The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 24 December 998

nly once before in Aldred’s life had he felt utterly defeated, humiliated, and despondent about the future. That had been when he was a novice at Glastonbury and had been caught kissing Leofric in the herb garden. Until then he had been the star among the youngsters: best at reading, writing, singing, and memorizing the Bible. Suddenly his weakness became the subject of every conversation, discussed even in chapter. Instead of talking in admiring tones of his bright future, people asked one another what was to be done with a boy so depraved. He had felt like a horse that could not be ridden or a dog that bit its master. He had wanted only to crawl into a hole and sleep for a hundred years.

And now that feeling was back. All the promise he had shown as armarius of Shiring, all the talk of his becoming abbot one day, had come to nothing. His ambitions—the school, the library, the world-class scriptorium—were now mere daydreams. He had been exiled to the remote hamlet of Dreng’s Ferry and put in charge of a penniless priory, and this would be the end of the story of his life.

Abbot Osmund had told him he was too passionate. “A monk should develop an accepting disposition,” he had said when saying good-bye to Aldred. “We can’t correct all the evil in the world.” Aldred had lain awake night after night chewing over that judgment in bitterness and anger. Two passions had undone him: first his love for Leofric, then his rage at Wynstan. But in his heart he still could not agree with Osmund. Monks ought never to accept evil. They had to fight against it.

He was weighed down with despair, but not crippled by it. He had said that the old minster was a disgrace, so now he could throw his energy into making the new priory a shining example of what men of God ought to do. The little church already looked different: the floor had been swept and the walls whitewashed. The old scribe Tatwine, one of the monks who had chosen to migrate to Dreng’s Ferry with Aldred, had begun a wall painting, a picture of the Nativity, a birth scene for the reborn church.

Edgar had repaired the entrance. He had taken out the stones of the arch one by one, trimmed them to shape, and reset them so that they sat precisely on the spokes of an imaginary wheel. That was all that was needed, he said, to make it stronger. Aldred’s sole consolation in Dreng’s Ferry was that he saw more of the clever, charming young man who had captured his heart.

The house looked different, too. When Degbert and his crew left they had naturally taken with them all their luxuries, the wall hangings and the ornaments and the blankets. The place was now bare and utilitarian, as monks’ accommodation ought to be. But Edgar had welcomed Aldred with a gift of a lectern he had made of oak, so that while the monks were eating they could listen to one of their number reading from the Rule of Saint Benedict or the life of a saint. It had been made with love, and although this was not the kind of love Aldred sometimes dreamed of, not a love of kisses and caresses and embraces in the night, nevertheless the gift brought tears to his eyes.

Aldred knew that work was the best solace. He told the brothers that the history of a monastery normally began with the monks rolling up their sleeves and clearing ground, and here in Dreng’s Ferry they had already started to fell trees on the wooded hillside above the church. A monastery needed land for a vegetable garden, an orchard, a duck pond, and grazing for a few goats and a cow or two. Edgar had made axes, hammering out the blades on the anvil in Cuthbert’s old workshop, and had taught Aldred and the other monks how to chop down trees efficiently and safely.

The rents Aldred got as landlord of the hamlet were not sufficient to feed even the monks, and Abbot Osmund had agreed to pay the priory a monthly subsidy. Hildred had, of course, argued for an amount that was hopelessly inadequate. “If it’s not enough you can come back and discuss it,” Hildred had said, but Aldred had known that once the subvention was fixed the treasurer would never agree to an increase. The upshot had been an allowance that would keep the monks alive and the church functional but no more. If Aldred wanted to buy books, plant an orchard, and build a cowshed, he would have to find the funds himself.

When the monks had arrived here and looked around, the old scribe Tatwine had said to Aldred, not unkindly: “Perhaps God wants to teach you the virtue of humility.” Aldred thought Tatwine might be right. Humility had never been one of his strengths.

On Sunday Aldred celebrated Mass in the little church. He stood at the altar in the tiny chancel while the six monks who had come here with him—all volunteers—stood in two neat rows on the ground floor of the tower, which served as the nave. The villagers gathered behind the monks, quieter than usual and awed by the unfamiliar sense of discipline and reverence.

During the service a horse was heard outside, and Aldred’s old friend Wigferth of Canterbury came into the church. Wigferth visited the west of England frequently, to collect rents. His mistress in Trench had recently given birth, according to monastic gossip. Wigferth was a good monk in other respects, and Aldred remained friendly to him, restricting himself to the occasional disapproving frown if Wigferth was so tactless as to mention his illicit family.

As soon as the service was over, Aldred spoke to him. “It’s good to see you. I hope you have time to stay for dinner.”

“Certainly.”

“We’re not rich, so our food will save you from the sin of gluttony.”

Wigferth smiled and patted his belly. “I stand in need of such salvation.”

“What news from Canterbury?”

“Two things. Archbishop Elfric has ordered Wynstan to return the village of Wigleigh to the ownership of the church at Dreng’s Ferry, which means you.”

“Good!”

“Wait, don’t celebrate. I have already taken that message to Wynstan, who said the matter was outside the archbishop’s jurisdiction.”

“In other words he will ignore the ruling.”

“That one, and another. Wynstan has made Degbert an archdeacon at Shiring Cathedral.”

“In effect, deputy to Wynstan, and his likely successor.”

“Exactly.”

“Some punishment.” The promotion, coming so swiftly after the trial and Degbert’s demotion, told everyone that Wynstan’s people would always do well, and those who opposed him—such as Aldred—would suffer.

“The archbishop refused to ratify the appointment—and Wynstan ignored him.”

Aldred scratched his shaved head. “Wynstan defies the archbishop and Wilwulf defies the king. How long can this go on?”

“I don’t know. Maybe until the Day of Judgment.”

Aldred looked around. Two of the congregation were watching him expectantly. “We’ll talk more at dinner,” he said to Wigferth. “I must speak to the villagers. They’re a discontented lot.”

Wigferth left, and Aldred turned to the waiting couple. A woman called Ebba, with chapped hands, said: “The priest used to pay me to do their laundry. Why don’t you?”

“Laundry?” said Aldred. “We do our own.” There was not much. Monks usually washed their robes twice a year. Other people might have loincloths, strips of material wound around the waist and between the legs and tied in front. Women used them during the monthly flux, and washed them afterward; men wore them for riding, and probably never washed them at all. Babies were sometimes wrapped in something similar. Monks had no use for such things.

The woman’s husband, Cerdic, said: “I used to gather firewood for the priests, and rushes for their floor, and bring them fresh water from the river every day.”

“I have no money to pay you,” Aldred said. “Bishop Wynstan has stolen all the wealth of this church.”

“The bishop was a very generous man,” said Cerdic.

With the proceeds of forgery, Aldred thought; but there was no point in making such accusations to the villagers. Either they believed Wynstan’s story of innocence or they would pretend to believe it: anything else would make them complicit. He had lost that argument in court and he was not going to rerun it for the rest of his life. So he said: “One day the monastery will be prosperous and bring employment and trade to Dreng’s Ferry, but that will require time and patience and hard work, for I have nothing else to offer.”

He left the disgruntled couple and moved on. What he had said to them depressed him. This was not the life he had dreamed of: struggling to make a new monastery viable. He wanted books and pens and ink, not a vegetable garden and a duck pond.

He approached Edgar, who still had the power to brighten his day. Edgar had created a weekly fish market in the hamlet. There were no large villages near Dreng’s Ferry, but there were many small settlements and lonely farms such as Theodberht Clubfoot’s sheepfold. Every Friday a handful of people, mostly women, showed up to buy Edgar’s fish. But Degbert had claimed he was entitled to one fish in three of Edgar’s catch. “You asked me about Degbert’s charter,” Aldred said. “It’s attached to that of the new monastery, since some of the rights are the same.”

“And did Degbert tell the truth about it?” Edgar asked.

Aldred shook his head. “There’s no mention of fish in the charter. He had no right to tax you.”

“I thought as much,” said Edgar. “The lying thief.”

“I’m afraid he is.”

“Everyone wants something for nothing,” Edgar complained. “My brother Erman said I should share the money with him. I made the pond, I make the traps, I empty the traps every morning, and I give my family all the fish they can eat. But they want money, too.”

“Men are greedy.”

“Women, too. My sister-in-law Cwenburg probably told Erman what to say. Never mind. Can I show you something?”

“Of course.”

“Come with me to the graveyard.”

They left the building and walked around to the north side. Edgar said conversationally: “My father taught me that in a well-made boat the joints should never be too tight. A small amount of movement between the timbers absorbs some of the shock of the endless buffeting of wind and waves. But there’s no looseness in a stone building.” Near the place where the little chancel extension joined the tower he pointed up. “See that crack?”

Aldred certainly did see it. Where the tower met the chancel was a gap he could have put his thumb into. “Good Lord,” he said.

“Buildings move, but there’s no looseness between mortared stones, so cracks appear. In some ways they’re useful, because they tell us what’s happening in the structure and forewarn us of problems.”

“Can you fill the crack with mortar?”

“Of course, but that’s not enough. The problem is that the tower is slowly tilting downhill, and leaving the chancel behind. I can fill the gap, but the tower will continue to move, and then the crack will reappear. But that’s the least of your problems.”

“What is the greatest of my problems?”

“The tower will fall down.”

“How soon?”

“I can’t tell.”

Aldred wanted to weep. As if his tribulations were not already as much as a man could bear, now his church was falling down.

Edgar saw the expression on his face, touched his arm lightly, and said: “Don’t despair.”

The touch heartened Aldred. “Christians never despair.”

“Good, because I can stop the tower falling down.”

“How?”

“By building buttresses to support it on the downhill side.”

Aldred shook his head. “I have no money for stone.”

“Well, perhaps I could get some free.”

Aldred brightened. “Could you, really?”

“I don’t know,” said Edgar. “I can try.”

Edgar went to ask Ragna for help. She had always been kind to him. Other people spoke of her as formidable, something of a dragon, a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and was determined to get it. But she seemed to have a soft spot for Edgar. However, that did not mean she would give him anything he asked for.

He felt eager to see her, and he asked himself why. Of course he wanted to help Aldred out of the morass of gloom. But Edgar suspected himself of a desire he despised in others, the wish to be friends with aristocrats. He thought of the way Dreng acted around them, fawning on Wilwulf and Wynstan and constantly mentioning that he was related to them. He hoped his keenness to talk to Ragna was not part of a similar, shameful aspiration.

He went by river to Outhenham and spent a night at the home of Seric, the new headman, and his wife and grandchild. Perhaps it was Edgar’s imagination, but the village seemed a calmer, happier place with Seric in charge.

In the morning he left his raft in Seric’s care and walked on to Shiring. If his plan worked he would be able to return to Dreng’s Ferry with a load of stone on the raft.

It was a cold journey. Icy rain turned to sleet. Edgar’s leather shoes became sodden and his feet hurt. If ever I have money, he thought, I’m going to buy a pony.

His thoughts turned to Aldred. He felt sorry for the monk, a man who wanted only to do good. Aldred had been brave to go up against a bishop. Too brave, perhaps: justice might be something to hope for in the next world, not this one.

The streets of Shiring were almost deserted: in this weather most people stayed indoors, huddled around their fires. But there was a small crowd outside Elfwine’s stone house, where silver pennies were made under the king’s license. Elfwine, the moneyer, stood outside, and his wife was beside him, weeping. Sheriff Den was there with his men, and Edgar saw that they were bringing Elfwine’s equipment out onto the street and smashing it up.

Edgar spoke to Den. “What’s going on?”

“King Ethelred ordered me to close the mint,” said Den. “He’s displeased about the forgery at Dreng’s Ferry, and believes the trial was a sham; and this is his way of showing it.”

Edgar had not foreseen this, and clearly Wilwulf and Wynstan had not either. All the most important towns in England had a mint. The closure would be a blow to Wilwulf. It was a loss of prestige, but worse, the mint drew business to the town, business that would now go elsewhere. A king did not have many ways of enforcing his will, but coinage was under his control, and closing the mint was a punishment he could inflict. However, Edgar guessed this would not be enough to change Wilwulf’s behavior.

Edgar found Ragna in a pasture next to the ealdorman’s compound. She had decided the weather was too bad for the horses to be out of doors, and was supervising the stable hands as they rounded up the beasts to bring them inside. She wore a coat of fox furs, red-gold like her hair, and she looked like a wild woman of the forest, beautiful but dangerous. Edgar found himself wondering whether her body hair was the same color. He quickly pushed the thought away: it was foolish for a working man to think such thoughts about a noblewoman.

She smiled at him and said: “Have you walked here in this weather? Your nose looks as if it could drop off at any moment! Come with me and have some hot ale.”

They entered the compound. Here, too, most people were staying indoors, though a handful of busy folk scurried from one building to another with their cloaks over their heads. Ragna led Edgar into her house. When she took her coat off he thought she had gained some weight.

They sat close to the fire. Her maid Cat heated a fire iron then plunged it into a tankard of ale. She offered it to Ragna, who said: “Give it to Edgar—he’s colder than me.”

Cat handed the cup to Edgar with a pleasant smile. Perhaps I should marry a girl like her, he thought. I could feed a wife, now that we have the fishpond, and it would be nice to have someone to sleep with. But as soon as he formed the idea, he knew it was wrong. Cat was a perfectly nice woman, but he did not feel about her the way he had felt about Sungifu. He was momentarily embarrassed, and hid his face by drinking from the cup. The ale warmed his belly.

Ragna said: “I had a nice little farm picked out for you in the Vale of Outhen, but in the end you didn’t need it. Aldred is your landlord now, so you should be safe.”

She seemed a little distracted, and Edgar wondered if she had something on her mind. “I’m grateful to you all the same,” he said. “You gave me the courage to be one of Aldred’s oath helpers.”

She nodded acknowledgment, but clearly was not interested in going back over the events of the trial. Edgar decided to get right to the point; he did not want to make her impatient. “I’m here to ask another favor,” he said.

“Go ahead.”

“The church at Dreng’s Ferry is falling down, but Aldred can’t afford to repair it.”

“How could I help with that?”

“You could let us have the stone free of charge. I could quarry it myself, so it would cost you nothing. And it would be a pious gift.”

“So it would.”

“Will you do it?”

She looked into his eyes with an expression of amusement and something else he could not read. “Of course I will,” she said.

Her ready assent threatened to bring tears to his eyes, and he felt a surge of gratitude that was almost like love. Why were there not more people like this in the world? “Thank you,” he said.

She sat back, breaking the spell, and said briskly: “How much stone will you need?”

He suppressed his emotions and became practical. “About five raftloads of stones and rubble, I think. I’m going to have to build buttresses with deep foundations.”

“I’ll give you a letter to Seric saying you can take as much as you like.”

“You’re so kind.”

She shrugged. “Not really. There’s enough stone in Outhenham to last a hundred years.”

“Well, I’m very thankful.”

“There’s something you could do for me.”

“Name it.” There was nothing he would like better than to perform some service for her.

“I still have Gab as quarrymaster.”

“Why do you keep someone who stole from you?”

“Because I can’t find anyone else. But perhaps you could take over as quarrymaster, and supervise him.”

The idea of working for Ragna thrilled Edgar. But how was it to be managed? He said: “And repair the church at the same time?”

“I’m thinking you could spend half your time at Outhenham and half at Dreng’s Ferry.”

He nodded slowly. That might work. “I’m going to be traveling often to Outhenham for stone.” But he would have to hand over the fishpond to his brothers, so he would lose the income from the fish market.

Ragna solved that problem with her next sentence. “I’ll pay you sixpence a week, plus a farthing per stone sold.”

This would amount to a lot more than the fish brought in. “You’re generous.”

“I want you to make sure Gab doesn’t get up to his old tricks again.”

“That’s easy enough. I can tell how much stone he’s removed just by looking at the quarry.”

“And he’s lazy. Outhenham could produce more stone if someone was willing to make the effort to sell it.”

“And that someone is me?”

“You can do anything—that’s the kind of person you are.”

He was surprised. Even if it was not true, he was pleased that she thought it.

She said: “Don’t blush!”

He laughed. “Thank you for having faith in me. I hope I can justify it.”

“Now, I have some news,” she said.

Ah, he thought; this will be the reason why she seemed distracted earlier.

She said: “I’m going to have a baby.”

“Oh!” The announcement took his breath away—which was strange, for it was hardly surprising that a healthy young bride should get pregnant. And he had even noticed that she had put on weight. “Baby,” he said stupidly. “My goodness.”

“It’s due in May.”

He did not know what to say. What question did people ask a pregnant woman? “Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

“A boy, to please Wilf. He wants an heir.”

“Of course.” A nobleman always wanted heirs.

She smiled. “Are you happy for me?”

“I am,” Edgar said. “Very happy.”

He wondered why that felt like a lie.

Christmas Eve was a Saturday this year. Early that morning Aldred got a message from Mother Agatha asking him to go and see her. He put on a cloak and walked down to the ferry.

Edgar was there, unloading stones from his raft. “Ragna agreed to give us the stone free,” he said, smiling at his triumph.

“Great news! Well done.”

“I can’t start building yet—the mortar might freeze overnight. But I can get everything ready.”

“But I still can’t pay you.”

“I won’t starve.”

“Is there something I can do for you by way of reward, something that doesn’t require money?”

Edgar shrugged. “If I think of something, I’ll ask.”

“Good enough.” Aldred looked toward the alehouse. “I need to cross to the nunnery. Is Blod around?”

“I’ll take you.” Edgar untied the ferry as Aldred boarded, then picked up a pole and pushed the boat across the narrow channel to the island.

Edgar waited at the waterside while Aldred knocked at the door of the convent and Agatha came out in a cloak. She would not let men into the nunnery, but because of the cold she took Aldred into the church, which was empty.

At the east end, near the altar, was a chair carved from a block of stone, with a rounded back and a flat seat. “A sanctuary stool,” he commented. By tradition, anyone sitting on such a chair in a church was immune from prosecution, regardless of his or her crimes, and those who flouted that rule, and captured or killed someone who had taken refuge there, were themselves subject to the death penalty.

Agatha nodded. “It’s not easily accessible, of course, here on this island. But a fugitive who is innocent will show determination.”

“Has it often been used?”

“Three times in twenty years, each time by a woman who had decided to be a nun against the wishes of her family.”

They sat on a cold stone bench on the north wall, and Agatha said: “I admire you. It takes guts to stand up to a man such as Wynstan.”

“It takes more than guts to defeat him, though,” said Aldred ruefully.

“We have to try. It’s our mission.”

“I agree.”

Her tone became practical. “I have a suggestion to make,” she said. “A way of lifting our spirits in midwinter.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I’d like to bring the nuns to the church tomorrow for the Christmas service.”

Aldred was intrigued. “What gave you that idea?”

Agatha smiled. “The fact that it was a woman who brought our Lord into the world.”

“That’s true. So we should have female voices joining in with our Christmas hymns.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“In addition, the women might improve the singing.”

“They might,” said Agatha, “especially if I leave Sister Frith behind.”

Aldred laughed, but said: “Don’t do that. Bring everyone.”

“I’m so glad you like the idea.”

“I love it.”

Agatha stood up, and Aldred did the same. It had been a short conversation, but she was not one for idle chatter. They walked out of the church.

Aldred saw that Edgar was talking to a man dressed in a filthy robe. He was barefoot despite the cold. He had to be one of the wretches the nuns fed.

Agatha said: “Oh, dear, poor Cuthbert has got lost again.”

Aldred was shocked. Coming closer he saw the dirty rag that bandaged the man’s eyes like a blindfold. Cuthbert must have been brought here from Shiring, by some kind soul, to join the community of lepers and other helpless people who depended on the nuns, Aldred thought; and then he felt guilty that he had not been that kind soul. He had been too occupied with his own troubles to think in a Christlike way about helping others.

Cuthbert was speaking to Edgar in low, harsh tones. “It’s your fault I’m like this,” he said. “Your fault!”

“I know,” said Edgar.

Agatha raised her voice. “Cuthbert, you’ve wandered into the nuns’ zone again. Let me lead you back.”

Edgar said: “Wait.”

Agatha said: “What is it?”

Edgar said: “Aldred, a few minutes ago you asked if there was something you could do for me by way of reward for buttressing the church.”

“I did.”

“I’ve thought of something. I want you to take Cuthbert into the priory.”

Cuthbert gasped with shock.

Aldred was moved. For a few moments he could not speak. After a few moments he said in a choked voice: “Would you like to become a monk, Cuthbert?”

Cuthbert said: “Yes, please, Brother Aldred. I’ve always been a man of God—it’s the only life I know.”

“You’d have to learn our ways. A monastery is not like a minster, not really.”

“Would God want someone like me?”

“He cares especially for people like you.”

“But I’m a criminal.”

“Jesus said: ‘I come not to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance.’”

“This isn’t a joke, is it? A trick, to torture me? Some people are very cruel to the blind.”

“No trick, my friend. Come with me now, on the ferry.”

“Right away?”

“Right away.”

Cuthbert shook with sobs. Aldred put one arm around him, ignoring the dreadful smell. “Come,” he said. “Let’s get on board the boat.”

“Thank you, Aldred, thank you.”

“Thank Edgar. I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it myself.”

They waved to Agatha, who said: “God bless you.”

As they crossed the water Aldred reflected that even if he could not achieve his grand ambitions in this out-of-the-way priory, he might still do some good.

They disembarked and Edgar tied up the ferry. Aldred said: “This doesn’t count, Edgar. I still owe you a reward.”

Edgar said: “Well, there is something else I want.” He looked embarrassed.

“Out with it,” said Aldred.

“You used to talk about starting a school.”

“It’s my dream.”

Edgar hesitated again, then blurted it out. “Would you teach me to read?”