The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 29 August and September 1001

agna was looking at her three sons when she heard the noise.

The twins were asleep side by side in a wooden cradle, seven months old, Hubert plump and contented, Colinan small and agile. Osbert, two years old and toddling, was sitting on the ground, stirring a wooden spoon around an empty bowl in imitation of Cat making porridge.

The sound from outside caused Ragna to glance through the open door. It was the afternoon of a summer day: the cooks were sweating in the kitchen, the dogs were sleeping in the shade, and the children were splashing at the edges of the duck pond. Just visible in the distance, beyond the outskirts of the town, fields of yellow wheat ripened in the sun.

It looked peaceful, but there was a rising hullabaloo from the town, shouts and cries and neighing, and she knew immediately that the army was home. Her heart beat faster.

She was wearing a teal-blue gown of lightweight summer cloth: she always dressed carefully, a habit for which she was now grateful, for there was no time to change. She stepped outside and stood in front of the great hall to welcome her husband. Others quickly joined her.

The return of the army was a moment of agonizing tension for the women. They longed to see their men, but they knew that not all the combatants would return from the battlefield. They looked at one another, wondering which of them would soon be weeping tears of grief.

Ragna’s own feelings were even more mixed. In the five months that he had been away, her feelings for Wilf had hardened from disappointment and sadness to anger and disgust. She had tried not to hate him, tried to remember how much they had loved each other once; then something had happened that tipped the balance. During his absence Wilf sent her no message, but a wounded soldier had returned to Shiring with a looted Viking bangle as a gift from Wilf to his slave girl, Carwen. Ragna had wept, she had stormed and raged, and finally she had just felt numb.

Yet she feared his death. He was the father of her three sons, and they needed him.

Wilf’s stepmother, Gytha, well-dressed in her habitual red, came and stood a yard away from Ragna. Inge, his first wife, and Carwen, his slave girl, followed close behind. Inge had made the mistake of dressing down while the men were away, and now she looked shabby. Young Carwen, who felt constrained in the floor-length dresses of English women, wore a colorless shift as short as a man’s tunic, and her bare feet were dirty: the poor girl looked as if she would be more at home with the children playing in the pond.

If Wilf was alive, Ragna felt sure he would greet her first: anything else would be a gross insult to his official wife. But who would he spend tonight with? No doubt they were all wondering that. The thought further soured Ragna’s mood.

The noise from the town had at first sounded like a celebration, male roars of welcome and female squeals of delight, but now Ragna realized that there was no triumphant braying of horns or thudding of vainglorious drums, and there was a discouraged feel to the hoofbeats. The exultant greetings turned into exclamations of dismay.

She frowned, concerned. Something had gone wrong.

The army appeared at the entrance to the compound. Ragna saw a cart drawn by an ox, with two men riding on each side. A driver sat at the front of the vehicle. Behind him on the flat bed of the cart was a supine form. It was a man, Ragna saw, and she recognized the fair hair and beard of Wilf. She let out a short scream: was he dead?

The entourage was moving slowly, and Ragna could not wait. She ran across the compound, and heard the other women behind her. All her resentment of Wilf for his infidelity faded into the background, and she felt nothing but excruciating worry.

She reached the cart and the procession stopped. She stared at Wilf: his eyes were closed.

She hitched up her skirts and leaped onto the cart. Kneeling beside Wilf she leaned over him, touched his face, and looked at his closed eyes. His face was deathly pale. She could not tell whether he was breathing. “Wilf,” she said. “Wilf.”

There was no response.

He was lying on a stretcher placed on top of a pile of blankets and cushions. Ragna scanned his body. The shoulders of his tunic were dark with old blood. She looked more closely at his head and saw that it seemed misshapen. He had a swelling, or perhaps more than one, on his skull. He had suffered a head injury. That was ominous.

She looked at the outriders but they said nothing and she could not read their expressions. Perhaps they did not know whether he was alive or dead.

“Wilf,” she said. “It’s me, Ragna.”

The corners of his mouth were touched by the ghost of a smile. His lips opened and he murmured: “Ragna.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s me. You’re alive, thank God!”

He opened his mouth to speak again. She leaned closer to hear. He said: “Am I home?”

“Yes,” she said, weeping. “You’re home.”

“Good.”

She looked up. Everyone seemed to be waiting. She realized she was the one who must decide what should be done next.

In the next instant she realized something more: while Wilwulf was incapacitated, whoever had his body also had his power.

“Drive the cart to my house,” she said.

The carter cracked his whip and the ox lumbered forward. The cart was drawn across the compound to Ragna’s house. Cat, Agnes, and Bern stood at the door, and Osbert was half hiding in Cat’s skirts. The escort dismounted, and the four men gently picked up the stretcher and Wilf.

“Stop!” said Gytha.

The four men stood still and looked at her.

She said: “He must go to my house. I will take care of him.”

She had come to the same realization as Ragna, but not so quickly.

Gytha gave Ragna an insincere smile and said: “You have so much else to do.”

Ragna said: “Don’t be ridiculous.” She could hear the venom in her own voice. “I am his wife.” She turned to the four men. “Take him inside.”

They obeyed Ragna. Gytha said no more.

Ragna followed them in. They put the stretcher down in the rushes on the floor. Ragna knelt beside him and touched his forehead: he was too warm. “Give me a bowl of water and a clean rag,” she said without looking up.

She heard little Osbert say: “Who’s that man?”

“This is your father,” she said. Wilf had been away for almost half a year and Osbert had forgotten him. “He would kiss you, but he’s hurt.”

Cat put a bowl on the floor beside Wilf and handed Ragna a cloth. Ragna dipped the cloth in the water and dampened Wilf’s face. After a minute she thought he looked relieved, though that might have been her imagination.

Ragna said: “Agnes, go into town and fetch Hildi, the midwife who attended me when I gave birth to the twins.” Hildi was the most sensible medical practitioner in Shiring.

Agnes hurried away.

“Bern, talk to the soldiers and find someone who knows what happened to the ealdorman.”

“Right away, my lady.”

Wynstan came in. He said nothing but stood staring at the supine form of Wilf.

Ragna concentrated on her husband. “Wilf, can you understand me?”

He opened his eyes and took a long moment to fix his gaze on her, but then she could tell that he knew her. “Yes,” he said.

“How were you wounded?”

He frowned. “Can’t remember.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Headache.” The words came slowly but they were clear.

“How bad?”

“Not bad.”

“Anything else?”

He sighed. “Very tired.”

Wynstan said: “It’s serious.” Then he left.

Bern returned with a soldier called Bada. “It wasn’t even a battle, more of a skirmish,” Bada said in a tone of apology, as if his commander should not have been hurt in something as inglorious as a minor brawl.

Ragna said: “Just tell me how it happened.”

“Ealdorman Wilwulf was riding Cloud, as usual, and I was right behind him.” He spoke succinctly, a soldier reporting to a superior, and Ragna was grateful for his clarity. “We came upon a group of Vikings all of a sudden, on the bank of the river Exe a few miles upstream of Exeter. They had just raided a village and were loading the loot onto their ship—chickens, ale, money, a calf—before returning to their camp. Wilf jumped off his horse and stuck his sword into one of the Vikings, killing him; but he slipped on the riverside mud and fell. Cloud stamped on Wilf’s head, and Wilf lay like one dead. I couldn’t check right then—I was under attack myself. But we killed most of the Vikings and the rest escaped in their ship. Then I went back to Wilf. He was breathing, and eventually he came around.”

“Thank you, Bada.”

Ragna saw Hildi in the background, listening, and beckoned her forward.

A woman of about fifty, she was small in stature and gray-haired. She knelt beside Wilf and studied him, taking her time. She touched the lump on his head with gentle fingertips. When she pressed, Wilf winced without opening his eyes, and she said: “Sorry.” She peered closely at the wound, parting his hair to see the skin. “Look,” she said to Ragna.

Ragna saw that Hildi had lifted a patch of loose skin to show a crack in the skull beneath. It looked as if a sliver of bone had come away.

“This explains all the blood on his clothes,” Hildi said. “But the bleeding stopped long ago.”

Wilf opened his eyes.

Hildi said: “Do you know how you were hurt?”

“No.”

She held up her right hand with three fingers sticking up. “How many fingers?”

“Three.”

She lifted her left hand with four fingers showing. “How many altogether?”

“Six.”

Ragna was dismayed. “Wilf, can you not see clearly?”

He made no reply.

Hildi said: “His eyesight is fine, but I’m not sure about his mind.”

“God save him.”

Hildi said: “Wilwulf, what is your wife’s name?”

“Ragna.” He smiled.

That was a relief.

“What’s the king’s name?”

There was a long pause, then he said: “King.”

“And his wife?”

“I forget.”

“Can you name one of Jesus’ brothers?”

“Saint Peter.”

Everyone knew that Jesus’s brothers were James, Joseph, Jude, and Simeon.

“What number comes after nineteen?”

“Don’t know.”

“Rest now, Ealdorman Wilwulf.”

Wilf closed his eyes.

Ragna said: “Will the wound heal?”

“The skin will grow back and cover the hole, but I don’t know whether the bone will regrow. He needs to keep as still as possible for several weeks.”

“I’ll make sure of that.”

“It will help to tie a bandage around his head, to reduce movement. Give him watered wine or weak ale to drink, and feed him soup.”

“I will.”

“The most worrying sign is the loss of much of his memory, and it’s hard to say how serious that is. He remembers your name, but not the king’s. He can count up to three but not to seven, and certainly not to twenty. There’s nothing you can do about that but pray. After a head wound, sometimes people recover all their mental abilities, and sometimes they don’t. I know no more than that.” She looked up, noticing someone else entering, and she added: “And nor does anyone else.”

Ragna followed her glance. Gytha had come in with Father Godmaer, a priest at the cathedral who had studied medicine. He was a big, heavy man with a shaved head. A younger priest followed him in. “What is that midwife doing here?” said Godmaer. “Stand aside, woman. Let me look at the patient.”

Ragna considered telling him to leave. She had more faith in Hildi. But a second opinion could do no harm. She stepped back, and others followed suit, allowing Godmaer to kneel beside Wilf.

He was not as gentle as Hildi, and when he touched the swelling Wilf groaned in pain. It was too late for Ragna to protest.

Wilf opened his eyes and said: “Who are you?”

“You know me,” Godmaer said. “Have you forgotten?”

Wilf closed his eyes.

Godmaer turned Wilf’s head to one side, looked into his ear, then turned it again to look in the other ear. Hildi frowned anxiously and Ragna said: “Gently, please, Father.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Godmaer said haughtily, but he became a little less rough. He opened Wilf’s mouth and peered in, then pushed up his eyelids, and finally sniffed his breath.

He stood up. “The problem is an excess of black bile, especially in the head,” he announced. “This is causing fatigue, dullness, and memory loss. The treatment will be trepanning, to let the bile out. Pass me the bow drill.”

His young companion handed him the tool, which was used by carpenters to drill small holes. The sharpened iron bit was twisted into the string of the bow so that, when the bit was held firmly against a plank and the shaft of the bow moved to and fro, the point spun fast and pierced the wood.

Godmaer said: “I will now drill a hole in the patient’s skull to allow the accumulated choler to escape.

Hildi made an exasperated sound.

Ragna said: “Just a minute. There is already a hole in his skull. If there was an excess of any fluid it would surely have come out by now.”

Godmaer looked taken aback, and Ragna realized that he had not lifted the loose skin and therefore did not know about the crack in the skull. But he recovered quickly, squared his shoulders, and looked indignant. “I trust you’re not questioning the judgments of a medically trained man.”

Ragna could play that game. “As the wife of the ealdorman I question the judgment of everyone except my husband. I thank you for your attendance, Father, even though I did not invite you, and I will bear your advice in mind.”

Gytha said: “I invited him because he is the leading medical practitioner in Shiring. You have no right to deny the ealdorman the recommended treatment.”

“I’ll tell you something, stepmother-in-law,” said Ragna angrily. “I’ll make a hole in the throat of anyone who tries to make another hole in my husband’s head. Now take your pet priest out of my house.”

Godmaer gasped. Ragna realized she had gone too far—referring to Godmaer as “your pet priest” was close to sacrilege—but she hardly cared. Godmaer was arrogant, which made him dangerous. Medically trained priests rarely cured anyone, in her experience, but they often made sick people worse.

Gytha murmured something to Godmaer, who nodded, lifted his head, and stalked out, still carrying the bow drill. His assistant followed.

There were still too many people standing around uselessly. “Everyone except my servants please leave now,” Ragna said. “The ealdorman needs peace and quiet to get well.”

They all went out.

Ragna bent over Wilf again. “I will take care of you,” she said. “I will do as I have for the last half a year, and govern your territory as you would govern it.”

There was no response.

She said: “Do you think you can answer one more question?”

He opened his eyes, and his lips twitched in the ghost of a smile.

“What is the most important thing you need me to do now, as your deputy?”

She thought she saw a look of intelligence come over his face. He said: “Appoint a new commander for the army.” Then he closed his eyes.

Ragna sat on a cushioned stool and looked thoughtfully at him. He had given her a clear instruction in a moment of lucidity. From it she deduced that the army’s work was not yet done, and the Vikings had not been driven off. The men of Shiring needed to regroup and attack again. And for that they needed a new leader.

Wynstan would want his brother Wigelm to be in charge. Ragna dreaded that: the more power Wigelm acquired, the more likely he was to challenge her authority. Her choice would be Sheriff Den, an experienced leader and fighter.

In the shire court, where most decisions were reached by consensus, she could often get her way by force of personality, but with this decision she foresaw a problem. The men would have strong views and they would be quick to dismiss the opinion of a woman, who could not know much about warfare. She would have to be sly.

It was evening. The hours had gone by quickly. Ragna said to Agnes: “Go to Sheriff Den and ask him to come to me now. Don’t walk with him—I don’t want people to know I summoned him. It must look as if he heard the news and came to see the ealdorman, like everyone else.”

“Very well,” said Agnes, and she left.

Ragna said to Cat: “Let’s see if Wilf will drink some soup. Warm, not hot.”

There was a pot of mutton bones simmering over the fire. Cat ladled some of the juice into a wooden bowl, and Ragna inhaled the fragrance of rosemary. She broke a few morsels of bread from the inside of a loaf and dropped them in the soup, then knelt beside Wilf with a spoon. She took a piece of soaked bread, blew on it to cool it, and put it to his lips. He swallowed it with some sign of relish and opened his mouth for another.

By the time Ragna had finished feeding him, Agnes was back, and Den followed a few minutes later. He looked at Wilf and shook his head pessimistically. Ragna reported what Hildi had said. Then she told him of Wilf’s instruction to appoint a new army commander. “It’s you or Wigelm, and I want you,” she finished.

“I’d be better than Wigelm,” he said. “And he can’t do it anyway.”

Ragna was surprised. “Why not?”

“He’s indisposed. He hasn’t taken part in any action for two weeks. That’s why he’s not here—he stayed down near Exeter.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Piles—hemorrhoids—exacerbated by months of campaigning. They hurt so much that he can’t sit on a horse.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been talking to the thanes.”

“Well, that makes it easy,” said Ragna. “I’ll pretend to favor Wigelm, then, when his debility is revealed, you will reluctantly agree to step into the gap.”

Den nodded. “Wynstan and his friends will oppose me, but most of the thanes will support me. I’m not their favorite person, of course, because I make them pay their taxes, but they know I’m competent.”

Ragna said: “I will hold court tomorrow morning after breakfast. I want to make it clear from the start that I’m still in charge.”

“Good,” said Den.

The next day was warm, even first thing in the morning, but the cathedral was as cool as ever when Wynstan celebrated early Mass. He went through the ceremony with maximum solemnity. He liked to do what was expected of a bishop: it was important to maintain appearances. Today he prayed for the souls of the men who had died fighting the Vikings, and he begged for the healing of those wounded, especially Ealdorman Wilwulf.

All the same his mind was not on the liturgy. Wilwulf’s incapacity had upset the balance of power in Shiring, and Wynstan was desperate to learn Ragna’s intentions. This could be a chance to weaken her position or even get rid of her altogether. He had to be alert to all possibilities, and he needed to find out what she was up to.

The congregation was larger than usual for a weekday, swollen by the bereaved families of the men who had not returned from the fighting. Looking into the nave, Wynstan noticed Agnes among them, a small, thin woman in the drab clothes of a housemaid. She looked unremarkable, but her eyes met Wynstan’s with a clear message: she was here to see him. His hopes rose.

It was half a year since Ragna had condemned Agnes’s husband to death, half a year since Agnes had agreed to be Wynstan’s spy in Ragna’s house. In that time she had brought him no useful information. Nevertheless he had continued to speak to her at least once a month, feeling sure that one day she would justify his efforts. Fearing that her desire for revenge might fade, he had engaged Agnes emotionally, treating her as an intimate rather than a servant, speaking to her in conspiratorial tones, thanking her for her loyalty. He was subtly taking the place of her late husband, being affectionate but dominant, expecting to be obeyed without question. His instinct told him this was the way to control her.

Today he might be rewarded for his patience.

When the service was over Agnes lingered, and as soon as the other worshippers had gone Wynstan beckoned her into the chancel, put his arm around her bony shoulders, and drew her into a corner. “Thank you for coming to see me, my dear,” he said, making his voice quiet but intense. “I was hoping you would.”

“I thought you’d like to know what she’s planning.”

“I would, I would.” Wynstan tried to sound keen but not needy. “You are my pet mouse, creeping on silent feet into my room at night, lying on my pillow, and whispering secrets into my ear.”

She flushed with pleasure. He found himself wondering what she would do if he put his hand up her skirt right there in the church. He would do no such thing, of course: she was driven by desire for what she could not have, the strongest of all human motives.

She stared at him for a long moment, and he felt the need to break the spell. “Tell me,” he said.

She collected herself. “Ragna will hold court today, after breakfast.”

“Moving fast,” Wynstan said. “Characteristic. But what’s her agenda?”

“She will appoint a new commander for the army.”

“Ah.” He had not thought of that.

“She will say she wants Wigelm.”

“He can’t ride at the moment. That’s why he’s not here.”

“She knows that, but she will pretend to be surprised.”

“Crafty.”

“Then someone will say that the only alternative is Sheriff Den.”

“Her strongest ally. Dear God, with her running the court and Den commanding the army, Wilf’s family would be practically impotent.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“But now I’m forewarned.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know yet.” He would not have confided in her in any case. “But I’ll think of something, thanks to you.”

“I’m glad.”

“This is a dangerous time. You must tell me everything she does from now on. It’s really important.”

“You can count on me.”

“Go back to the compound and keep listening.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, my little mouse.” He kissed her lips then ushered her out.

The court formed a small group. This was not one of the regular meetings, and there had been no more than an hour’s notice. But the most important thanes had arrived with the army. Ragna held court in front of the great hall, sitting on the cushioned stool usually occupied by Wilwulf. Her choice of seat was deliberate.

However, she stood up to speak. Her height was an advantage. Leaders needed to be smart, not tall, she believed; but she had noticed that men were readier to defer to a tall person, and as a woman she used any weapon that came to hand.

She was wearing a brown-black dress, dark for authority, a bit loose so that her figure was not accentuated. All her jewelry today was chunky: pendant, bangles, brooch, rings. She had on nothing feminine, nothing dainty. She was dressed to rule.

The morning was her preferred time for meetings. The men were more sensible, less boisterous, having drunk only a cup of weak ale with their breakfast. They could be much more difficult after the midday meal.

“The ealdorman is seriously wounded, but we have every hope that he will recover,” she said. “He was fighting a Viking when he slipped in the riverside mud, and his horse kicked him in the head.” Most of them would know that already, but she said it to show them that she was not ignorant of the haphazard nature of battle. “You all know how easily something like that can happen.” She was gratified to see nods of approval. “The Viking died,” she added. “His soul is now suffering the agonies of hell.” Once again she saw that they approved of her words.

“In order to recover, Wilf needs peace and quiet and, most importantly, he must lie still so that his skull can mend. That is why my door is barred from the inside. When he wants to see someone, he will tell me, and I will summon the person. No one will be admitted unless invited.”

She knew that this news would be unwelcome, and she was expecting some opposition.

Sure enough, Wynstan pushed back. “You can’t keep the ealdorman’s brothers away.”

“I can’t keep anyone away. All I can do is follow Wilf’s orders. He will see whomever he wants, of course.”

Garulf, Wilf’s twenty-year-old son by Inge, said: “That’s not right. You could tell us to do anything, and pretend the orders came from him.”

That was exactly what Ragna intended.

She had expected someone to make this point, and she was glad it came from a lad rather than a respected older man: this made it easier to dismiss.

Garulf went on: “He might be dead. How would we know?”

“By the smell,” Ragna said crisply. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

Gytha spoke up. “Why did you refuse to let Father Godmaer perform the trepanning operation?

“Because Wilf’s skull already has a hole. You don’t need two holes in your arse and Wilf doesn’t need two in his head.”

The men laughed, and Gytha shut up.

Ragna said: “Wilf has briefed me on the military situation.” It had been Bada, but this sounded better. “The fighting has been inconclusive so far. Wilwulf wants the army to regroup, rearm, go back and finish the job—but he can’t lead you. So the main task of the court this morning is to appoint a new commander. Wilf did not express a wish, but I assume his brother Wigelm must be the preferred candidate.”

Bada spoke up. “He can’t do it—he can’t ride.”

Ragna pretended ignorance. “Why not?”

Garulf said: “He’s got a sore arsehole.”

The men chuckled.

Bada said: “He has piles—very badly.”

“So he really can’t get on a horse?”

“No.”

“Well,” Ragna said, as if thinking on her feet; “the next choice would have to be Sheriff Den.”

As agreed, Den pretended reluctance. “Perhaps a nobleman would be better, my lady.”

“If the thanes can agree on one of their number . . .” Ragna said dubiously.

Wynstan stood up from the bench where he had been sitting and stepped forward, making himself the center of attention. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he said, spreading his arms in a gesture of appeal and looking around the group.

Ragna’s heart sank. He’s got a plan, she thought, and I didn’t foresee it.

Wynstan said: “The commander should be Wilf’s son.”

Ragna said: “Osbert is two years old!”

“I mean his eldest son, of course.” Wynstan paused, smiling. “Garulf.”

“But Garulf is only—” Ragna stopped, realizing that although she thought of Garulf as a lad he was in fact twenty, with a man’s muscular body and a full beard. He was old enough to lead an army.

Whether he was wise enough was another question.

Wynstan said: “Everyone here knows Garulf to be a brave man!”

There was general agreement. Garulf had always been popular with the men-at-arms. But did they really want him to decide strategy?

Ragna said: “And do we feel that Garulf has the brains to lead the army?”

She probably should not have said it. The question would have come better from one of the thanes, a fighting man. They were predisposed to scorn anything a woman might say on such a subject. Her intervention shored up support for Garulf.

Bada said: “Garulf is young, but he has the aggressive spirit.”

Ragna saw the men nodding. She tried one more time. “The sheriff is more experienced.”

Wynstan said: “At collecting taxes!”

They all laughed, and Ragna knew she had lost.

Edgar was not used to failure. When it came, it bowled him over.

He had tried to build a bridge across the river at Dreng’s Ferry, but it had proved impossible.

He sat with Aldred on the bench outside the alehouse, listening to the sound of the river and staring at the ruins of his plan. He had succeeded, with great difficulty, in building a foundation on the riverbed for one of the pillars of the bridge, a simple box filled with stones to hold the base of the column firmly in place. He had fashioned a mighty beam of heart of oak, stout enough to bear the weight of people and carts as they crossed. But he could not insert the pillar into its socket.

It was evening, and he had been trying in the hot sun all day. At the end almost everyone in the village had been helping. The pillar had been held in place by long ropes, made at high cost by the newcomer Regenbald Roper. People on both banks had hauled on the ropes to keep the timber stable. Edgar and several others had stood on his raft in midstream trying to maneuver the enormous beam.

But everything moved: the water, the raft, the ropes, and the pillar. The timber itself insisted on rising to the surface.

At first it had been like a game, and there was laughter and banter as they all struggled. Several people had fallen into the water, to general hilarity.

To keep the pillar under water and at the same time position it in its socket should have been possible, but they had not done it. They had all become frustrated and bad-tempered. In the end Edgar had given up.

Now the sun was sinking, the monks had returned to the monastery, the villagers had returned to their homes, and Edgar was defeated.

Aldred was not yet willing to abandon the project. “It can be done,” he said. “We need more men, more ropes, more boats.”

Edgar did not think that would work. He said nothing.

Aldred said: “The problem was that your raft kept shifting. Whenever you pushed the pillar into the water, the raft would move away from the foundation.”

“I know.”

“What we really need is a whole row of boats, stretching out from the bank, tied together so that they can’t move so much.”

“I don’t know where we’d get that many boats,” Edgar said gloomily; but he could picture what Aldred was suggesting. The boats could be roped or even nailed together. The whole row would still move, but more slowly, more predictably, less capriciously.

Aldred was still fantasizing. “Maybe two rows, one on each side of the river.”

Edgar was so weary and downhearted that he was reluctant to entertain new ideas, but despite his mood he was intrigued by Aldred’s notion. It would provide a much more stable setup for the awkward task. All the same it might not be enough. However, something else was nagging at him as he pictured the two rows of boats growing out of the banks and reaching out into midstream. They would be steady, they would provide a sturdy platform on which to stand . . .

He said suddenly: “Perhaps we could build the bridge on the boats.”

Aldred frowned. “How?”

“The roadbed of the bridge could rest on boats, instead of on the riverbed.” He shrugged. “Theoretically.”

Aldred snapped his fingers. “I’ve seen that!” he said. “When I was traveling in the Low Countries. A bridge built on a row of boats. They called it a pontoon bridge.”

Edgar felt bemused. “So it can be done!”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never seen such a thing.” But Edgar was already designing it in his head. “They would have to be firmly braced at the shoreline.”

Aldred thought of a snag. “We can’t block the river. There’s not much traffic, but there is some. The ealdorman would object, and so would the king.”

“There can be a gap in the line of boats, spanned by the roadbed but wide enough for any normal riverboat to pass through.”

“Do you think you could build that?”

Edgar hesitated. Today’s experience had undermined his confidence. All the same, he thought a pontoon bridge was a possibility. “I don’t know,” he said with newfound caution. “But I think so.”

The summer was over, the harvest had been gathered in, and the nip of autumn was in the breeze when Wynstan rode with Garulf to join forces with the men of Devon.

Priests were not supposed to shed blood. This rule was often broken, but Wynstan normally found it a convenient excuse to avoid the discomfort and danger of war.

However, he was no coward. He was bigger and stronger than most men, and he was well armed. As well as the spear carried by everyone, he had a sword with a steel blade, a helmet, and a sort of sleeveless shirt of mail.

He was riding with the army, breaking his usual habit, in order to stay close to Garulf. He had connived to have Garulf made commander in chief because it was the only way to keep control of the army in the family’s hands. But it would be a disaster if Garulf were to die in battle. With Wilf so ill, Garulf had become important. While Ragna’s children were small, Garulf had a chance of inheriting Wilf’s fortune and his title. He could be the means by which the family kept its hold not just on the army, but on Shiring.

The road was a track through forested hills. One day before they were due at their rendezvous, they emerged from a wood and looked up a long valley. At the far, narrower end the river was a fast stream hurrying toward them. Then it widened and ran shallow over rocky falls, and finally consolidated into a deeper, slower waterway.

Six Viking ships were moored just below the falls, tied to the near bank, making a neat line. They were about two miles upstream from where Wynstan and the Shiring army stood staring out from among the trees.

This was the army’s first encounter with the enemy since Garulf became leader. Wynstan felt his stomach clench in anticipation. A man who did not suffer a spasm of fear before a battle was a fool.

The Vikings had made a small encampment on the mud beach, with a scatter of makeshift tents and numerous cooking fires giving up wisps of smoke. About a hundred men were visible.

Garulf’s army was three hundred strong, fifty mounted noblemen and two hundred and fifty foot soldiers.

“We outnumber them!” Garulf said excitedly, seeing an easy victory.

He might have been right, but Wynstan was not so sure. “We outnumber the ones we can see,” he said cautiously.

“Who else do we need to worry about?”

“Each of those ships could carry fifty men, more if crowded. At least three hundred came to England in them. Where are the rest?”

“What does it matter? If they’re not here, they can’t fight!”

“We might do better to wait until we’ve met up with the men of Devon—we’d be much stronger. And they’re only a day away, if that.”

“What?” said Garulf scornfully. “We outnumber the Vikings three to one, yet you want to wait until it’s six to one?”

The men laughed.

Encouraged, Garulf went on: “That seems timid. We must seize our opportunity.”

Perhaps he’s right, Wynstan thought. Anyway, the men were eager for action. The enemy seemed weak and they smelled blood. Coolheaded logic did not impress them. And perhaps logic did not win battles.

Nevertheless, Wynstan said warily: “Well, then, let’s take a closer look before we make a final decision.”

“Agreed.” Garulf looked around. “We’ll go back into the woods and tie up the horses. Then we’ll get behind that ridge and stay out of sight while we approach nearer.” He pointed into the distance. “When we reach that bluff, we’ll spy out the enemy from close up.”

All that sounded right, Wynstan thought as he tied his horse to a tree. Garulf understood tactics. So far, so good.

The army moved through the woods and crossed the gentle crown of the ridge, hidden by trees. On the far side they turned, moving parallel with the valley in an upstream direction. The men bantered, making jokes about bravery and cowardice, keeping their courage up. One said it was a shame there would be no one to rape after the battle; another said they could rape the Viking men; a third said that was a matter of personal taste, and everyone guffawed. Did they know from experience that they were too far away from the Vikings to be heard, Wynstan wondered—or were they just careless?

Wynstan soon lost track of how much ground they had covered, but Garulf showed no such uncertainty. “This is far enough,” he said eventually, his voice quieter now. He turned uphill, walked a few yards, then dropped to a crawl to approach the summit of the ridge.

Wynstan saw that they were indeed close to the bluff Garulf had indicated earlier. The thanes wriggled on their bellies to the vantage point, keeping their heads low to avoid being spotted by the enemy below. The Vikings were going about their casual business, stoking fires and fetching water from the river, unaware that they were being watched.

Wynstan felt queasy. He could see their faces and hear their desultory talk. He could even make out a few words: their language was similar to English. He was nauseated by the thought that he was here to cut these men with his sharp blade, to shed their blood and chop off their limbs and pierce their living, beating hearts, to make them fall helpless to the earth screaming in agony. People saw him as a cruel man—which he was—but what was about to happen was a different kind of brutality.

He looked up and down the river. On the far bank the ground rose to a low hill. If there were more Vikings in the area, they were probably farther upstream, having passed the falls on foot and gone on in search of a village or a monastery to raid.

Garulf wriggled backward on his belly, and the others followed suit. When they were well behind the ridge they stood up. Without speaking, Garulf beckoned them to follow him. They all remained silent.

Wynstan expected that they would withdraw for a further discussion, but that did not happen. Garulf moved a few yards farther, remaining behind the ridge, then turned down a ravine that led to the beach. The thanes followed, with the rest of the men close behind.

They were now in full view of the Vikings. It had happened with a suddenness that took Wynstan by surprise. As the men of Shiring moved downhill over the scrubby ground they remained quiet, gaining a few extra seconds of surprise. But soon one of the Vikings happened to glance up, saw them, and let out a cry of warning. With that the army broke its silence. Whooping and yelling, they ran pell-mell down the ravine, brandishing their weapons.

Wynstan took his sword in one hand and his spear in the other and joined the pack.

The Vikings realized immediately that they could not win. They abandoned their fires and their tents and dashed to the boats. They splashed through the shallows, severed the ropes with knives, and began to scramble aboard; but as they did so the English reached the beach, raced across it in a few moments, and caught up.

The two sides met at the edge of the river. A tidal wave of bloodlust swamped all lesser emotions, and Wynstan waded into the water, possessed by nothing but the overwhelming hunger for slaughter. He plunged his spear into the chest of a man who turned to face him, then swiped with his sword, left-handed, at the neck of another who tried to flee. Both men fell into the water. Wynstan did not wait to see whether they were dead.

The English had the advantage of always being in slightly shallower water, therefore freer to move. The thanes in the lead thrust with spears and swords and quickly killed dozens of Vikings. Wynstan saw that the enemy were mostly older men and poorly armed—some appeared to have no weapons, perhaps having left them on the beach when fleeing. He guessed that the best fighters in this group had been chosen for the raiding party.

After the initial explosion of hatred he managed to regain enough self-possession to stay close to Garulf.

Some of the Vikings made it to the ships, but then they were not able to go anywhere. To move six ships off their moorings and into midstream was a complex maneuver even when the ships each had a full complement of oarsmen. With just a few men aboard each, and too much panic for coordination, the vessels merely drifted and collided. The men standing up in the ships were also easy targets for a handful of English archers, who were standing back from the fray and shooting over the heads of their comrades.

The battle began to turn into a massacre. With all the Shiring men engaged there were three English to kill each Viking. The river became dark with blood and swollen with dead and dying men. Wynstan stood back, breathing hard, holding his bloodstained weapons. Garulf had been right to seize this chance, he thought.

Then he looked across the river, and cold dread seized him.

Hundreds of Vikings were coming. The raiding party must have been just out of sight over that hill. They were running down to the river and crossing the falls, jumping from stone to stone and splashing through shallow water. In a few moments they were on the beach, weapons held high, eager for battle. The dismayed English turned to meet them.

With a stab of pure fear Wynstan saw that it was now the English who were outnumbered. Worse, the Viking newcomers were well armed with long spears and axes, and they seemed younger and stronger than the men they had left behind to guard their encampment. They dashed along the bank and fanned out across the beach, and Wynstan guessed they hoped to surround the English and drive them into the water.

Wynstan looked at Garulf and saw a bewildered look on his face. “Tell the men to fall back!” Wynstan yelled. “Along the bank, downstream—otherwise we’ll get trapped!”

But Garulf seemed unable to think and fight at the same time.

I was so wrong, Wynstan thought in a whirlwind of desperation and fear. Garulf can’t command, he just hasn’t got the intelligence. That mistake could cost me my life today.

Garulf was defending himself vigorously against a big red-bearded Viking. As Wynstan looked, Garulf took a glancing blow to his right arm, dropped his sword, fell to one knee, and was hit on the head by a hammer wildly swung by a berserk Englishman, who then smashed it into the red beard.

Wynstan put his regrets aside, fought down panic, and thought fast. The battle was lost. Garulf was in danger of being killed or taken prisoner and enslaved. Retreat was the only hope. And those who retreated first were most likely to survive.

The red-bearded Viking was occupied with the berserk Englishman. Wynstan had a few seconds of respite. He sheathed his sword and stuck his spear into the mud. Then he bent down, picked up the unconscious Garulf, and slung the limp body over his left shoulder. He grabbed his spear in his right hand, turned, and moved away from the battle.

Garulf was a big lad, densely muscled, but Wynstan was strong, and not yet forty years old. He carried Garulf without undue effort, but he could not move fast with such a weight, and he broke into a stumble that was half walking, half running. He headed up the ravine.

He glanced back and saw one of the newly arrived Vikings break away from the battle on the beach and run after him.

He found the strength to move faster, and began to breathe hard as the upward slope became steeper. He could hear the pounding footsteps of his pursuer. He kept glancing back, and the man was closer every time.

At the last possible moment he turned, went down on one knee, slid Garulf off his shoulder onto the ground, and sprang forward with his spear uptilted. The Viking raised his ax over his head for the fatal blow, but Wynstan got under his guard. He thrust the sharpened iron point of his spear into the Viking’s throat and pushed with all his might. The blade penetrated the soft flesh, sliced through muscles and tendons, passed through the brain, and came out at the back of the head. The man died without a sound.

Wynstan picked Garulf up and went on up the ravine. At the top he turned and looked back. Now the English were surrounded, and the beach was carpeted with their dead. A few had broken away and fled along the bank in the downstream direction. They might be the only other survivors.

No one was looking at Wynstan.

He crossed the ridge, went downhill until he felt sure he was out of sight, then turned and trudged along the hillside toward the woods where the horses waited.

During one of Wilf’s lucid moments, Ragna told him about the battle. “Wynstan brought Garulf home, without serious injuries,” she said in conclusion. “But almost the entire army of Shiring was wiped out.”

Wilf said: “Garulf is a brave lad, but he’s no leader. He should never have been put in command.”

“It was Wynstan’s idea. He’s virtually admitted he was wrong.”

“You should have stopped it.”

“I tried, but the men wanted Garulf.”

“They like him.”

This was just like old times, Ragna thought; Wilf and her talking as equals, each interested in the other’s opinion. They were together more than they had ever been. She was with him day and night, taking care of every need, and she ruled the ealdormanry in his place. He seemed grateful for everything. His injury had made them close again.

This had happened against her deepest wishes. She would never feel about him as she once had. But suppose he wanted to resume their former passionate relationship? How would she react?

She did not have to decide just yet. They could not have sex now—Hildi had stressed that any sudden movement could be harmful—but when he was recovered he might want to go back to the passionate lovemaking of their early years. His brush with death might have brought him to his senses. Perhaps he would forget Carwen and Inge and cling to the woman who had nursed him back to health.

She would have to go along with whatever he wished for, she knew. She was his wife, she had no choice. But it was not what she wanted.

She took up the conversation again. “And now the Vikings have left as suddenly as they came. I suppose they got bored.”

“It’s their way: sudden attack, random raiding, instant success or failure, then home.”

“In fact they seem to have gone to the Isle of Wight. Apparently they show every sign of spending the winter there.”

“Again? It’s becoming a permanent base.”

“But I’m afraid they may come back.”

“Oh, yes,” said Wilf. “That’s one thing you can be sure of with the Vikings. They will be back.”