The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 22 October 998

here would be repercussions, Edgar knew. Wynstan would not accept what had happened. He would fight back, and he would be merciless with those involved in the exposure of his crime. Edgar felt fear like a small, hard growth in his belly. Just how much danger was he in?

He had played an important role, but always clandestinely. During the raid he had been out of sight, and only when the excitement was over had he appeared at the minster with a group of curious villagers. He would not have been noticed by Wynstan, he felt sure.

He was wrong.

Wynstan’s clerk, Ithamar, with the round face and white-blond hair, came to Dreng’s Ferry a week after the raid. After Mass he made an administrative announcement: in Degbert’s absence the eldest of the priests remaining at the minster, Father Deorwin, had been appointed acting dean. It hardly seemed worth the trip from Shiring when a letter would have done just as well.

As the congregation was leaving the little church, Ithamar approached Edgar, who was with his family: Erman, Eadbald, Cwenburg, and six-month-old baby Winnie. Ithamar did not bother with polite small talk. He said bluntly to Edgar: “You’re a friend of Brother Aldred from Shiring Abbey.”

Was this the real reason for Ithamar’s trip? Edgar felt a shiver of fear. He said: “I don’t know why you would say that.”

Erman put in stupidly: “Because you are, idiot.”

Edgar wanted to punch him in the face. He said: “No one’s speaking to you, Erman, so keep your fool mouth shut.” He turned back to the clerk. “I know the monk, certainly.”

“You bathed his wound after he was burned.”

“As anyone would. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been seen with Aldred here in Dreng’s Ferry, at Shiring, and at Combe; and I myself saw you with him at Outhenham.”

Ithamar was saying that Edgar knew Aldred, that was all. Ithamar did not seem to know that he had actually been Aldred’s spy. So what was this about? He decided to ask outright. “What point are you making, Ithamar?”

“Are you going to be one of Aldred’s oath helpers?”

So that was it. Ithamar’s mission was to find out who Aldred’s oath helpers were going to be. Edgar felt relieved. It could have been a lot worse.

He said: “I haven’t been asked to be an oath helper.”

This was true, but not completely honest. Edgar fully expected to be asked. When an oath helper had personal knowledge of the facts in the case, it added weight to his vow. And Edgar had been in the workshop and seen the metals, the dies, and the freshly minted coins, so his oath would be helpful to Aldred—and damaging to Wynstan.

Ithamar knew this. “You will be asked, almost certainly,” he said. His rather childish face twisted with malice. “And when that happens, I recommend you refuse.”

Erman spoke again. “He’s right, Edgar,” he said. “People like us should stay out of priests’ quarrels.”

“Your brother is wise,” said Ithamar.

Edgar said: “Thank you both for your advice, but the fact remains that I haven’t been summoned to appear at the trial of Bishop Wynstan.”

Ithamar was not satisfied. “Remember,” he said, wagging a finger, “that Dean Degbert is your landlord.”

Edgar was taken aback. He had not been expecting threats. “What do you mean by that”—he moved closer to Ithamar—“exactly?”

Ithamar looked intimidated and took a step back, but he put on a belligerent face and said defiantly: “We need our tenants to support the Church, not undermine it.”

“I would never undermine the Church. For example, I would not forge counterfeit coins in a minster.”

“Don’t get clever with me. I’m telling you that if you offend your landlord, he will evict you from your farm.”

Erman said: “Jesus save us. We can’t lose the farm. We’re only just getting straight. Edgar, listen to the man. Don’t be a fool.”

Edgar stared at Ithamar with incredulity. “We’re in a church, and you’ve just attended Mass,” he said. “Angels and saints surround us, invisible but real. They all know what you’re doing. You’re trying to prevent the truth being told, and you’re protecting a wicked man from the consequences of his crimes. What do you imagine the angels are whispering to one another now, as they watch you committing these sins, with the wine of the sacrament still on your lips?”

Eadbald protested: “Edgar, he’s the priest, not you!”

Ithamar paled, and took a moment to think how to reply. “I’m protecting the Church, and the angels know it,” he said, though he looked as if he hardly believed that himself. “And you should do the same. Otherwise you’ll feel the wrath of God’s priesthood.”

Erman spoke with a note of desperation. “You have to do as he says, Edgar, or we’ll be back where we were fifteen months ago, homeless and destitute.”

“I got that message,” Edgar said shortly. He was feeling bewildered and uncertain and he did not want to show it.

Eadbald put in: “Tell us you won’t testify, Edgar, please.”

Cwenburg said: “Think of my baby.”

Ithamar said: “Listen to your family, Edgar.” Then he turned away with the air of one who feels he has done all he can.

Edgar wondered what Ma would say. He needed her wisdom now. The others were no help. He said: “Why don’t you all go back to the farmhouse? I’ll catch you up.”

Erman said suspiciously: “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to talk to Ma,” said Edgar, and he walked away.

He stepped outside the church and crossed the graveyard to Ma’s resting place. The grass over it was young and bright green. Edgar stood at the foot of the plot and folded his hands in the attitude of prayer. “I don’t know what to do, Ma,” he said.

He closed his eyes and imagined she was alive, standing next to him, listening thoughtfully.

“If I swear the oath, I’ll get us all evicted from the farm.”

He knew his mother could not answer him. However, she was in his memory, and her spirit was surely nearby, so she could speak to him in his imagination, if he just opened his mind.

“Just when we’re starting to have a little to spare,” he said. “Money for blankets and shoes and beef. Erman and Eadbald have worked hard. They deserve some reward.”

He knew she agreed with that.

“But if I give in to Ithamar I’ll be helping a wicked bishop escape justice. Wynstan will be able to carry on as he always has. I know you wouldn’t want me to do that.”

He had laid it out plainly, he thought.

In his mind, she answered clearly. “Family comes first,” she said. “Take care of your brothers.”

“So I’ll refuse to help Aldred.”

“Yes.”

Edgar opened his eyes. “I knew you’d say that.”

He turned to leave, but as he did so she spoke again.

“Or you could do something clever,” she said.

“What?”

There was no reply.

“What clever thing could I do?” he said.

But she did not answer him.

Ealdorman Wilwulf paid a call on Shiring Abbey.

Aldred was summoned from the scriptorium by a breathless novice. “The ealdorman is here!” he said.

Aldred suffered a moment of fear.

“And he’s asking for Abbot Osmund and you!” the novice added.

Aldred had been at the abbey since Wilwulf’s father was ealdorman, and he could not remember either man ever entering the monastery. This was serious. He took a moment to calm his breathing and let his heartbeat return to normal.

He could guess what had brought about this unprecedented visit. The sheriff’s raid on the minster at Dreng’s Ferry was all anyone was talking about throughout the shire, and perhaps all over the west of England. And an attack on Wynstan was a personal affront to Wilwulf, his brother.

In Wilwulf’s eyes, Aldred was probably the one who had caused the trouble.

Like all powerful men, Wilwulf would go to great lengths to keep his power. But would he go so far as to threaten a monk?

An ealdorman needed to be seen as a fair judge. Otherwise he lost moral authority. Then he might have trouble enforcing his decisions. Enforcement could be difficult for an ealdorman. He could use his small personal bodyguard of men-at-arms to punish occasional minor disobedience, and he could raise an army—albeit with considerable trouble and expense—to fight the Vikings or harry the Welsh, but it was hard for him to deal with a persistent undercurrent of disobedience among people who lost faith in their overlords. He needed to be looked up to. Was Wilwulf now prepared to attack Aldred regardless?

Aldred felt a bit nauseated, and swallowed hard. He had known, when he began to investigate Wynstan, that he was going up against ruthless people, and he had told himself it was his duty. But it was easy to take risks in a theoretical way. Now the reality was on him.

He limped up the stairs. His leg still hurt, especially when he walked. Molten metal was worse than a knife in the flesh.

Wilwulf was not a man to be kept waiting outside the door, and he had already gone into Osmund’s room. In his yellow cloak he was a garish worldly presence in the gray-and-white monastery. He stood at the end of the bed with his legs apart and his hands on his hips in a classic stance of aggression.

The abbot was still bedridden. He was sitting up, wearing a nightcap, looking scared.

Aldred acted more confident than he felt. “Good day to you, ealdorman,” he said briskly.

“Come in, monk,” said Wilwulf, as if he were at home and they were the visitors. With a note of complacency he added: “I believe my brother gave you that black eye.”

“Don’t worry,” Aldred said with a deliberate note of condescension. “If Bishop Wynstan confesses and begs forgiveness, God will have mercy on him for his unpriestly violence.”

“He was provoked!”

“God doesn’t accept that excuse, ealdorman. Jesus told us to turn the other cheek.”

Wilwulf grunted with exasperation and shifted his ground. “I’m highly displeased by what happened at Dreng’s Ferry.”

“So am I,” said Aldred, going on the offensive. “Such a wicked crime against the king! Not to mention the murder of the sheriff’s man, Godwine.”

Osmund said timorously: “Be quiet, Aldred, let the ealdorman speak.”

The door opened and Hildred came in.

Wilwulf was irritated by both interruptions. “I didn’t summon you,” he said to Hildred. “Who are you?”

Osmund answered the question: “This is Treasurer Hildred, whom I have made acting abbot during my illness. He should hear whatever you have to say.”

“All right.” Wilwulf picked up the conversation where it had left off. “A crime has been committed, and that is shameful,” he conceded. “But now the question is what should be done.”

“Justice,” said Aldred. “Obviously.”

“Shut up,” said Wilwulf.

Osmund spoke in a pleading tone. “Aldred, you’re only making things worse for yourself.”

“Making what worse?” Aldred said indignantly. “I’m not in trouble. I didn’t forge the king’s currency. That was Wilwulf’s brother.”

Wilwulf was on weak ground. “I’m not here to discuss the past,” he said evasively. “The question, as I said a moment ago, is what is to be done now.” He turned to Aldred. “And don’t say ‘justice’ again or I’ll knock your bald head off your skinny neck.”

Aldred said nothing. It hardly needed pointing out that for a nobleman to threaten a monk with personal violence was undignified, to say the least.

Wilwulf seemed to realize he had lowered himself, and he changed his tone. “Our duty, Abbot Osmund,” he said, flattering the abbot by putting the two of them on the same level, “is to make sure this incident doesn’t damage the authority of the nobility or the Church.”

“Quite so,” said Osmund.

Aldred found this ominous. Wilwulf bullying was normal; Wilwulf sounding conciliatory was sinister.

Wilwulf said: “The forgery has ended. The dies have been confiscated by the sheriff. What is the point of a trial?”

Aldred almost gasped. The effrontery was astonishing. Not have a trial? It was outrageous.

Wilwulf went on: “The trial will achieve nothing except to bring disgrace to a bishop who is also my half brother. Think how much better it would be if no more were heard of this incident.”

Better for your evil brother, Aldred thought.

Osmund prevaricated. “I see your point, ealdorman.”

Aldred said: “You’re wasting your breath here, Wilwulf. Whatever we might say, the sheriff will never agree to your proposal.”

“Perhaps,” said Wilwulf. “But he might become discouraged if you were to withdraw your support.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“I presume he will want you to be one of his oath helpers. I’m asking you to refuse, for the sake of the Church and the nobility.”

“I must tell the truth.”

“There are times when the truth is best unsaid. Even monks must know that.”

Osmund spoke pleadingly. “Aldred, there’s a lot in what the ealdorman says.”

Aldred took a deep breath. “Imagine that Wynstan and Degbert were dedicated, self-sacrificing priests giving their lives to the service of God, and abstaining from the lusts of the flesh; but they had made one foolish mistake that threatened to end their careers. Then, yes, we would need to discuss whether the punishment would do more harm than good. But they aren’t priests of that kind, are they?” Aldred paused, as if waiting for Wilwulf to answer the question, but the ealdorman wisely said nothing. Aldred went on: “Wynstan and Degbert spend the Church’s money in alehouses and gambling dens and whorehouses, and an awful lot of people know it. If they were both unfrocked tomorrow it would do nothing but good for the authority of nobility and the Church.”

Wilwulf looked angry. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me, Brother Aldred.”

“I certainly don’t,” Aldred replied, with more sincerity than might have been apparent.

“Then do as I say, and withdraw your support.”

“No.”

Osmund said: “Take time to think about it, Aldred.”

“No.”

Hildred spoke for the first time. “Won’t you submit to authority, as a monk should, and show obedience to your abbot?”

“No,” said Aldred.

Ragna was pregnant.

She had not told anyone yet, but she was sure. Cat probably guessed, but no one else knew. Ragna hugged the secret to herself, a new body growing inside her. She thought about it as she walked around, ordering people to clear, tidy, and repair, keeping the place running, making sure there was nothing to bother Wilf.

It was bad luck to tell people too early, she knew. Many pregnancies ended in spontaneous abortion. In the six years between Ragna’s birth and her brother’s, their mother had suffered several miscarriages. Ragna would not make the announcement until the bulge became too large to be hidden by the drape of her dress.

She was thrilled. She had never daydreamed of having a baby, as many girls did, but now that it was happening, she found she longed to hold and love a tiny scrap of life.

She was also pleased to be fulfilling her role in English society. She was a noblewoman married to a nobleman, and it was her job to give birth to heirs. This would dismay her enemies and strengthen her bond with Wilf.

She was scared, too. Childbirth was dangerous and painful, everyone knew that. When a woman died young it was usually because of a difficult delivery. Ragna would have Cat at her side, but Cat had never given birth. Ragna wished her mother were here. However, there was a good midwife in Shiring: Ragna had met her, a calm, competent gray-haired woman called Hildithryth, known as Hildi.

Meanwhile, she was pleased that Wynstan’s sins were at last catching up with him. Forgery was undoubtedly only one of his crimes, but it was the one that had been exposed, and she hoped for a severe punishment. Perhaps the experience would puncture the bishop’s arrogance. Good for Aldred, she thought, for finding him out.

This would be the first major trial she had attended in England, and she was eager to learn more about the country’s legal system. She knew it would be different from Normandy’s. The biblical principle of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth did not apply here. The punishment for murder was normally a fine paid to the family of the victim. The murder price was called wergild, and it varied according to the wealth and status of the dead man: a thane was worth sixty pounds of silver; an ordinary peasant, ten pounds.

She learned more when Edgar came to see her. She was sorting apples on a table, picking out the bruised ones that would not last the winter, so that she could teach Gilda the kitchen maid the best way to make cider; and she saw Edgar coming through the main gate and across the compound, a sturdy figure with a confident stride.

“You’ve changed,” he said with a smile as soon as he saw her. “What happened?”

He was perceptive, of course, especially of shapes. “I’ve been eating too much English honey,” she said. It was true: she was always hungry.

“You look well on it.” Remembering his manners he added: “If I may be permitted to say so, my lady.”

He stood on the other side of the table and helped her sort the apples, handling the good ones gently, throwing the bad into a barrel. She sensed that he was worried about something. She said: “Has Dreng sent you here to buy supplies?”

“I am no longer Dreng’s servant. I was dismissed.”

Perhaps he wanted to work for her. She quite liked the idea. “Why were you dismissed?”

“When Blod was returned to him, he beat her so badly I thought he would kill her, so I intervened.”

Edgar always tried to do the right thing, she reflected. But how much trouble was he in? “Can you go back to the farm?” Perhaps this was what was on his mind. “As I recall, it isn’t very productive.”

“It’s not, but I made a fishpond, and now we have enough to eat and some left over to sell.”

“And is Blod all right?”

“I don’t know. I told Dreng I would kill him if he hurt her again, and perhaps that has made him think twice about beating her.”

“You know I tried to buy her, to save her from him? But Wynstan overruled me.”

He nodded. “Speaking of Wynstan . . .”

He had tensed up, Ragna saw, and she guessed that what he was about to say was the real reason for his visit. “Yes?”

“He sent Ithamar to threaten me.”

“What’s the threat?”

“If I testify at the trial, my family will be evicted from the farm.”

“On what grounds?”

“The Church needs tenants who support the clergy.”

“That’s outrageous. What will you do?”

“I want to defy Wynstan, and testify for Aldred. But my family needs a farm. I’ve got a sister-in-law and a baby niece now, as well as my brothers.”

Ragna could see that he was torn, and she felt sympathy for him. “I understand.”

“That’s why I’ve come to you. In the whole of the Vale of Outhen it must happen that a farm becomes vacant quite often.”

“Several times a year. Usually there’s a son or a son-in-law to take it over, but not always.”

“If I knew I could rely on you to give my family a farm, I would be one of Aldred’s oath helpers, and defy Wynstan.”

“I’ll give you a farm if you’re evicted,” she said without hesitation. “Of course I will.”

She saw his shoulders slump with relief. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve no idea how much . . .” To her surprise, his hazel eyes filled with tears.

She reached across the table and took his hand. “You can rely on me,” she said. She held his hand a moment longer, then let it go.

Hildred ambushed Aldred in the chapter meeting.

Chapter was the hour of the day in which the monks remembered their democratic origins. They were all brothers, alike in the sight of God and equals in the running of the abbey. This conflicted directly with their vow of obedience, so neither principle was obeyed fully. Day to day, the monks did what the abbot told them to do; but at the chapter meeting they sat in a circle and decided major issues of principle as equals—including the election of a new abbot when the old one died. If no consensus emerged, they would hold a vote.

Hildred began by saying that he had to bring before the monks an issue that grieved both him and poor Abbot Osmund upstairs on his sick bed. He then reported Wilwulf’s visit. As he told the story, Aldred looked around at the faces of the monks. None of the older ones looked surprised, and Aldred realized that Hildred had secured their support in advance. The younger ones looked surprised and shocked. They had not been forewarned for fear that they would give Aldred a chance to prepare his defense.

Hildred finished by saying that he had raised this in chapter because Aldred’s role in the investigation of Wynstan and the upcoming trial was an issue of principle. “Why is the abbey here?” he said. “What is our role? Are we here to play a part in power struggles among the nobility and the higher priesthood? Or is it our duty to withdraw from the world, and worship God in tranquillity, ignoring the storms of earthly life that rage around us? The abbot has asked Aldred to take no part in the trial, and Aldred has refused. I believe the brothers here assembled have the right to consider what the will of God is for our monastery.”

Aldred saw that there was a measure of general agreement. Even those who had not been previously buttonholed by Hildred thought that monks ought not to get involved in politics. Most monks liked Aldred better than Hildred, but they also liked a quiet life.

They were waiting for him to speak. It was like a gladiatorial contest, he thought. He and Hildred were the two leading monks under the abbot. One of them would take Osmund’s place sooner or later. This tussle could make a difference to the final battle.

He would give his point of view, but he feared too many of the monks had already made up their minds. Rationality might not be enough.

He decided to raise the stakes.

“I agree with much of what Brother Hildred says,” he began. In an argument it was always wise to show respect for your opponent: people disliked antipathy. “This is indeed an issue of principle, a question of the role of monks in the world. And I know Hildred is sincere in his concern for our abbey.” This was going to the far edge of generosity, and Aldred decided it was enough. “However, let me put forward a slightly different point of view.”

The room was quiet now, and they were all agog.

“Monks must be concerned with this world as well as the next. We’re told to store up treasure in heaven, but we do so by good works here on earth. We live in a world of cruelty and ignorance and pain, but we make it better. When evil is done in front of our eyes we cannot remain silent. At least . . . I cannot.” He paused for effect.

“I have been asked to withdraw from the trial. I refuse. It is not God’s will for me. I ask you, my brothers, to respect my decision. But if you decide to expel me from this abbey, then of course I will have to leave.” He looked around the room. “For me that would be a sad day.”

They were shocked. They had not expected him to make this a resigning issue. No one wanted it to go that far—except Hildred, perhaps.

There was a long silence. What Aldred needed was for one of his friends to suggest a compromise. But he had had no chance to prearrange this, so he had to hope that one of them would work something out on his own.

In the end it was Brother Godleof, the taciturn ex-cowherd, who figured it out. “No need for expulsion,” he said with characteristic brevity. “Man shouldn’t be forced to do what he thinks wrong.”

Hildred said indignantly: “But what about your vow of obedience?”

Godleof was economical with words but he did not lack intelligence, and he could match Hildred in an argument. “There are limits,” he said simply.

Aldred saw that many of the monks agreed with that. Their obedience was not absolute. He sensed the mood moving to his side.

To Aldred’s surprise his colleague in the scriptorium, the old scribe Tatwine, raised his hand. Aldred could not remember him speaking in chapter before. “I haven’t been outside the precincts of this abbey for twenty-three years,” Tatwine said. “But Aldred went to Jumièges. That isn’t even in England! And he brought back marvelous volumes, books we’d never seen before. Marvelous. There are more ways than one to be a monk, you see.” He smiled and nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “More ways than one.”

The older monks were moved by this intervention, the more so because it was so rare. And Tatwine worked with Aldred daily: that made his opinion more weighty.

Hildred knew that he was beaten, and he did not push the matter to a vote. “If the chapter is minded to pardon Aldred’s disobedience,” he said, trying to hide his annoyance under a mask of tolerance, “then I feel sure Abbot Osmund would not want to insist otherwise.”

Most of the monks nodded assent.

“Then let us move on,” Hildred said. “I understand there has been a complaint about moldy bread . . .”

The day before the trial, Aldred and Den shared a cup of ale and reviewed their prospects. Den said: “Wynstan has done his best to undermine our oath helpers, but I don’t think he’s succeeded.”

Aldred nodded. “He sent Ithamar to threaten Edgar with eviction, but Edgar persuaded Ragna to promise him a farm if necessary, so he’s solid now.”

“And I gather you prevailed in chapter.”

“Wilwulf tried to bully Abbot Osmund, but in the end the chapter backed me, just.”

“Wynstan isn’t liked in the religious community. He brings them all into disrepute.”

“There’s a lot of interest in this case, not just in Shiring. There will be several bishops and abbots present, and I would expect them to support us.”

Den offered Aldred more ale. Aldred declined, but Den took another cupful.

Aldred said: “How will Wynstan be punished?”

“One law says that a forger’s hand should be cut off and nailed over the door to the mint. But another prescribes the death penalty for forgers who work in the woods, which might include Dreng’s Ferry. And anyway judges don’t always read the books of law. Often do as they please, especially men such as Wilwulf. But we have to get Wynstan convicted first.”

Aldred frowned. “I don’t see how the court can fail to convict. Last year King Ethelred made every ealdorman swear an oath with his twelve leading magnates. They had to vow not to conceal any guilty person.”

Den shrugged. “Wilwulf will break that oath. So will Wigelm.”

“The bishops and abbots will keep theirs.”

“And there’s no reason why other thanes, unrelated to Wilwulf, should imperil their immortal souls to save Wynstan.”

“God’s will be done,” said Aldred.