Edgar had thought of that. “After you’ve gone, I’ll take the ferryboat downstream and beach it somewhere, then walk back. When they see that it’s gone they’ll think you must have used it to escape, and they’ll assume you will have gone downstream, to travel faster and put the maximum distance between yourself and them. So they’ll search for you along the river to the east. Meanwhile, you’ll be headed the opposite way.”

Blod’s pinched face lit up with hope. “Do you really believe I could escape?”

“I don’t know,” said Edgar.

It was not until later that Edgar realized what he had done.

If he helped Blod escape he would be committing a crime. Just days ago he had stood up in the hundred court and insisted that the law must be obeyed. Now he was about to break it. If he was found out, his neighbors would have little mercy on him; they would call him a hypocrite. He would be sentenced to pay Dreng the price of a new slave. He would be in debt for years. He might even have to become a slave himself.

But he could not go back on his word. He did not even want to. He was sickened by Dreng’s treatment of Blod and he felt he could not let it continue. Perhaps there were principles more important than the rule of law.

He would just have to make sure he did not get caught.

Dreng had been drinking more than usual since the hundred court, and that evening was no exception. By dusk he was slurring his speech. His wives encouraged him, for when he was drunk his punches often missed their target. At nightfall he just about managed to undo his belt and wrap himself in his cloak before passing out in the rushes on the floor.

Leaf always drank a lot. Edgar suspected she did it to make herself unattractive to Dreng. Edgar had never seen the two of them embrace. Ethel was Dreng’s choice for sex when he was sober enough, but that was not often.

Ethel was not as quick as the others to fall asleep, and Edgar listened to her breathing, waiting for it to fall into the steady rhythm of slumber. He was reminded of the night four months ago when he had lain awake in his family’s house at Combe. He felt the pain of grief as he remembered how exciting the future had seemed with Sunni, and how bleak it turned out to be without her.

Both Leaf and Dreng were snoring, Leaf in a steady drone, Dreng in great snorts followed by gasps. At last Ethel’s breathing became regular. Edgar looked across the room at Blod. He could see her face in the firelight. Her eyes were open, and she was waiting for a signal from him.

This was the moment of final decision.

Edgar sat upright, and Dreng moved.

Edgar lay back down.

Dreng stopped snoring, turned over, breathed normally for a minute, then scrambled to his feet. He picked up a cup, filled it from the water bucket, drank, and went back to his place on the floor.

After a while he resumed snoring.

There will never be a better time, Edgar thought. He sat up. Blod did the same.

They both stood up. Edgar’s hearing was alert for any change in the sound made by the sleepers. He lifted his ax off its hook, stepped softly to the door, and glanced back.

Blod had not followed him. She was bending over Dreng. Edgar felt a flash of panic: was she going to kill her tormentor? Did she think she could silently slit his throat and walk away? That would make Edgar a murderer’s accomplice.

In the rushes beside Dreng lay his belt with its attached sheath containing his dagger. It was what he used for general purposes, including to cut up his meat, but it was longer and sharper than Blod’s. Edgar stopped breathing. Blod quietly slid the blade out of the sheath, and Edgar felt sure she was about to stab the killer of her child. She straightened up with the knife in her hand. Then she twisted the hilt of the dagger into the cord she used as a belt and turned toward the door.

Edgar suppressed a grunt of relief.

He guessed that Blod had stolen Dreng’s dagger as a precaution in case she should meet dangerous men during her nighttime travels—a situation in which her own little knife would be of little use.

He opened the door slowly. It creaked, but not loudly.

He held it for Blod and she passed through, followed by Brindle. Fortunately the dog was intelligent enough to know when to be quiet.

Edgar glanced at the sleepers one last time. To his horror, he saw that Ethel’s eyes were wide open and she was watching him. His heart seemed to stop.

He stared at her. What would she do? For a long moment both were frozen. Perhaps she was working up the courage to yell a warning and wake Dreng.

But she did nothing.

Edgar stepped out and closed the door softly behind him.

He stood still and quiet outside, waiting for the shout of alarm, but all he heard was the quiet flow of the river. Ethel had decided to let them go. Once again Edgar slumped with relief.

He slung his ax from his belt.

The sky was partly overcast, and the moon peeped from behind a cloud. The river gleamed, but the hamlet was sunk in gloom. Edgar and Blod walked up the hill between the houses. Edgar feared that a dog would hear them and bark, but nothing happened: the village hounds probably recognized their steps, or smelled Brindle, or both. For whatever reason, they decided that no alarm was necessary.

As Edgar and Blod passed the church, Blod turned into the churchyard. Edgar was alarmed. What was she up to?

The grass had not yet grown over the grave of her child. On the turned earth, a pattern of smooth stones formed a cross, something Blod must have done herself. She knelt at the foot of the cross with her hands folded in prayer, and Edgar did the same.

Out of the corner of his eye, Edgar saw someone step out of the priest’s house.

He touched Blod’s arm to warn her. It was Father Deorwin, he saw. The old man stumbled a few yards then lifted the skirt of his robe. He and Blod froze in position. They were not invisible by any means, but he had to hope that they faded sufficiently into the darkness to elude an old man’s eyesight.

Like all children, Edgar had been taught that it was bad manners to stare at someone relieving himself, but now he watched Deorwin warily, praying that the old man would not raise his gaze. However, Deorwin was intent on what he was doing, and had no interest in looking around the hamlet as it slept in darkness. Finally he dropped his robe and slowly turned. For a moment his face was toward Edgar and Blod, and Edgar tensed, waiting for a reaction; but Deorwin seemed not to see them, and went back inside.

They went on, grateful for an old man’s poor eyesight.

They continued to the top of the rise. On the ridge the road forked. Blod was heading northwest, toward Trench.

Blod said: “Good-bye, Edgar.” She looked sad. She should have been happy: she was running away to freedom.

“Good luck,” said Edgar.

“I will never see you again.”

I hope not, Edgar thought; if we meet again it will mean you have been caught. He said: “Give my regards to Brioc and Eleri.”

“You remembered my parents’ names!”

He shrugged. “I liked the sound of them.”

“They’re going to hear all about you.” She kissed his cheek. “You’ve been a friend to me,” she said. “The only one.”

All he had done was treat her like a human being. “It wasn’t much.”

“It was everything.” She put her arms around him, laid her head on his shoulder, and hugged him hard. She rarely showed emotion, and the passion in her hug surprised him.

She released him and, without speaking again, she walked away along the road. She did not look back.

He watched her until she was out of sight.

He returned down the hill, still treading softly. It seemed no one else was awake. That was good: if he were seen now he could offer no possible excuse. A slave had escaped, and Edgar was up and walking around in the middle of the night: his complicity was undeniable. The consequences of that hardly bore thinking about.

He was tempted to reenter the alehouse and lie down in cozy safety, but he had promised to lay a false trail for Blod.

He went to the riverbank and untied the ferry. Brindle jumped in. Edgar boarded and quietly picked up the pole.

It needed only one thrust to push the ferry out into the current. The flow of water took the vessel around the north side of Leper Island. Edgar deployed the pole to keep away from the banks on both sides.

He floated past the farm. Erman and Eadbald had ploughed the field, and the moon shone on damp furrows. No light showed from the house, not even firelight, for there was no window.

The current was fastest a little to the right of midstream. Brindle stood at attention in the bow, sniffing the air, ears cocked for any sound. They passed through thick woodland interspersed with villages and single-family settlements. An owl hooted, and Brindle growled.

After an hour Edgar began to study the left bank, looking for a suitable place to leave the ferry. He needed a location where the boat might have got tangled in riverside vegetation so badly that a small, thin girl could not extricate it. He had to fake evidence that would tell a plain, clear story. If there was the least flaw then suspicion would immediately fall on him. There must be no room for doubt.

The place he chose was a small patch of shingle overhung by drooping trees and bushes. He poled to the bank and jumped. With an effort he hauled the heavy boat partly out of the water and pushed it into the vegetation.

He stepped back to study the picture he had created. It looked exactly as if an inexperienced person had lost control and allowed the boat to become entangled and beach itself.

His work was done. Now he had to walk back.

First he needed to cross the river. He took off his tunic and shoes and made a bundle of them. He stepped into the river, holding his clothes above his head with one hand to keep them dry, and swam across. On the other side he dressed quickly, shivering, while Brindle energetically shook herself dry.

Side by side, Edgar and his dog started to walk home.

The forest was not empty of people. However, even Ironface should be asleep now. If anyone was awake and moving nearby, Brindle would give warning. All the same, Edgar drew his ax from his belt, to be ready for anything.

Would his ruse work? Would Dreng and the other residents of the hamlet make the false deduction Edgar was trying to lead them to? Suddenly he could not judge how plausible the whole deception was. Doubts tortured him: he could hardly bear the thought of Blod being recaptured, after all she had been through.

He passed Theodberht Clubfoot’s sheepfold, and Theodberht’s dog barked. He suffered a moment of anxiety: if Theodberht saw him, the deception would lose all credibility. He hurried on, and the dog quieted. No one came out of the house.

Walking along the bank, occasionally having to fight through vegetation, he found that progress was slower than when on the ferry, and it took him almost two hours to get back. The moon set as he was passing the farm, and the stars were obscured by cloud, so he did the last stretch in thick darkness.

He made his way to the alehouse by memory and feel. Now came the final moment of danger. He paused outside the door, listening. The only sounds from inside were snores. He lifted the latch gently and pulled the door open. The snoring continued undisturbed. He stepped inside. In the firelight he could see three sleeping forms: Dreng, Leaf, and Ethel.

He hung his ax on its hook and lowered himself carefully into the straw. Brindle stretched out beside the fire.

Edgar took off his shoes and belt, closed his eyes, and lay down. After so much tension he thought he would lie awake a long time, but he fell asleep in seconds.

He woke up when someone shook his shoulder. He opened his eyes to daylight. It was Ethel rousing him. A quick look around showed him that Dreng and Leaf were still asleep.

With a jerk of her head Ethel beckoned him, then stepped outside. He followed.

He shut the door behind him and spoke in a low voice. “Thank you for not giving us away.” It was too late for her to do so, because she would have to reveal that she had seen them go and had done nothing. Now she, too, was complicit.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“Blod’s gone.”

“I thought you had run away together!”

“Together? Why would I run away?”

“Aren’t you in love with Blod?”

“Certainly not.”

“Oh.” Ethel looked thoughtful, readjusting assumptions. “Then why did you go out with her in the middle of the night?”

“Just to see her on her way.” Edgar did not like lying but, he was beginning to realize, one deception led to another.

Ethel noticed something. “The boat has gone.”

“I’ll tell you the whole story another time,” Edgar said. “Meanwhile, we have to act normally. We say we don’t know where Blod is, we don’t understand her disappearance, but we’re not worried, she’s sure to turn up.”

“All right.”

“For a start, I’ll get you some wood for the fire.”

Ethel went inside. When Edgar reentered with the wood, Dreng and Leaf were awake. Dreng said: “Where’s my dagger?”

“Where you left it last night,” Leaf said tetchily. She was never cheerful in the morning.

“I left it here, in its sheath, attached to my belt. The belt is in my hand now, and the sheath, but there’s no knife.”

“Well, I haven’t got it.”

Edgar dumped the wood and Ethel started to build up the fire.

Dreng looked around. “Where’s that slave?”

No one answered.

Dreng focused on Edgar. “Why are you fetching wood? That’s her job.”

Edgar said: “I expect she went to the churchyard, to visit the grave of her child. She sometimes does that first thing in the morning, when you’re still dead to the world.”

Dreng said indignantly: “She should be here!”

Edgar picked up the bucket. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the water.”

“Fetching the water is her job, not yours.”

Edgar was about to make another conciliatory remark when he realized it would be suspicious if he seemed too emollient, so he let his real feelings show. “You know something, Dreng? Life makes you so unhappy that I wonder you don’t just jump in the godforsaken river and drown your miserable self.”

That got to Dreng. “You insolent puppy!” he shouted.

Edgar went out.

As soon as he was outside he realized he needed to show surprise at the disappearance of the ferry.

He opened the door again. “Where’s the boat?” he said.

Dreng answered. “Where it usually is, you foolish boy.”

“No, it’s not.”

Dreng came to the door and looked out. “Then where has it gone?”

“That’s what I asked you.”

“Well, you should know.”

“It’s your boat.”

“It’s floated off. You didn’t tie it up properly.”

“I tied it up tight. I always do.”

“I suppose the fairies must have untied it,” Dreng sneered. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Them, or Ironface.”

“Why would Ironface want a boat?”

“Why would the fairies?”

A suspicion began to dawn on Dreng. “Where’s that slave?”

“You already said that.”

Dreng was malign, but he was not stupid. “The boat has gone, my dagger has gone, and the slave has gone,” he said.

“What are you saying, Dreng?”

“The slave has escaped on the ferry, you fool. It’s obvious.”

For once Edgar did not mind Dreng’s abuse. He was glad that Dreng had immediately jumped to the conclusion Edgar had planned. He said: “I’ll go and look in the churchyard.”

“Call at every house—it won’t take you long. Tell everyone we have to start the hue and cry unless she’s found in the next few minutes.”

Edgar went through the motions. He walked to the graveyard, looked into the church, then entered the priests’ house. The mothers were feeding the children. He told the men there was probably going to be a hue and cry—unless Blod suddenly turned up. The younger clergy began to lace up their shoes and put on their cloaks. Edgar looked hard at Deorwin, but the old man ignored him, and appeared unaware of anything untoward in the night.

Edgar went to the home of Fat Bebbe, just so that he could say he had looked for Blod there. Bebbe was asleep, and he did not wake her. Women were not obliged to join the hue and cry, and anyway she would be too slow.

The other residents were small families of servants who worked for the minster, doing cooking, cleaning, laundry, and other household chores. He roused Cerdic, who supplied them with firewood from the forest, and Hadwine, called Had, who changed the rushes on their floor.

When he got back to the alehouse the group was already gathering. Degbert and Dreng were on horseback. All the dogs in the hamlet were there, too: they could sniff out a fugitive in hiding. Degbert pointed out that it would be useful to give them some old clothing of Blod’s to sniff, so that they would know what smell they were searching for; but Dreng said Blod was wearing all the clothes she had.

Dreng said: “Edgar, fetch a length of cord from the chest in the house, in case we need to tie the slave up.”

Edgar did as he was told.

When he came out of the alehouse, Dreng raised his voice to address them all. “She stole the ferry, and it’s a heavy vessel for a girl to pole upstream, so it’s certain she went downstream.”

Edgar was glad to see that Dreng was set on following the false trail. However, Degbert was not so credulous. “Might she have untied the boat and let it drift away to set us on the wrong track while she went in a different direction?”

Dreng said: “She’s not that clever.”

There was another flaw in Degbert’s scenario, but Edgar did not dare to point it out, for he was fearful of seeming suspiciously keen on the downstream search. However, Cuthbert said it for him. “The boat wouldn’t go far on its own. The current would have taken it to the beach opposite Leper Island.”

Others nodded: that was where most debris fetched up.

Cerdic said: “There is another boat—the one belonging to the nuns. We could borrow that.”

Cuthbert said: “Mother Agatha wouldn’t lend it willingly. She’s angry with us over the death of the baby. She probably thinks Blod should be let go.”

Cerdic shrugged. “We could just take it.”

Edgar pointed out: “It’s a tiny vessel, with room for only two people. It wouldn’t be much help.”

Dreng said decisively: “I don’t want trouble with Agatha, I’ve got enough to worry about. Let’s move. The slave is getting farther away every minute.”

In fact, Edgar thought, she was probably now hiding somewhere in the forest to the northwest, between here and Trench. She would be in the middle of a dense thicket, out of sight, trying to catch some sleep on the cold ground. Most forest creatures were timid, and would stay away from her. Even an aggressive boar or wolf would not attack a human unprovoked, unless the person was evidently wounded or otherwise incapable of defense. The main danger was outlaws such as Ironface, and Edgar had to hope that no one of that type would spot her.

The men of Dreng’s Ferry set out, heading downstream on the right bank of the river, and Edgar began to feel that his scheme was working. They stopped at the farmhouse, and Erman and Eadbald joined the group. At the last minute Cwenburg decided to come, too. She was almost four months pregnant, but it hardly showed, and she was strong.

The horses turned out to be a hindrance. They were fine where the bank was grassy, but often there was dense forest, and they had to be led through closely entangled shrubs and saplings. Zeal and excitement diminished among men and dogs as the going became more strenuous.

Degbert said: “Are we sure she came this way? Her homeland lies in the opposite direction.”

This made Edgar anxious.

Fortunately Dreng disagreed with his brother. “She’s headed for Combe,” he said. “She thinks she won’t draw attention there. A big town always has strangers. It’s not like a village, where every traveler has to explain himself.”

“I don’t know,” said Degbert.

Nobody knew, fortunately, Edgar thought, so they had to go with their best guess, and this was it.

Soon they came to Theodberht Clubfoot’s place. A slave was minding the sheep with the help of a dog. The dog barked, and Edgar recognized its voice as the one he had heard in the middle of the night. It was a good thing dogs could not talk.

Theodberht came limping out of the house, followed by his wife. He said: “What’s the hue and cry for?”

“My slave escaped last night,” Dreng said.

“I know her,” said Theodberht. “I’ve noticed her in the alehouse. A girl about fourteen.” He seemed about to say more, then glanced at his wife and changed his mind. Edgar guessed he had done more than just notice Blod.

“You haven’t seen her in the last twelve hours?” Dreng asked.

“No, but someone passed here in the night. The dog barked.”

“That will have been her,” Dreng said decisively.

The others agreed enthusiastically, and spirits were lifted. Edgar was pleased. Theodberht’s dog had done him an unexpected favor.

Dreng said: “When your dog barked, was it early in the night, or approaching dawn?”

“No idea.”

Theodberht’s wife said: “It was about the middle of the night. I woke, too.”

Theodberht said: “She could be a long way from here by now.”

“Never mind,” said Dreng. “We’ll catch the little bitch.”

“I’d join you,” said Theodberht, “but I’d only slow you down.”

Dreng grunted, and the group moved on.

Soon afterward, they came to a place Edgar had not seen in the dark. A few yards inland from the river was a fenced corral with three ponies. By the gate of the corral was the biggest mastiff Edgar had ever seen, lying under a crude shelter. He was tied up by a rope just long enough to permit him to attack anyone trying to get at the horses. Alongside the corral was a house in poor condition.

“The horse catchers,” Degbert said. “Ulf and Wyn.” There were wild ponies in the forest, shy and nimble, difficult to spot, hard to catch, and highly resistant to being tamed. It was a specialized way of life and the people who followed it were rough-and-ready types, violent to the animals and unsociable with humans.

Two people came out of the house: a small, wiry man and his somewhat larger wife, both wearing dirty clothes and stout leather boots. Ulf said: “What do you want?”

Dreng said: “Have you seen my slave? A Welsh girl about fourteen.”

“No.”

“Did anyone pass here in the night? Did your dog bark?”

“He’s not meant to bark. He’s meant to bite.”

“Would you give us a cup of ale? We’ll pay for it.”

“Haven’t got no ale.”

Edgar hid a smile. Dreng had met someone even more disagreeable than himself.

Dreng said: “You ought to join the hue and cry, and help us find her.”

“Not me.”

“It’s the law.”

“I don’t live in your hundred.”

In all probability, Edgar guessed, no one knew which hundred Ulf and Wyn lived in. That would exempt them from rents and tithes. Given how little wealth they appeared to have, it would not be worth anyone’s while to try to pin them down.

Dreng said to Wyn: “Where’s your brother? I thought he lived here with you.”

“Begstan died,” she said.

“Where’s his body, then? You didn’t bury him at the minster.”

“We took him to Combe.”

“Liar.”

“It’s the truth.”

Edgar guessed that they had buried Begstan in the woods to save the price of a priest. But it hardly mattered, and Dreng said impatiently: “Let’s move on.”

The group soon drew near the place where Edgar had beached the ferry. Edgar saw it before anyone else, but he decided he could not be the one who spotted it first: that might arouse suspicion. He waited for someone else to notice it. They were focused on the way ahead, through the forest, and he began to think no one would see it.

At last his brother Erman said: “Look—isn’t that Edgar’s boat, on the other side of the river?”

Dreng said sourly: “It’s not his boat, it’s mine.”

“But what’s it doing there?”

Degbert said: “It looks as if she sailed this far, then for some reason she decided to continue on foot on the far side.” He had abandoned the theory of the alternative route, Edgar noted with satisfaction.

Cuthbert was sweating and panting: he was too fat for this kind of work. He said: “How are we going to get across? The boat is on the other side.”

Dreng said: “Edgar will go and get it. He can swim.”

Edgar did not mind, but he pretended to be reluctant. He took off his shoes and tunic slowly and then, naked, he slipped shivering into the cold water. He swam across, got into the ferry, and poled it back.

He put his clothes back on while the group boarded. He ferried them across then tied up the boat. Degbert said: “She’s on this side of the river, somewhere between here and Combe.”

Combe was two days from Dreng’s Ferry. The hue and cry would not get that far.

At midday they stopped at a village called Longmede, which marked the southeast boundary of the hundred. No one there had seen a runaway slave, as Edgar already knew. They bought ale and bread from the villagers and sat down to rest.

When they had eaten, Degbert said: “There’s been no trace of her since Theodberht’s sheepfold.”

Cuthbert said: “I’m afraid we’ve lost the scent.”

He just wanted to give up and go home, Edgar guessed.

Dreng protested: “She’s a valuable slave! I can’t afford another. I’m not a rich man.”

“It’s long past noon,” Degbert said. “If we want to be home by dark we have to turn back now.”

Cuthbert said: “We can go back to the ferry and return in that.”

Dreng said: “Edgar can pole us.”

“No,” said Edgar. “We’ll be going against the current.” He could do it if he had to, but he saw no reason to. “It will take two men poling at the same time, and they’ll tire after an hour. We’ll have to take turns.”

Dreng said: “I can’t do it, I’ve got a bad back.”

Degbert said decisively: “We’ve got enough young men to manage it easily.” He glanced up at the sun. “But we’d better get started.” He got to his feet.

The group began its return journey.

Blod had escaped, Edgar thought jubilantly. His ruse had worked. The hue and cry had wasted its energy in a futile journey. She was halfway to Trench by now.

He looked down as he walked, hiding the smile of triumph that kept rising to his lips.