The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 20 July 998

ilf was away three months longer than anyone expected, which was one third of the time Ragna had been married to him. There had been one message, six weeks ago, simply saying that he was penetrating deeper into Wales than he had originally planned, and that he was in good health.

Ragna missed him. She had grown to like having a man to talk to and discuss problems with and lie down beside at night. The shock of Inge had cast a shadow over that pleasure, but all the same she longed to have Wilf back.

Ragna saw Inge around the compound almost every day. Ragna was the official wife, and she held her head high and avoided speaking to her rival; but all the same she felt the humiliation constantly.

She wondered nervously how Wilf would feel about her when he returned. He would probably have lain with other women during his trip. He had made it brutally clear to her—not before the wedding, but after—that his love for her did not exclude sex with others. Had he met younger, more beautiful girls in Wales? Or would he return hungry for Ragna’s body? Or both?

She got one day’s notice of his return. He sent a messenger ahead on a fast horse to say he would be home tomorrow. Ragna threw the compound into action. The kitchen prepared a feast, slaughtering a young ox, building a fire for spit-roasting, tapping barrels of ale, baking bread. Those not needed in the kitchen were deployed mucking out the stables, putting new rushes and straw on the floors, beating mattresses and airing blankets.

Ragna went into Wilf’s house, where she burned rye to expel insects, took down shutters to let in fresh air, and made the bed inviting with lavender and rose petals. She set out fruit in a basket, a flagon of wine and a small barrel of ale, bread and cheese and smoked fish.

All this activity took her mind off her anxiety.

Next morning she got Cat to heat a cauldron of water and washed herself all over, paying special attention to the hairy parts. Then she rubbed perfumed oil into the skin of her neck, breasts, thighs, and feet. She put on a freshly laundered dress and new silk shoes, and secured her head scarf with a gold-embroidered band.

He arrived at midday. She was forewarned by the sound of cheering from the town as he rode through at the head of the army, and she hurried to take a commanding position in front of the great hall.

He came through the gate at a canter, his red cloak flying, his lieutenants close behind. He saw her immediately and came at her dangerously fast, and she struggled against a reflex to leap out of the way; but she knew she had to show him—and the crowd—that she had complete faith in his horsemanship. In that last moment she saw that his hair and mustache were untrimmed, his normally clean-shaven chin now had a wild beard, and there was a new scar across his forehead. Then he reined in spectacularly late, causing his horse to rear a few inches away from her, while her heart beat like a hammer and she kept the welcoming smile undimmed on her face.

He leaped off his horse and took her in his arms, exactly as she had hoped he would. The people in the compound cheered and laughed: they loved to see his passion for her. She knew that he was showing off to his followers, and she accepted that as part of his role as leader. But there was no doubt about the sincerity of his embrace. He kissed her lasciviously, his tongue in her mouth, and she eagerly responded in the same way.

After a minute he broke the clinch, bent down, and picked her up, with one arm under her shoulders and the other supporting her thighs. She laughed with joy. He carried her past the great hall to his own dwelling, as the crowd roared their approval. She was doubly glad that she had made his home clean and welcoming.

He fumbled for the latch and threw the door open, then he carried her inside. He put her down and slammed the door.

She took off her headdress and let her hair fall freely, then pulled her dress off with one swift move and lay down naked on his bed.

He stared at her body with delight and desire. He looked like a thirsty man about to drink from a mountain stream. He fell on her, still wearing his leather jerkin and cloth leggings.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him and drew him deep inside her.

It was over quickly. He rolled off her and was asleep in seconds.

She lay watching him for a while. She liked the beard, but she knew he would shave it tomorrow, for English noblemen did not wear beards. She touched the new scar on his brow. It started at his right temple, at the hair line, and followed a jagged course to his left eyebrow. She ran her fingertip along it, and he stirred in his sleep. Another half inch . . . Some brave Welshman had done that, she guessed. He had probably died for it.

She poured a cup of wine and ate a morsel of cheese. She was content just to look at him and feel glad that he had come back to her alive. The Welsh were not very formidable fighters, but they were by no means helpless, and she was sure that some wives in the compound were now weeping at the news that their husbands were never coming home.

As soon as he woke up, they made love again. This time it was slower. He took off his clothes. She had time to relish every sensation, to rub her hands over his shoulders and his chest, to thrust her fingers into his hair and bite his lips.

When it was over, he said: “By the gods, I could eat an ox.”

“And I’ve roasted one for your dinner. But let me get you something for now.” She brought him wine and new bread and smoked eel, and he ate with relish.

Then he said: “I met Wynstan on the road.”

“Ah,” she said.

“He told me what happened at Outhenham.”

Ragna tensed. She had been expecting this. Wynstan was never going to take his defeat lying down. He would try to get revenge by causing trouble between her and Wilf. But she had not anticipated that Wynstan would be so quick off the mark. As soon as the messenger had arrived yesterday, Wynstan must have set out to meet Wilf, keen to get his side of the story in first, hoping to put Ragna on the defensive.

But she had her strategy ready. The whole thing had been Wynstan’s fault, not hers, and she was not going to make excuses for herself. She moved immediately to shift the ground of the discussion. “Don’t be angry with Wynstan,” she said. “There should be no rift between brothers.”

Wilf was not expecting that. “But Wynstan is angry with you,” he said.

“Of course. He tried to rob me while you were away, thinking to take advantage of me in your absence. But don’t worry, I prevented him.”

“Is that how it was?” Clearly Wilf had not previously looked at the incident as an attack by a powerful man on an undefended woman.

“He failed, and that made him cross. But I can deal with Wynstan, and I don’t want you to feel concerned about me. Don’t reprove him, please.”

Wilf was still adjusting his picture of the incident. “But Wynstan says you humiliated him in front of others.”

“A thief who is caught red-handed will naturally feel humiliated.”

“I suppose so.”

“His remedy is to stop stealing, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Wilf smiled, and Ragna saw that she had successfully negotiated a difficult conversation. He added: “Wynstan may have met his match at last.”

“Oh, I’m not his rival,” she said, knowing it was the opposite of the truth. But the conversation had gone far enough and ended well, so she changed the subject. “Tell me about your adventures. Did you teach the Welsh a hard lesson?”

“I did, and I brought back a hundred captives to sell as slaves. We’ll make a small fortune.”

“Well done,” said Ragna, but she did not mean it. Slavery was an aspect of English life that she found difficult. It had just about died out in Normandy, but here it was normal. There were a hundred or more slaves in Shiring, and several of them lived and worked in the compound. Many did dirty jobs, removing dunghills and cleaning stables, or heavy laboring such as digging ditches and carrying timber. No doubt the younger ones served in the town’s brothels, although Ragna did not know from personal experience because she had never been inside one of those houses. Slaves were not generally kept in chains. They could run away, and some did, but they were easily identifiable, dressed as they were in rags, without shoes, and speaking in strange accents. Most runaways were caught and brought back, and a reward was paid by the owner.

Wilf said: “You don’t seem as pleased as you might.”

Ragna had no intention of having a discussion with him about slavery now. “I’m thrilled with your triumph,” she said. “And I’m wondering if you’re man enough to fuck me three times in one afternoon.”

“Man enough?” he said in mock indignation. “Get down on your hands and knees, and I’ll show you.”

The captives were put on display next day in the town square, standing in lines on the dusty ground between the cathedral and the abbey, and Ragna went out, accompanied by Cat, to look at them.

They were dirty and exhausted from their journey, and some had minor injuries, presumably having put up a struggle. Ragna imagined that any who had major injuries would have been left behind to die. In the square were men and women, boys and girls, roughly between eleven and thirty years of age. It was summer, and the sun was hot, but they had no shade. They were tied up in different ways: many had their feet hobbled so that they could not run; some were chained to each other; others were bound to their captors, who stood by them, waiting to haggle over a price. The regular soldiers had one or two to sell, but Wigelm and Garulf and the other captains all had several.

Ragna walked along the lines, finding the sight dispiriting. People said that slaves had done something to deserve their fate, and perhaps it was true sometimes, but not always. What crime could adolescent boys and girls have committed to deserve to be turned into prostitutes?

Slaves did whatever they were told, but they generally performed their tasks as badly as they could get away with; and since they had to be fed and housed and given minimal clothing, they were in the end not much cheaper than the lowest-paid laborers. However, the financial aspect did not trouble Ragna as much as the spiritual. Owning a person had to be bad for the soul. Cruelty was normal: there were laws about ill-treatment of slaves, but they were feebly enforced and the punishments were mild. To be able to beat or rape or even murder someone brought out the very worst in human nature.

As she scanned the faces in the square she recognized Garulf’s friend Stigand, with whom she had clashed over the ball game. He made a bow, too exaggerated to be sincere but not rude enough to merit a protest. She ignored him and looked at his three captives.

She was startled to realize that she knew one of them.

The girl was about fifteen. She had the black hair and blue eyes typical of Welsh people: the Bretons on the other side of the Channel were similar. She might have been pretty with the dirt washed off her face. She stared back, and her look of vulnerability imperfectly masked by defiance jogged Ragna’s memory. “You’re the girl from Dreng’s Ferry.”

The captive said nothing.

Ragna remembered her name. “Blod.”

She remained silent, but her expression softened.

Ragna lowered her voice so that Stiggy could not hear. “They said you had escaped. You must have been captured a second time.” That was remarkably bad luck, she thought, and she felt a warm surge of compassion for someone who had suffered that fate twice.

She remembered more. “I heard that Dreng—” She realized what she was about to say and stopped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Blod knew what Ragna had hesitated to say. “Dreng killed my baby.”

“I’m so sorry. Did no one help you?”

“Edgar jumped in the river to rescue the baby, but couldn’t find him in the dark.”

“I know Edgar. He’s a good man.”

“The only decent Englishman I ever met,” said Blod bitterly.

Ragna saw a certain look in her eye. “Did you fall in love with him?”

“He loves someone else.”

“Sungifu.”

Blod gave Ragna an enigmatic look but said nothing.

Ragna said: “The one the Vikings killed.”

“Yes, her.” Blod looked anxiously around the square.

“I suppose you’re worried about who might buy you this time.”

“I’m frightened of Dreng.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s not in town. He would have come to see me. He likes to pretend we’re family.” Across the square, Ragna noticed Bishop Wynstan with his bodyguard, Cnebba. “But there are other cruel men.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I should buy you.”

Blod’s face lit up with hope. “Would you?”

Ragna spoke to Stiggy. “How much are you hoping to get for this slave?”

“One pound. She’s fifteen, that’s young.”

“It’s too much. I’ll give you half, though.”

“No, she’s worth more than that.”

“Split the difference?”

Stiggy frowned. “How much would that be?” He knew the phrase split the difference but he could not do the arithmetic.

“One hundred and eighty pence.”

Suddenly Wynstan was there. “Buying a slave, my lady Ragna?” he said. “I thought you high-minded Normans disapproved.”

“Like a high-minded bishop who disapproves of fornication, I find myself doing it anyway.”

“Always the smart answer.” He had been looking with curiosity at Blod, and now he said: “I know you, don’t I?”

Blod said loudly: “You fucked me, if that’s what you mean.”

Wynstan looked embarrassed, which was unusual. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You did it twice. That was before I was pregnant, so you paid Dreng three pence for each go.”

Wynstan made only a nominal pretence of priestly virtue, but all the same he was discomfited by this noisily public accusation of unchastity. “Rubbish. You’re making it up. You ran away from Dreng, I remember.”

“He murdered by baby boy.”

“Well, who cares? The child of a slave . . .”

“Perhaps he was your son.”

Wynstan went pale. Clearly he had not thought of that. He struggled to recover his dignity. “You should be flogged for running away.”

Ragna interrupted. “I was in the process of bargaining for this slave, my lord bishop, if you will excuse me from further conversation.”

Wynstan smiled maliciously. “You can’t buy her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She can’t be sold.”

Stiggy said: “Yes, she can!”

“No, she can’t. She’s a runaway. She must be returned to her legitimate owner.”

Blod whispered: “No, please.”

“It’s not my decision,” Wynstan said cheerfully. “Even if the slave had not spoken disrespectfully to me, the outcome would be the same.”

Ragna wanted to argue, but she knew Wynstan was right. She had not thought of it, but a runaway still legally belonged to the original owner, even after months of freedom.

Wynstan said to Stiggy: “You must take this girl back to Dreng’s Ferry.”

Blod began to cry.

Stiggy had not understood. “But she’s my captive.”

“Dreng will give you the usual reward for returning a runaway, so you won’t be out of pocket.”

Stiggy still looked puzzled.

Ragna believed in obeying the law. It could be cruel, but it was always better than lawlessness. However, on this occasion she would have defied it if she could. It was a harsh irony that the man now upholding the law was Wynstan.

Ragna said desperately: “I will take charge of the girl, and recompense Dreng.”

“No, no,” said Wynstan. “You can’t do that, not to my cousin. If Dreng wants to sell the slave to you, he may, but she must be returned to him first.”

“I shall take her home, and send a message to Dreng.”

Wynstan said to Cnebba: “Take that captive and lock her in the crypt of the cathedral.” He turned to Stiggy. “She’ll be released to you whenever you’re ready to take her to Dreng’s Ferry.” Finally he looked at Ragna. “If you don’t like it, complain to your husband.”

Cnebba began to untie Blod.

Ragna realized it had been a mistake to come out without Bern. If he had been present to provide a counterweight to Cnebba, she could at least have postponed any final decision on Blod’s fate. But even that was impossible.

Cnebba took Blod firmly by the arm and walked her away.

Wynstan said: “She’s in for a serious flogging, I should think, when Dreng gets his hands on her.” He smiled, bowed, and walked after Cnebba.

Ragna could have screamed with frustration and rage. She bottled up her feelings and, with her head held high, walked away from the square and up the hill to the compound.

July was the hungry month, Edgar reflected as he looked over his brothers’ farm. Most of the winter food was gone, and everyone was waiting for the grain harvest in August and September. At this season the cows were giving milk and the hens were laying, so people who had cows or hens did not starve. Others ate the early fruits and vegetables of the forest, leaves and berries and onions, a thin diet. People with large farms could afford to plant a few beans in spring to harvest in June and July, but not many peasants had land to spare.

Edgar’s brothers were hungry, but not for much longer. For the second year running they had a good crop of hay on the low-lying land near the river. The three weeks before Midsummer had been wet, and the river was high now as a result, but the weather had cleared miraculously, and they had reaped the long blades of grass. Today Edgar had walked fifty yards downriver, to scrub out a cooking pot well away from the place where he drew clean water, and from there he could see several acres of cut grass drying and turning yellow in the strong sunshine. Soon the brothers would sell the hay and have money for food.

In the distance he saw a horse coming down the hill to the hamlet, and he wondered if it might be Aldred on Dismas. Shortly before they parted at Mudeford Crossing, Edgar had asked Aldred what he was going to do about Wynstan’s forgery, and Aldred had said he was still thinking about it. Now Edgar wondered if he had come up with a plan.

But the rider was not Aldred. As the horse came nearer, he saw that there was one person riding and another walking behind. He headed back to the tavern in case he was needed to operate the ferry. Moments later he was able to see that the walker was tied to the saddle. It was a woman, barefoot and ragged. Finally he realized, with a gasp of consternation, that it was Blod.

He had been sure she had escaped. How could she have been recaptured after this length of time? He recalled that Ealdorman Wilwulf had been harrying the Welsh: he must have brought her back among his captives. What tragic misfortune, to get free and then be enslaved a second time!

She raised her face and saw him but did not seem to have the strength to acknowledge him. Her shoulders were slumped and her shoeless feet were bleeding.

The man on the horse was about Edgar’s age but bigger, and he wore a sword. When he saw Edgar he said: “Are you the ferryman?”

Edgar got the impression the man was not very bright. “I work for Dreng the ferryman.”

“I’ve brought his slave back.”

“So I see.”

Dreng came out of the tavern. He recognized the rider. “Hello, Stiggy, what do you want? By the gods, is that little slut Blod?”

Stiggy said: “If I’d known she was yours I would have left her in Wales and captured another girl.”

“She is mine, though.”

“You have to pay me for bringing her back.”

Dreng did not like that idea. “Do I, now?”

“Bishop Wynstan said.”

“Oh. And did he say how much?”

“Half what she’s worth.”

“She’s not worth much, the miserable whore.”

“I was asking a pound and the lady Ragna offered half.”

“So you say I owe you half of half a pound, which is sixty pence.”

“Ragna might have paid a hundred and eighty.”

“She didn’t, though. Go on, untie the bitch and come inside.”

“I’ll have the money, first.”

Dreng softened his voice, pretending to be friendly. “Don’t you want a bowl of stew and a tankard of ale?”

“No. It’s only midday. I’m going to head back right away.” Stiggy was not completely stupid, and he probably knew the ways of alehouse keepers. If he got drunk here and stayed the night, there was no telling how much would be deducted from his sixty pence in the morning.

“Very well,” said Dreng. He went inside. Stiggy got off his horse and untied Blod. She sat on the ground, waiting.

After a long pause Dreng came out with money wrapped in a rag and handed it to Stiggy, who put it into his belt pouch.

Dreng said: “Aren’t you going to count it?”

“I trust you.”

Edgar smothered a laugh. It took a fool to trust Dreng. But Stiggy probably could not count up to sixty.

Stiggy mounted his horse.

Dreng said: “Sure we can’t tempt you to have some of my wife’s famous ale?” He was still hoping to get some of those pennies back.

“No.” Stiggy turned the horse around and headed back the way he had come.

Dreng said to Blod: “Get inside.”

As she passed him, he kicked her backside. She let out a cry of pain, stumbled, and regained her balance. “That’s just the beginning,” he said.

Edgar followed them, but Dreng turned at the door and said: “You stay outside.” He went in and shut the door.

Edgar turned and looked across the river. Moments later he heard Blod cry out in pain. It was inevitable, he told himself: a slave was bound to be chastised for running off. A slave owned little or nothing, so could not pay a fine, which meant that the only possible punishment was a beating. It was common practice and it was legal.

Blod cried out again and began to sob. Edgar heard Dreng grunting with the effort of his blows and cursing his victim at the same time.

Dreng was within his rights, Edgar told himself. And he was Edgar’s master, too. Edgar had no right to intervene.

Blod began to beg for mercy. Edgar also heard the voices of Leaf and Ethel raised in protest, to no avail.

Then Blod screamed.

Edgar opened the door and burst in. Blod was on the floor, writhing in pain, her face covered with blood. Dreng was kicking her. When she protected her head, he kicked her stomach, and when she protected her body, he kicked her head. Leaf and Ethel were grabbing his arms and pulling him, trying to stop him, but he was too strong for them.

If this went on Blod would die.

Edgar grabbed Dreng from behind and pulled him away.

Dreng wriggled out of Edgar’s grasp, turned quickly, and punched Edgar’s face. He was a strong man and the blow hurt. Edgar reacted reflexively. He punched Dreng on the point of the chin. Dreng’s head flipped back like the lid of a chest, and he fell to the floor.

From the floor he pointed at Edgar. “Get out of this house,” he yelled. “And never come back!”

But Edgar had not finished. He dropped down with his knees on Dreng’s chest, then put both hands to his throat and squeezed. Dreng’s breath was cut off. He flailed at Edgar’s arms uselessly.

Leaf screamed.

Edgar bent down until his face was inches from Dreng’s. “If you ever strike her again, I will come back,” he said. “And I swear to God I will kill you.”

He released his grip. Dreng gasped and breathed hoarsely. Edgar looked at Dreng’s two wives, who were standing back, looking scared. “I mean it,” he said.

Then he got up and went out.

He walked along the riverbank heading for the farmhouse. He rubbed his left cheekbone: he was going to have a black eye. He wondered whether he had done any good. Dreng might beat Blod again as soon as he caught his breath. Edgar could only hope that his threat would give the man pause.

Edgar had lost his job. Dreng would probably get Blod to pole the ferry now. She would be able to do it when she recovered from the beating. Perhaps that would discourage Dreng from crippling her. It was something to hope for.

Erman and Eadbald were not visible in the fields, and as it was midday Edgar guessed they would be having dinner at the farmhouse. He saw them as he approached the place. They were sitting outside in the sun, at a trestle table Edgar had made, evidently having just finished the meal. Ma was holding baby Winnie, now four months, singing her a little song that seemed familiar, and Edgar wondered whether he was remembering it from his own childhood. Ma had rolled up the sleeves of her dress, and Edgar was shocked to see how thin her arms were. She never complained, but she was obviously ill.

Eadbald looked at him and said: “What happened to your face?”

“I had an argument with Dreng.”

“What about?”

“Blod the slave has been recaptured. He was killing her, but I stopped him.”

“What for? He owns her, he can kill her if he likes.”

This was almost true. Someone who killed a slave without justification might have to repent and do penance in the form of fasting, but justification was easy to invent and fasting was not much of a punishment.

But Edgar had a different objection. “I won’t let him kill her in front of me.”

The brothers had raised their voices, disturbing Winnie, who began to grizzle.

Erman said: “Then you’re a damn fool. If you’re not careful, Dreng will dismiss you.”

“He already did.” Edgar sat at the table. The stew pot was empty, but there was a barley loaf, and he tore off a hunk. “I’m not going back to the alehouse.” He began to eat.

Erman said: “I hope you don’t think we’re going to feed you. If you were stupid enough to lose your position, that’s your lookout.”

Cwenburg took the baby from Ma, saying: “I’ve hardly got enough milk for Winnie as it is.” She uncovered her breast and put the baby to her nipple, giving Edgar a sultry glance from under her eyelids as she did so.

Edgar stood up. “If I’m not welcome here, I’ll leave.”

Ma said: “Don’t be foolish. Sit down.” She looked at the others. “We’re a family. Any child of mine—or grandchild—will be fed at my table as long as there’s a crust in the house, and don’t any of you ever forget it.”

That night there was a storm. The wind shook the timbers of the house and waves of rain crashed on the thatch of the roof. They all woke up, including baby Winnie, who cried and was fed.

Edgar opened the door a crack and peeped out, but the night was black. He could see nothing but a sheet of rain like a crazed mirror reflecting the red glow of the fire behind him. He closed the door firmly.

Winnie went back to sleep, and the others seemed to doze, but Edgar remained wide awake. He was worried about the hay. If it remained wet for any length of time it would rot. Was there a chance they might dry it, if the weather changed again and the sun shone in the morning? He was not enough of a farmer to know.

At first light the wind dropped and the rain eased, though it did not stop. Edgar opened the door again. “I’m going to check on the hay,” he said, putting on his cloak.

His brothers and Ma came, too, leaving Cwenburg behind with the baby.

As soon as they reached the low-lying land beside the river, they saw that disaster had struck. The field was underwater. The hay was not just wet, it was floating.

They all stared at it in the dawn light, horrified and afraid.

Ma said: “It’s ruined. Nothing can be done.” She turned away and walked back toward the house.

Eadbald said: “If Ma says there’s no hope, there’s no hope.”

Edgar said: “I’m trying to figure out how this happened.”

Erman said: “What good will that do?”

“The rain was too much for the ground to soak up, I assume, so the water ran down the hill then pooled on the low ground.”

“My brother, the genius.”

Edgar ignored that. “If the water could have drained away, the hay might have been saved.”

“So what? It didn’t drain away.”

“I’m wondering how long it would take to dig a ditch from the top of the slope across the field to the bank to take the runoff and pour it into the river.”

“Too late for that now!”

The field was long and narrow, and Edgar guessed its width at about two hundred yards. A strong man could do it in a week or so, perhaps two if the digging proved difficult. “There’s a slight dip around the middle of the field,” he said, squinting through the rain. “The best place for the ditch would be just there.”

Erman said: “We can’t start digging ditches now. We have to weed the oats then reap them. And Ma does no work these days.”

“I’ll dig the ditch.”

“And what will we eat meanwhile—now there are six of us?”

“I don’t know,” said Edgar.

They all trudged through the rain back to the house. Edgar saw that Ma was not there. He said to Cwenburg: “Where did Ma go?”

Cwenburg shrugged. “I thought she was with you.”

“She left us. I thought she came back here.”

“Well, she didn’t.”

“Where else would she go, in this weather?”

“How should I know? She’s your mother.”

“I’ll look in the barn.”

Edgar went back out into the rain. Ma was not in the barn. He had a bad feeling.

He looked over the field. In this weather he could not see as far as the hamlet—but she had not gone in that direction, and if she had changed her mind, she would have had to pass her three sons.

So where had she gone?

Edgar fought down a feeling of panic. He went to the edge of the forest. Why would she go into the woods in this weather? He walked downhill to the river. She could not have crossed over: she could not swim. He scanned the near bank.

He thought he saw something a few hundred yards downstream, and his heart faltered. It looked like a wet bundle of rags, but when he peered more closely he saw, protruding from the bundle, something that seemed horribly like a hand.

He hurried along the bank, impatiently shoving aside bushes and low branches. As he got closer his heart filled with dread. The bundle was human. It was half in the water. The worn brown clothes were female. The face was down, but the shape of the body was frighteningly familiar.

It did not move.

He knelt beside it. Gently, he turned the head. As he feared, the face was Ma’s.

She was not breathing. He felt her chest. There was no heartbeat.

Edgar bowed his head in the rain, with his hand on the still body, and wept.

After a while he began to think. She had drowned—but why? She had no reason to go to the river. Unless . . .

Unless her death had been intentional. Had she killed herself so that her sons would have enough to eat? Edgar felt sick.

There was a weight inside him like a cold lump of lead in his heart. Ma was gone. He could imagine her reasoning: she was ill, she could no longer work, she had little time left on this earth, and all she was doing was eating food her family needed. She had sacrificed herself for their sakes, perhaps especially for the grandchild. If she had said all that to Edgar he would have argued fiercely; but she had only thought it, and then taken the terrible, logical step.

He made up his mind that he would lie about this. If suicide was suspected she might be denied a Christian burial. To avoid that, Edgar would say he had found her in the forest. Her wet clothes would be explained by the rain. She had been ill, perhaps she was losing her mind, she had wandered off, and the rain had acted on her already weakened body with fatal effect. He would even tell his brothers that story. Then she could lie in the graveyard alongside the church.

Water came from her mouth when he picked her up. She was light: she had got thinner during their time at Dreng’s Ferry. Her body was still warm to the touch.

He kissed her forehead.

Then he carried her home.

The three brothers dug the grave in the wet churchyard and they buried Ma the next day. Everyone in the hamlet came except Dreng. Ma’s wisdom and determination had won people’s respect.

The brothers had lost father and mother in just over a year. Erman said: “As the eldest son, I’m head of the family now.” No one believed that. Edgar was the smart one, the resourceful one, the brother who came up with solutions to problems. He might never say so, but he was in practice head of the family. And that included the tiresome Cwenburg and her baby.

The rain stopped the day after the funeral, and Edgar started on the ditch. He did not know whether his plan would work. Was it an idea that would fail in practice, like the stone tiles for the roof of the brewhouse? He could only try it and see.

He used a wooden spade with a rusty iron tip. He did not want the ditch to have high banks—that would have defeated the purpose—so he had to carry the soil down to the river. He used it to raise the riverbank.

Life at the farmhouse was barely tolerable without Ma. Erman watched Edgar eat, following every morsel from the bowl to Edgar’s mouth. Cwenburg continued her campaign to make Edgar regret that he had not married her. Eadbald complained of backache from weeding. Only little Winnie was pleasant.

The ditch took two weeks. There was water in it from the start, a streamlet running slowly downhill; a hopeful sign, Edgar thought. He opened a gap in the riverbank to let the water out. A pond formed behind the bank, its surface at the same height as that of the river, and Edgar realized there was a law of nature that made all water seek the same level.

He was barefoot in the pond, reinforcing the bank with stones, when he felt something move under his toes. There were fish in this pond, he realized. He was treading on eels. How had that happened?

He looked at what he had created, imagining the life of underwater creatures. They seemed to swim more or less randomly, and clearly some would pass from the river to the pond through the gap he had made in the bank. But how would they find their way out again? They would be ensnared, at least for a while.

He began to glimpse a solution to the food problem.

Fishing with a hook and line was a slow and unreliable way to get food. The fishermen of Combe made large nets and sailed in big ships to locations where fish swam in schools of a thousand or more. But there was another way.

Edgar had seen basketwork fish traps and he thought he could make one. He went into the forest and collected long, pliable green twigs from bushes and saplings. Then he sat on the ground outside the farmhouse and began to twist the twigs into the shape he remembered.

Erman saw him and said: “When you’ve finished playing, you could help us in the fields.”

Edgar made a large basket with a narrow neck. It would catch fish the same way the pond did, by being easy to enter and difficult to leave—if it worked.

He finished it that evening.

In the morning he went to the tavern dunghill, looking for something he could use as bait. He found the head of a chicken and two decomposing rabbit feet. He put them in the bottom of the basket.

He added a stone for stability, then sank the trap in the pond he had created.

He forced himself to leave it where it was, without checking it, for twenty-four hours.

Next morning, as he was leaving the farmhouse, Eadbald said: “Where are you going?”

“To look at my fish trap.”

“Is that what you were making?”

“I don’t know if it will work.”

“I’m coming to see.”

They all followed him, Eadbald and Erman and Cwenburg with the baby.

Edgar waded into the pond, which was thigh high. He was not sure exactly where he had sunk the trap. He had to bend down and feel around in the mud. It might even have moved in the night.

“You’ve lost it!” Erman jeered.

He could not have lost it; the pond was not big enough. But another time he would mark its location with some kind of buoy, probably a piece of wood tied to the basket by a string long enough to allow the wood to float on the surface.

If there was another time.

At last his hands came in contact with the basketwork.

He sent up a silent prayer.

He found the neck of the trap and upended it so that the entrance was at the top, then he lifted.

It seemed heavy, and he worried that it might somehow have got stuck.

With a heave he pulled it above the surface, water pouring away through the small holes between the woven twigs.

When the water was gone he could see clearly into the trap. It was full of eels.

Eadbald said delightedly: “Would you look at that?”

Cwenburg clapped her hand. “We’re rich!”

“It worked,” Edgar said with profound satisfaction. This haul would allow them to eat well for a week or more.

Eadbald said: “I see a couple of river trout in there, and some smaller fish I can’t identify.”

“The tiddlers will serve as bait next time,” said Edgar.

“Next time? You think you can do this every week?”

Edgar shrugged. “I’m not certain, but I don’t see why not. Every day, even. There are millions of fish in the river.”

“We’ll have more fish than we can eat!”

“Then we’ll sell some and buy meat.”

They headed back to the house, Edgar carrying the basket on his shoulder. Eadbald said: “I wonder why no one did this before.”

“I suppose the previous owner of the farm didn’t think of it,” said Edgar. He thought some more and added: “And no one else in this place is hungry enough to try new ideas.”

They put the fish into a large bowl of water. Cwenburg cleaned and skinned a big one, then roasted it over the fire for breakfast. Brindle ate the skin.

They decided they would have the trout for dinner and prepare the rest for smoking. The eels would hang from the rafters and be preserved for the winter.

Edgar put the small fish back in the basket as bait and returned the trap to the pond. He wondered how much he would haul up the second time. If it was even half as much as today’s catch, he would have some to sell.

He sat looking at the ditch, the riverbank, and the pond. He had solved the flooding problem and might even have ensured that the family had enough to eat for the foreseeable future. So he wondered why he was not happy.

It did not take him long to figure out the answer.

He did not want to be a fisherman. Nor a farmer. When he had dreamed about the life ahead of him, he had never envisaged that his great achievement would be a fish trap. He felt like one of the eels, swimming round and round in the basket and always missing the narrow way out.

He knew he had a gift. Some men could fight, and some could recite a poem that went on for hours, and some could steer a ship by the stars. Edgar’s gift had to do with shapes, and something about numbers; and somewhere in there was an intuitive grasp of weights and stress, pressure and tension, and the twisting strain for which there was no word.

There had been a time when he had not realized he was exceptional in this way, and he had caused offense sometimes, especially with older men, by saying things such as: “Isn’t that obvious?”

He just saw certain things. He had imagined the excess rain running off the field into his ditch, and down the ditch into the river; and his vision had come true.

And he could do more. He had built a Viking boat and a stone brewhouse and a drainage ditch, but that was only the start. His gift had to be used for greater things. He knew that, the way he had known that the fish would get caught in the trap.

It was his destiny.