The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 30 February 1002

our bridge is a marvel,” said Aldred.

Edgar smiled. He was extremely pleased, especially after his initial failure. “It was your idea,” he said modestly.

“And you made it happen.”

They were standing outside the church, looking down the slope to the river. Both wore heavy cloaks against the winter cold. Edgar had a fur hat, but Aldred made do with his monkish hood.

Edgar studied the bridge with pride. As Aldred had envisaged, on each side of the river was a row of boats sticking out into the water like twin peninsulas. Each row was linked to a stout riverside mooring by ropes that allowed the bridge a small degree of movement. Edgar had built flat-bottomed boats, low-sided near the banks and rising in height toward the center. They were linked by oak beams bearing a framework that supported the timber roadbed above. There was a gap in the middle, where the span was highest, to allow river traffic to pass.

He wanted Ragna to see it. It was her admiration he craved. He imagined her looking at him with those sea-green eyes and saying How marvelous, you’re so clever to know how to do that, it looks perfect, and a sensation of warmth spread though his body, as if he had drunk a cup of mead.

Looking over Dreng’s Ferry, he recalled the rainy day when she had arrived here with all the grace of a dove curving down to a branch. Had he fallen in love with her right away? Perhaps just a little bit, even then.

He wondered when Ragna would come here again.

Aldred said: “Who are you thinking about?”

Edgar was startled by Aldred’s perception. He did not know what to say.

“Someone you love, obviously,” Aldred said. “It shows on your face.”

Edgar was embarrassed. “The bridge will need maintenance,” he said. “But if it’s looked after, it will last a hundred years.”

Ragna might never return to Dreng’s Ferry, of course. It was not an important place.

“Look at the people crossing,” said Aldred. “It’s a triumph.”

The bridge was already much used. People came to buy fish and to attend services. More than a hundred had crowded into the church at Christmas, and had witnessed the elevation of Saint Adolphus.

Everyone who crossed paid a farthing, and another farthing to go back. The monks had an income, and it was growing. “You did this,” Aldred said to Edgar. “Thank you.”

Edgar shook his head. “It’s your persistence. You’ve been through one setback after another, mostly due to the malice of evil men, and yet you never give up. Every time you’re knocked to the ground you just get up and start again. You amaze me.”

“My goodness,” said Aldred, looking inordinately pleased. “High praise.”

Aldred was in love with Edgar, and Edgar knew it. Aldred’s love was hopeless, for Edgar would never reciprocate. He would never fall in love with Aldred.

Edgar felt the same way about Ragna. He was in love with her, and it would never come to anything. She would never fall in love with him. There was no hope.

There was a difference, though. Aldred seemed reconciled with the way things were right now. He could feel sure he would never sin with Edgar, because Edgar would never want it.

By contrast, Edgar yearned with all his heart to consummate his love for Ragna. He wanted to make love to Ragna, he wanted to marry her, he wanted to wake up in the morning and see her head sharing his pillow. He wanted the impossible.

There was nothing to be gained by brooding on it. He said conversationally: “The tavern is busy.”

Aldred nodded. “That’s because Dreng isn’t there to be rude to everyone. The place always gets more customers when he’s away from home.”

“Where did he go?”

“Shiring. I don’t know why, some nefarious purpose, I expect.”

“He’s probably protesting about the bridge.”

“Protesting? To whom?”

“Good point,” said Edgar. “Wilwulf is still ill, apparently, and Dreng won’t get much sympathy from Ragna.”

Edgar was glad the village was busy. He shared Aldred’s affection for the place. They both wanted it to prosper. It had been a dump just a few years ago, a scatter of poor houses supporting two lazy and venal brothers, Degbert and Dreng. Now it had a priory, a fish shop, a saint, and a bridge.

That led Edgar’s thoughts to another topic. He said: “Sooner or later we’re going to need to build a wall.”

Aldred looked dubious. “I’ve never felt in danger here.”

“Every year the Vikings raid deeper into the west of England. And if our village continues to prosper, before long we’ll be worth raiding.”

“They always attack up rivers—but there’s an obstacle at Mudeford, that shallow stretch.”

Edgar remembered the wrecked Viking vessel on the beach at Combe. “Their ships are light. They can be dragged over the shallows.”

“If that happened, they would attack us from the river, not from land.”

“So first we would need to fortify the riverbank all the way around the bend.” Edgar pointed upstream, to where the river turned a right angle. “I’m talking about an earth rampart, possibly revetted with timber or stone in places.”

“Where would you put the rest of the wall?”

“It should start at the waterfront just beyond Leaf’s brewhouse.”

“Then your brothers’ farm would be outside.”

Edgar cared about his brothers more than they cared about him, but they were not in serious danger. “The Vikings don’t raid isolated farms—there’s not enough to steal.”

“True.”

“The wall would run uphill at the back of the houses: Bebbe’s place, then Cerdic and Ebba, then Hadwine and Elfburg, then Regenbald Roper, Bucca Fish, and me. Past my place it would turn right and go all the way to the river, to enclose the site of the new church, just in case we ever get to build it.”

“Oh, we’ll build it,” said Aldred.

“I hope so.”

“Have faith,” said Aldred.

Ragna watched as Hildi the midwife examined Wilf carefully. She made him sit upright on a stool, then brought a candle close to look at his head wound.

“Take that away,” he said. “It hurts my eyes.”

She moved it behind him so that it did not shine in his face. She touched the wound with her fingertips and nodded with satisfaction. “Are you eating well?” she said. “What did you have for breakfast?”

“Porridge with salt,” he replied glumly. “And a flagon of weak ale. A poor meal for a nobleman.”

Hildi met Ragna’s eye. “He had smoked ham and wine,” said Ragna quietly.

“Don’t contradict me,” Wilf said irritably. “I know what I had for breakfast.”

Hildi said: “How are you feeling?”

“I get headaches,” he replied. “Otherwise I’m fine—never better.”

“Good,” she said. “I think you’re ready to resume normal life. Well done.” She stood up. “Step outside with me for a moment, Ragna,” she said.

The bell was ringing for the midday meal as Ragna followed her out. “He has recovered physically,” Hildi said. “The wound has healed and he no longer needs to stay in bed. Let him have dinner in the great hall today. He can ride again as soon as he wants to.”

Ragna nodded.

“Sex, too,” Hildi said.

Ragna said nothing. She had lost all desire for sex with Wilf, but if he wanted it she would of course permit it. She had had a lot of time to think about it, and she was reconciled to a future of intimacy with a man she no longer loved.

Hildi went on: “But you must have noticed that his mind is not what it was.”

Ragna nodded. Of course she had.

“He can’t bear bright light, he’s bad-tempered and downhearted, and his memory is poor. I have seen several men with head injuries since the renewal of Viking raids, and his condition is typical.”

Ragna knew all that.

Hildi looked apologetic, as if she might be to blame for what she was reporting. “It’s been five months, and there are no signs of improvement.”

Ragna sighed. “Will there ever be?”

“No one can tell. It’s in God’s hands.”

Ragna took that as a no. She gave Hildi two silver pennies. “Thank you for being gentle with him.”

“I’m at your service, my lady.”

Ragna left Hildi and went back inside the house. “She says you can have your dinner in the great hall,” Ragna said to Wilf. “Would you like to?”

“Of course!” he said. “Where else would I have it?”

He had not dined in the great hall for almost a year, but Ragna did not correct him. She helped him get dressed then took his arm and walked him the short distance across the compound.

The midday meal was already under way. Ragna noticed that both Bishop Wynstan and Dreng were at the table. As Wilf and Ragna entered, the sound of talk and laughter quietened and then stopped as people stared in surprise: no one had been forewarned of Wilf’s reappearance. Then there was applause and cheering. Wynstan stood up, clapping, and finally everyone stood.

Wilf smiled happily.

Ragna took him to his usual chair, then sat beside him. Someone poured him a cup of wine. He drank it down and asked for more.

He ate heartily and guffawed at all the usual jokes the men made, seeming like his old self. Ragna knew this was an illusion that would not survive any attempt at serious conversation, and she found herself trying to protect him. When he said something foolish she laughed, as if he were just being amusing; and if it was extremely foolish she hinted that he was drinking too much. It was amazing how much idiocy could be passed off as men’s drunken humor.

Toward the end of the meal he became amorous. He put his hand under the table and stroked her thigh through the wool of her dress, moving slowly higher.

Here it comes, she thought.

Even though she had not held a man in her arms for almost a year, she was dismayed by the prospect. But she would do it. This was her life now, and she had to get used to it.

Then Carwen came in.

She must have slipped away from the dinner table and gone to change her clothes, Ragna thought, for now she was wearing a black dress that made her look older and red shoes that would have suited a whore. She had washed her face, too, and now she glowed with youthful health and vigor.

She caught Wilf’s eye immediately.

He smiled broadly, and then looked puzzled, as if trying to remember who she was.

Standing in the doorway she smiled back, then turned to leave, and with a slight motion of her head invited him to follow.

Wilf looked unsure. So he should, Ragna thought. He is sitting next to the wife who has cared for him constantly for the last five months; he can hardly walk away from her to chase a slave girl.

Wilf stood up.

Ragna stared at him with her mouth open, horrified. She could not conceal her distress: this was too much. I can’t bear it, she thought.

“Sit down, for God’s sake,” she hissed. “Don’t be a fool.”

He looked at her and seemed surprised; then he looked away and addressed the assembled diners. “Unexpectedly,” he began, and they all started to laugh. “Unexpectedly, I find I am called away.”

No, Ragna thought; this can’t be happening.

But it was. She struggled to hold back tears.

“I shall return later,” Wilf said, walking to the exit.

At the door he paused and turned back, with the instinctive feeling for dramatic timing that he had always had.

He said: “Much later.”

The men roared with laughter, and he went out.

Wynstan, Degbert, and Dreng left Shiring quietly, in the dark, leading their horses until they were outside the town. Only a few trusted servants knew they were leaving, and Wynstan was determined that no one else should find out. They had a packhorse loaded with a small barrel and a sack as well as food and drink, but they took no men-at-arms with them. Their mission was a dangerous secret.

They were careful not to be recognized on the road. Even with no entourage, anonymity was not easy. Degbert’s bald head was conspicuous, Dreng had a distinctive reedy voice, and Wynstan was one of the best-known men in the region. So they wrapped up in heavy cloaks, buried their chins in the folds, and shrouded their faces by pulling forward their hoods—none of which was unusual in the cold, wet February weather. They hurried past other travelers, spurning the usual exchanges of information. Rather than seek hospitality at an alehouse or monastery where they would have had to reveal their faces, they spent the first night at the home of a family of charcoal burners in the forest—surly, unsociable people who paid Wynstan a fee for the license to follow their occupation.

The nearer they got to Dreng’s Ferry, the greater the danger that they would be recognized. They had a mile or two to go on the second day when they suffered a tense moment. They met a group coming in the opposite direction: a family on foot, the woman holding a baby, the man with a bucket of eels that he must have bought from Bucca Fish, and two more children trailing behind. Dreng murmured: “I know that family.”

“So do I,” said Degbert.

Wynstan kicked his horse into a trot, and his companions did likewise. The family scattered to the sides of the road. Wynstan and the others rode past without speaking. The family were too busy getting out of the way of the flying hooves to take a good look at the riders. Wynstan thought they had got away with it.

Soon afterward, they turned off the road onto a near-invisible track through the trees.

Now Degbert took the lead. The woods thickened, and they had to dismount and walk the horses. Degbert found his way to an old ruined house, probably once the home of a forester, long abandoned. Its broken walls and half-collapsed roof would provide some shelter for their second night.

Dreng gathered an armful of deadfalls and lit a fire with a spark from a flint. Degbert unloaded the packhorse. The three men made themselves as comfortable as they could as night fell.

Wynstan took a long pull from a flask and passed it around. Then he gave instructions. “You’ll have to carry the barrel of tar with you to the village,” he said. “You can’t take the horse—it might make a noise.”

Dreng said: “I can’t carry a barrel. I’ve got a bad back. A Viking—”

“I know. Degbert can take it. You’ll carry the sack of rags.”

“That looks heavy enough.”

Wynstan ignored his grumbling. “What you have to do is simple. You dip the rags in the tar, then tie them to the bridge, ideally to the ropes and the smaller wooden components. Take your time, tie them tight, don’t rush the job. When they’re all attached, light a good, dry stick, then use that to ignite all the rags, one by one.”

“This is the part that worries me,” said Degbert.

“It will be the middle of the night. A few burning rags won’t wake anyone. You’ll have all the time in the world. When the rags are alight, walk quietly back up the hill. Don’t make a noise, don’t run until you’re out of earshot. I’ll be waiting for you here with the horses.”

“They’ll know it was me,” said Dreng.

“They’ll suspect you, perhaps. You were foolish enough to oppose the building of the bridge, a protest that was doomed to be ignored, as you should have known.” Wynstan was often infuriated by the stupidity of men such as Dreng. “But then they’ll recall that you were in Shiring when the bridge was set on fire. You were seen in the great hall two days ago, and you’ll be seen there again the day after tomorrow. If anyone is smart enough to realize that you were out of sight during a period long enough to get to Dreng’s Ferry and back, I will swear that the three of us were at my residence the whole time.”

Degbert said: “They’ll blame outlaws.”

Wynstan nodded. “Outlaws are useful scapegoats.”

Dreng said: “I could hang for this.”

“So could I!” said Degbert. “Stop whining—we’re doing it for you!”

“No, you’re not. You’re doing it because you hate Aldred, both of you.”

It was true.

Degbert detested Aldred for getting him kicked out of his comfortable minster. Wynstan’s hatred was more complex. Aldred had challenged him again and again. Each time, Wynstan had punished him; but Aldred never learned his lesson. This maddened Wynstan. People were supposed to be afraid of him. Someone who had defied him should never be seen to prosper. Wynstan’s curse had to be fatal. If Aldred could oppose him, others might get the same idea. Aldred was a crack in the wall that might one day bring down the whole building.

Wynstan made himself calm. “Who cares why we’re doing it?” he said, and his fury sounded in his voice despite his effort at self-control, so that the other two looked scared. “None of us is going to hang,” he said in a more emollient tone. “If necessary I shall swear that we’re innocent, and the oath of a bishop is too powerful.” He passed the wineskin around again.

After a while he put more wood on the fire and told the others to settle down to rest. “I’ll stay awake,” he said.

They lay down, wrapped in their cloaks, but Wynstan remained sitting upright. He would have to guess when it was the middle of the night. Perhaps the exact hour did not matter, but he needed to feel sure the villagers were in the deepest trough of slumber, and the monks were a few hours away from their predawn service of Matins.

He was uncomfortable, feeling the aches and pains of a body almost forty years old, and he asked himself whether it had really been necessary for him to sleep rough in the forest with Degbert and Dreng; but he knew the answer. He had to make sure they did the job thoroughly and at the same time discreetly. As with all the most important tasks, his hands-on supervision was the only guarantee of success.

He was glad he had gone into battle with Garulf. If he had not been there, the boy would surely have been killed. These were things a bishop should not have to do. But Wynstan was no ordinary bishop.

While he waited for the hours to pass he brooded over the illness of his half brother, Wilf, and its consequences for Shiring. It was plain to Wynstan, though not to everyone, that Wilf’s recovery was partial. Ragna was still the main conduit for his instructions: she decided what was to be done and then pretended that her decisions were his wishes. Bern the Giant was still in charge of Wilf’s personal bodyguard and Sheriff Den was in command of the Shiring army, what was left of it. Wilf’s recovery served mainly to allow him to confirm her authority.

Wynstan and Wigelm had been cleverly sidelined. They retained authority in their respective spheres, Wynstan in the diocese and Wigelm at Combe, but they had little general power. Garulf had recovered from his injuries, but the disastrous battle with the Vikings had destroyed his reputation and he had no credibility. Gytha had long been stripped of influence in the compound. Ragna still reigned supreme.

And there was nothing Wynstan could do about it.

He had no trouble staying alert as the night wore on. A maddeningly intractable problem would always keep him awake. He took a few sips of wine now and again, never very much. He threw wood on the fire, just enough to keep it going.

When he judged it was past midnight, he woke Degbert and Dreng.

Brindle growled in the night. The sound did not quite wake Edgar. He was vaguely aware and recognized it as the muted warning the dog gave when she heard someone pass the house at night but recognized the step of a person she knew. Edgar understood that he did not need to respond, and went back to sleep.

Some time later, the dog barked. That was different. It was an urgent, frightened bark that said Wake up quickly, now, I’m really scared.

Edgar smelled burning.

The air was always smokey in his house, as it was in every house in England, but this was a different aroma, sharper and slightly ripe, pungent. In the first moment of wakefulness he thought of tar. In the second moment he realized this was some kind of emergency, and he leaped to his feet, full of fear.

He threw open the door and stepped out. He saw with horror where the smell came from: the bridge was alight. Flames flickered maliciously in a dozen different places, and on the surface of the water their reflections danced with insane glee.

Edgar’s masterpiece was burning.

He ran down the hill in his bare feet, hardly noticing the cold. The fire blazed higher in the few seconds it took him to reach the waterside, but the bridge could still be saved, he thought, if enough water could be thrown on it. He stepped into the river, cupped his hands in the water, and splashed a burning timber.

He realized immediately that this was hopelessly inadequate. He had allowed panic to direct him for a few moments. He stopped, breathed, and looked around. Every house was daubed with orange-red reflections. No one else was awake. “Help!” he yelled desperately. “Everybody, come quickly! Fire! Fire!”

He ran to the alehouse and banged on the door, shouting. It was opened a moment later by Blod, big-eyed and scared, her dark hair tangled. “Bring buckets and pots!” Edgar yelled. “Quickly!” Blod, showing impressive presence of mind, immediately reached behind the door and handed him a wooden bucket.

Edgar dashed into the river and began throwing bucketfuls of water over the flames. Seconds later he was joined by Blod with Ethel, who carried a big clay jar, and Leaf, staggering with an iron cooking pot.

It was not enough. The flames were spreading faster than the people could put them out.

Other villagers appeared: Bebbe, Bucca Fish, Cerdic and Ebba, Hadwine and Elfburg, Regenbald Roper. As they ran to the river, Edgar saw that they were all empty-handed. Maddened with frustration, he yelled: “Bring pots! You idiots, bring pots!” They realized they could do little without water containers, and turned back to their houses to find what was needed.

Meanwhile, the fire grew quickly. The smell of tar was diminishing, but the flat-bottomed boats were burning strongly and even the oak timbers were now catching alight.

Then Aldred came out of the monastery followed by the rest of the monks, all carrying pots, jars, and small barrels. “Go to the downstream side!” Edgar shouted, accompanying his words with an arm gesture. Aldred led the monks into the river on the other side of the bridge and they all began throwing water on the flames.

Soon the whole village had joined in. Some who could swim crossed the cold river and attacked the blaze at the far end of the bridge. But even at the near end, Edgar saw with despair, they were losing the battle.

Mother Agatha arrived with two other nuns in their tiny boat.

Leaf, Dreng’s elder wife, who was probably drunk as well as sleepy, stumbled out of the river, exhausted. Edgar noticed her and feared she was in danger of reeling into the flames. She dropped to her knees in the riverside mud and swayed sideways. She managed to right herself, but not before her hair caught fire.

She screamed in pain, came upright, and ran, blindly heading away from the water that could save her. Ethel went after her, but Edgar was quicker. He threw down his bucket and ran. He caught Leaf easily, but saw that she was already badly burned, the skin of her face blackened and cracking. He threw her to the ground. There was no time to carry her back to the river: she would be dead before they got there. He pulled his tunic off and wrapped it around her head, smothering the flames instantly.

Mother Agatha appeared beside him. She bent over and gently removed Edgar’s garment from around Leaf’s head. It came away scorched, with some of Leaf’s hair and face attached to the woolen fibers. She touched Leaf’s chest, feeling for a heartbeat, then shook her head sadly.

Ethel burst into tears.

Edgar heard a great creak, like the groan of a giant, then a mammoth splash. He turned to see that the far end of the bridge had crashed into the river.

He glimpsed something on the bank just downstream of the ruined bridge. It piqued his curiosity. Not caring that he was stark naked, he stepped to the bank and picked it up. It was a half-burned rag. He sniffed it. As he had suspected, it had been soaked in tar.

In the light of the dying flames he saw his brothers, Erman and Eadbald, hurrying along the bank from the farmhouse. Cwenburg was close behind them, carrying eighteen-month-old Beorn and holding the hand of Winnie, aged four. Now the whole village was here.

He showed the rag to Aldred. “Look at this.”

At first Aldred did not understand. “What is it?”

“A rag soaked in tar and set alight. It obviously fell in the water, which put out the flames.”

“You mean it was originally tied to the bridge?”

“How do you think the bridge caught fire?” The other villagers began to gather around Edgar, listening. “There’s been no storm, no lightning. A house might burn, because a house has a fire in the middle of it, but what could set light to a bridge in the middle of winter?”

The cold got to his naked body at last, and he began to shiver.

Aldred said: “Someone did this.”

“When I discovered the fire, the bridge was burning in a dozen separate places. An accidental fire starts in one place. This was arson.”

“But who did it?”

Bucca Fish was listening. “It must have been Dreng,” he said. “He hates the bridge.” Bucca, by contrast, loved it: his business had multiplied.

Fat Bebbe overheard. “If it was Dreng, he’s killed his own wife,” she said.

The monks crossed themselves, and old Tatwine said: “God bless her soul.”

Aldred said: “Dreng is in Shiring. He can’t have started the fire.”

Edgar said: “Who else?”

No one answered the question.

Edgar studied the dying flames, assessing the damage. The far end of the bridge was gone. At the near end, the embers still glowed, and the entire structure was leaning downstream precipitously.

It was utterly beyond repair.

Blod came to him holding a cloak. After a moment he realized it was his own. She must have gone to his house and fetched it. She also had his shoes.

He put the cloak on. He was shivering too much to manage the shoes, so Blod knelt in front of him and put them on his feet.

“Thank you,” said Edgar.

Then he began to cry.