The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 31 June 1002

agna sat astride her horse and looked down the slope at the village of Dreng’s Ferry. The ruined bridge stood out like a gallows in a marketplace. The blackened timbers were twisted and broken. At the far end nothing was left but the deeply embedded abutment: the boats and the superstructure had become detached, and scorched beams littered the downstream banks. At the near side the flat-bottomed boats were still in place, but the framework and the roadbed had collapsed into them, forming a tragic heap of destroyed carpentry.

She felt for Edgar. He had talked passionately about this bridge whenever they met in Outhenham and Shiring: the challenge of building in the river, the need for strength enough to bear the weight of loaded carts, the beauty of well-fitting oak joinery. He had put his soul into that bridge, and now he must be heartbroken.

No one knew who had set the fire, but Ragna had no doubt about who was behind it. Only Bishop Wynstan was malicious enough to do such a thing and clever enough to get away with it.

She hoped to see Edgar today, to talk about the quarry, but she was not sure whether he was here or at Outhenham. She would be disappointed if she had missed him. However, that was not her main purpose here.

She touched Astrid’s flanks with her heels and moved slowly down the hill, followed by her entourage. Wilwulf was with her, and she had brought Agnes as her maid—Cat was back at the compound taking care of the children. Ragna was guarded by Bern and six men-at-arms.

Wilf now spent his days being cared for by Ragna and his nights with Carwen. He pleased himself, as he always had; in that respect he had not changed. He saw Ragna as a banquet table from which he could select what he wanted, leaving the rest. He had loved her body until he was distracted by another one; he relied more than ever on her intelligence to help him govern; and he acted as if she had no more soul than his favorite horse.

In the days since his physical recovery she had developed a sense that he was in danger, an intuition that was getting stronger. She had come to Dreng’s Ferry to do something about it. She had a plan, and she was here to win support for it.

Dreng’s Ferry smelled of brewing ale, as it often did. She rode past a house with a display of silvery fish on a stone slab outside the door: the village had acquired its first shop. There was a new extension on the north side of the little church.

By the time she and Wilf reached the monastery, Aldred and the monks were lined up outside to greet them. Wilf and the men would sleep here tonight; Ragna and Agnes would cross to Leper Island and spend the night at the nunnery, where Ragna would be welcomed only too warmly by Mother Agatha.

For some reason she was reminded of her first meeting with Aldred, back in Cherbourg. He was still handsome, but his face now had worry lines that had not been there five years ago. He was not yet forty, she calculated, but he looked older.

She greeted him and said: “Are the others here?”

“Waiting in the church, in accordance with your instructions,” he replied.

She turned to Wilf. “Why don’t you go to the stable with the men and make sure the horses are looked after?”

“Good idea,” said Wilf.

Ragna went with Aldred to the church. “I see you’ve built an extension,” she said as they approached the entrance.

“Thanks to free stone from you, and a builder who takes reading lessons instead of pay.”

“Edgar.”

“Of course. The new transept is a side chapel for the relics of Saint Adolphus.”

They went in. A trestle table had been set up in the nave, with parchment, a bottle of ink, several quills, and a penknife with which to sharpen the points of the quills. Sitting on benches at the table were Bishop Modulf of Norwood and Sheriff Den.

Ragna felt confident of the support of Aldred for her scheme. The hard-faced Sheriff Den had consented in advance. She was not so sure of Modulf, a thin man with a sharp mind. He would help her if her plan made sense to him, but not otherwise.

She sat down with them. “Thank you, bishop, and you, sheriff, for agreeing to meet me here.”

Den said: “Always a pleasure, my lady.”

Modulf said warily: “I’m eager to hear the reason for this mysterious invitation.”

Ragna got straight down to business. “Ealdorman Wilwulf is now physically well, but as you eat supper with him this evening you’ll wonder about his mind. I can tell you now that he is not the man he used to be, mentally, and all the signs are that he will never return to normal.”

Den nodded. “I had wondered . . .”

Modulf said: “And what, exactly, do you mean when you say ‘mentally’?”

“His memory is erratic and he has difficulty with numbers. This leads him to make embarrassing mistakes. He addressed Thane Deorman of Norwood as ‘Emma’ and offered him a thousand pounds for his horse. If I’m present, which is nearly always, I laugh and try to brush it off.”

Modulf said: “This is bad news.”

“I’m sure Wilf is now incapable of leading an army against the Vikings.”

Aldred said: “I noticed, a few minutes ago, that you told him to go to the stable with the men, and he just obeyed you like a child.”

Ragna nodded. “The old Wilf would have bristled at orders from his wife. But he’s lost his aggression.”

Den said: “That makes it serious.”

Ragna went on: “For the most part people accept my explanations, but that can’t last. The shrewder men are already noticing a change, as Aldred and Den have, and before long people will talk of it openly.”

Den said: “A weak ealdorman offers an opportunity to an ambitious and unscrupulous thane.”

Aldred said: “What do you think might happen, sheriff?”

Den did not answer immediately.

Ragna said: “I think someone will kill him.”

Den gave the briefest of nods: it was what he had thought but hesitated to say.

There was a long silence.

Finally Modulf said: “But what can Aldred, Den, and I do about it?”

Ragna suppressed a sigh of satisfaction. She had won her point; she had convinced the bishop that there was a problem. Now she had to sell him her solution.

“I think there is one way to protect him,” she said. “He’s going to make a will. It will be in English, so that Wilf can read it.”

“And me,” said Den. Noblemen and royal officials could often read English but not Latin.

Modulf said: “And what will the deed say?”

“He will make our son Osbert heir to his fortune and the ealdormanry, with me to manage everything on Osbert’s behalf until he comes of age. Wilf will agree to it today, here in the church, and I’m asking you three dignitaries to witness his agreement and put your names to the document.”

Modulf said: “I’m not a worldly man. I’m afraid I don’t see how this protects Wilwulf from assassination.”

“The only motive for anyone to murder Wilf would be the hope of succeeding him as ealdorman. The will preempts that by making Osbert the successor.”

Den, who was the king’s man in Shiring, said: “Such a will would have no validity unless endorsed by the king.”

“Indeed,” said Ragna. “And when I have your names on the parchment I will take it to King Ethelred and beg his consent.”

“Will the king agree?” said Modulf.

Den said: “Inheritance is by no means automatic. It is the king’s prerogative to choose the ealdorman.”

“I don’t know what the king will say,” Ragna said. “I only know I have to ask.”

Aldred said: “Where is the king now—does anybody know?”

Den knew. “As it happens, he’s on his way south,” he said. “He’ll be at Sherborne in three weeks’ time.”

“I will see him there,” said Ragna.

Edgar knew that Ragna had arrived in Dreng’s Ferry, but he was not sure he would see her. She was with Wilwulf, and they had come for a meeting at the monastery that involved two other nobles whose identities were being kept secret. So he was surprised and overjoyed when she walked into his house.

It was like the sun coming from behind a cloud. He felt short of breath, as if he had been running uphill. She smiled, and he was the happiest man on earth.

She looked around his house, and suddenly he saw it through her eyes: the neat rack of tools on the wall, the small wine barrel and cheese safe, the cooking pot over the fire giving off a pleasant herby odor, Brindle wagging a greeting.

She pointed to the box on the table. “That’s beautiful,” she said. Edgar had made it, and carved a design of interlocking serpents to symbolize wisdom. “What do you keep in such a lovely container?” she asked.

“Something precious. A gift from you.” He lifted the lid.

Inside was a small book called Enigmata, a collection of riddles in poem form, a favorite of Ragna’s. She had given it to him when he learned to read. “I didn’t know you made a special box for it,” she said. “How nice.”

“I must be the only builder in England who owns a book.”

She gave him that smile again and said: “God didn’t make two like you, Edgar.”

He felt warm all over.

She said: “I’m so sorry about the burning of the bridge! I’m sure Wynstan had something to do with it.”

“I agree.”

“Can you rebuild it?”

“Yes, but what’s the point? It could be burned down again. He got away with it once, he may do so again.”

“I suppose so.”

Edgar was sick of talking about the bridge. To change the subject he asked her: “How are you?”

She seemed about to make a conventional reply, then appeared to change her mind. “To tell you the truth, I’m utterly miserable.”

Edgar was taken aback. It was an intimate confession. He said: “I’m so sorry. What’s happened?”

“Wilwulf doesn’t love me, and I’m not sure he ever did, not as I understand love.”

“But . . . you seemed so fond of each other.”

“Oh, he couldn’t get enough of me for a while, but that wore off. He treats me like one of his men friends now. He hasn’t come to my bed for a year.”

Edgar could not help feeling glad about that. It was an unworthy thought, and he hoped it did not show on his face.

Ragna appeared not to notice. “He prefers his slave girl at night,” she said with contempt in her voice. “She’s fourteen years old.”

Edgar wanted to express the sympathy he was feeling, but it was difficult to find words. “That’s shameful,” he said.

She let her anger show. “And it’s not what we promised when we made our vows! I never agreed to this kind of marriage.”

He wanted to keep her talking because he yearned to know more. “How do you feel about Wilf now?”

“For a long time I tried to go on loving him, hoped to win him back, dreamed that he would tire of others. But now something else has happened. The head injury he suffered last year has damaged his mind. The man I married is gone. Half the time I’m not sure he even remembers that he’s married to me. He treats me more like a mother.” Her eyes filled with tears.

Tentatively, Edgar reached for her. She did not move away. He took both her small hands in his, and was thrilled when he felt her answering grasp. He looked at her face and felt closer to contentment than he had ever been. He watched the tears overflow her eyes and run down her face, raindrops on rose petals. Her expression was a grimace of pain, but to him she had never been more beautiful. They stood still for a long time.

At last she said: “I’m still married, though.” And she withdrew her hands.

He said nothing.

She wiped her face with her sleeve. “May I have a sip of wine?”

“Anything.” He drew wine from the barrel into a wooden cup.

She drank it and handed back the cup. “Thank you.” She began to look more normal. “I have to cross the river to the nunnery.”

Edgar smiled. “Don’t let Mother Agatha kiss you too much.” Everyone liked Agatha, but she did have a weakness.

Ragna said: “Sometimes it’s a comfort to be loved.” She gave him a direct look, and he understood that she was talking about him as well as Agatha. He felt bewildered. He needed time to think about that.

After a moment she said: “How do I look? Will they know what we’ve been doing?”

And what have we been doing, Edgar wondered? “You look fine,” he said. What a stupid thing to say, he thought. “You look like a sad angel.”

“I wish I had the powers of an angel,” she said. “Think what I could do.”

“What would you do first?”

She smiled, shook her head, turned around, and left.

Once again Wynstan spoke to Agnes in a corner of the chancel, near the altar but out of sight of the nave. There was a Bible on the altar and, near his feet, a chest containing holy water and the sacramental bread. Wynstan had no qualms about conducting business in the holiest part of the church. He worshipped Jehovah, the Old Testament god who had ordered the genocide of the Canaanites. What needs to be done must be done, and God had no use for the squeamish, he believed.

Agnes was excited but nervous. “I don’t know the whole story, but I have to tell you anyway,” she said.

“You’re a wise woman,” he said. She was not, but he needed her to calm down. “Just tell me what happened, and leave me to figure out its significance.”

“Ragna went to Dreng’s Ferry.”

Wynstan had heard as much, but he did not know what to make of it. There was nothing for Ragna in that little hamlet. She had a soft spot for the young builder, but Wynstan felt sure she was not fucking him. “What did she do there?”

“She and Wilf met with Aldred and two other men. The identities of the others were supposed to be secret, but it’s a small place, and I saw them. They were Bishop Modulf of Norwood and Sheriff Den.”

Wynstan frowned. That was interesting, but it raised more questions than it answered. “Did you get any hint of the purpose of the meeting?”

“No, but I think they all witnessed a parchment.”

“A written agreement,” Wynstan mused. “I don’t suppose you caught a glimpse of it.”

She smiled. “What would such a thing mean to me?” She could not read, of course.

“I wonder what that French bitch is up to,” Wynstan said, mainly to himself. Most documents were about land being sold, leased, or gifted. Had Ragna persuaded Wilf to transfer land to Prior Aldred or Bishop Modulf, a pious gift? But that would not have needed a secret meeting. Marriage contracts might be written, if property was to change hands, but it seemed no marriage had taken place at Dreng’s Ferry. Births were not recorded, even royal births, but deaths were—and wills were written. Had someone made a will? Ragna might have persuaded Wilf to do so. Wilf had not recovered fully from his head wound, and might yet die of it.

The more Wynstan thought about it, the more sure he felt that the purpose of Ragna’s clandestine meeting was to get the ealdorman’s will secretly written and witnessed.

The problem with that was that a nobleman’s will meant little. The king had control of every dead nobleman’s property, including that of widows. No will had any force unless is was ratified in advance by the king.

Wynstan asked Agnes: “Was anything said about going to see King Ethelred?”

“How did you know that?” she said. “You’re so clever! Yes, I heard Bishop Modulf say he would see Ragna at Sherborne when the king is there.”

“That’s it,” said Wynstan decisively. “She’s written Wilf’s will, it’s been witnessed by a bishop, a sheriff, and a prior, and now she’s going to ask for royal approval.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She thinks Wilf is going to die, and she wants her son to inherit.” Wynstan thought further. “She will have got Wilf to designate her to rule as regent for Osbert until he comes of age, I’m sure.”

“But Garulf is also Wilf’s son, and he’s twenty. Surely the king would prefer him to a child.”

“Unfortunately Garulf’s a fool, and the king knows it. Last year Garulf lost most of the Shiring army in one injudicious battle, and Ethelred was furious about the waste of all those fighting men. Ragna is a woman, but she’s as clever as a cat, and the king would probably rather have her in charge of Shiring than Garulf.”

“You understand everything,” Agnes said admiringly.

She was gazing at him in adoration, and he wondered whether he should gratify her evident desire, but he decided it was better to keep her hoping. He touched her cheek, as if he were about to whisper an endearment, but what he said was: “Where would Ragna keep such a document?”

“At the house, in the locked chest with her money,” Agnes said in an ardent whisper.

He kissed her lips. “Thank you,” he said. “You’d better go.”

He watched her walk away. She had a nice trim figure. Maybe one day he would give her what her heart desired.

But the news she had brought him was no light matter. It could mean the final demise of his powerful family. He had to talk to his younger brother about it. Wigelm happened to be in Shiring, and staying at the bishop’s residence, but Wynstan wanted to have a plan of action worked out before he opened the conversation. He remained in the cathedral, alone, glad of the chance to think without interruption.

As he brooded, it became clear to him that his troubles would never be over until he had destroyed Ragna. The problem was not just the will. As the wife of a disabled ealdorman Ragna had power, and she was sufficiently intelligent and determined to make the most of it.

Whatever Wynstan decided, he had to act quickly. If Ethelred endorsed the will its provisions would be set in stone: nothing Wynstan could do thereafter would change anything. Ragna must not be allowed even to show it to the king.

Ethelred was due in Sherborne in eighteen days’ time.

Wynstan left the cathedral and crossed the market square to his residence. He found Wigelm on the upstairs floor, sitting on a bench, sharpening a dagger on a stone. He looked up and said: “What’s made you glum?”

Wynstan shooed a couple of servants out and closed the door. “In a minute you’re going to be glum, too,” he said, and he told Wigelm what Agnes had reported.

“King Ethelred must never see that will!” said Wigelm.

“Obviously,” said Wynstan. “It’s a knife at my throat, and yours.”

Wigelm thought for a minute, then said: “We have to steal the will and destroy it.”

Wynstan sighed. Sometimes it seemed he was the only person who understood anything. “People make copies of documents to guard against that sort of thing. I imagine that all three witnesses took away duplicates from the meeting at Dreng’s Ferry. In the unlikely event that there are no copies, Ragna could just write another will and get it witnessed again.”

Wigelm’s face took on a familiar petulant look. “Well, what can we do, then?”

“We can’t let the situation continue.”

“I agree.”

“We have to destroy Ragna’s power.”

“I’m in favor of that.”

Wynstan led Wigelm step-by-step. “Her power depends on Wilf.”

“And we don’t want to take that away from him.”

“No.” Wynstan sighed. “I hate to say it, but all our problems will be solved if Wilf dies soon.”

Wigelm shrugged. “That’s in God’s hands, as you priests like to say.”

“Perhaps.”

“What?”

“His demise could be hastened.”

Wigelm was baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s only one answer.”

“Well, come on, spit it out, Wynstan.”

“We have to kill Wilf.”

“Ha, ha!”

“I mean it.”

Wigelm was shocked. “He’s our brother!”

“Half brother. And he’s losing his mind. He’s more or less under control of the cow from Normandy, something that would shame him if he wasn’t too demented to know that it’s happening. It will be a kindness to end his life.”

“Still . . .” Wigelm lowered his voice, even though the room was empty but for the two of them. “To kill a brother!”

“What needs to be done must be done.”

“We can’t,” said Wigelm. “It’s out of the question. Think of something else. You’re the great thinker.”

“And I think you’ll hate it when you’re replaced as reeve of Combe by someone who hands over taxes to the ealdorman without skimming a fifth off the top.”

“Would Ragna replace me?”

“In a heartbeat. She’d have done it already, except that no one would believe Wilf had agreed to it. Once he’s gone . . .”

Wigelm looked thoughtful again. “King Ethelred wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Why not?” said Wynstan. “He did the same thing himself.”

“I’ve heard some such story.”

“Twenty-four years ago, Ethelred’s older half brother, Edward, was king. Ethelred was living with his mother, Elfryth, who was stepmother to the king. Edward went to visit them and was murdered by their men-at-arms. Ethelred was crowned the following year.”

“Ethelred must have been about twelve years old.”

Wynstan shrugged. “Young? Yes. Innocent? God knows.”

Wigelm made a skeptical face. “We can’t kill Wilf. He has a squad of bodyguards, commanded by Bern the Giant, who is a Norman and a longtime servant of Ragna’s.”

One day, Wynstan thought, I won’t be here to do all the thinking for my family. I wonder if then they will just stand still and do nothing, like an ox team when the ploughman walks away.

He said: “The killing itself is easy. It’s the management of the aftermath we have to worry about. We’ll need to move into action the minute he’s dead, while Ragna is still stunned with shock. We don’t want to eliminate Wilf only to find that she takes charge anyway. We have to become masters of Shiring before she recovers her composure.”

“How do we do that?”

“We need a plan.”

Ragna was not sure about the feast.

Gytha had come to her with a reasonable request. “We should celebrate Wilf’s recovery,” she said. “Let everyone know that he’s fit and well again.”

He was not, of course, but the pretence was important. However, Ragna did not like him to drink to excess: he became even more fuddled than a normal drunk. “What kind of celebration?” she said, prevaricating.

“A feast,” said Gytha. “The way he likes,” she added pointedly. “With dancing girls, not poets.”

He was entitled to some fun, Ragna thought guiltily. “And a juggler,” she said. “And a jester, perhaps?”

“I knew you’d agree,” Gytha said quickly, nailing it down.

“I have to leave for Sherborne on the first day of July,” Ragna said. “Let’s do it on the night before.”

That morning she made her plans and packed her bags. She was ready to depart next day, but first she had to sit through tonight’s feast.

Gytha donated a barrel of mead to the festivities. Made from fermented honey, mead was both sweet and strong, and men could get drunk on it quickly. Ragna would have forbidden it if she had been asked, but now she did not want to seem a killjoy, so she made no objection. She could do no more than hope that Wilf would not drink too much. She spoke to Bern and ordered him to remain sober, so that he could look after Wilf if necessary.

Wilf and his brothers were in a convivial mood, but to her relief they seemed to be drinking moderately. Some of the men-at-arms were not so judicious, perhaps because for them mead was a rare treat, and the evening became raucous.

The jester was very funny, and came dangerously close to lampooning Wynstan, pretending to be a priest and blessing a dancing girl then grabbing her breasts. Happily, Wynstan was not in a mood to take offense, and he laughed as heartily as anyone.

Darkness fell, the lamps were lit, the table was cleared of dirty bowls, and the drinking continued. Some people became sleepy or amorous, or both. Adolescents flirted, and married women giggled when their friends’ husbands took minor liberties. If major liberties were taken it happened outside, in the dark.

Wilf began to look tired. Ragna was about to suggest that Bern help him to bed, but his brothers took charge: Wynstan and Wigelm held an arm each and escorted him out.

Carwen followed close behind.

Ragna summoned Bern. “The bodyguards are all more or less drunk,” she said. “I want you to stand guard with them all night.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Bern.

“You can sleep tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you.”

“Good night, Bern.”

“Good night, my lady.”

Wynstan and Wigelm went to Gytha’s house and sat up into the small hours, talking in desultory fashion, making sure they did not fall asleep.

Wynstan had explained the plan to Gytha, and she had been shocked and horrified at the idea that her sons wanted to murder her stepson. She had challenged Wynstan’s deduction about the document written at Dreng’s Ferry: could he be sure it was Wilf’s last will and testament? As it happened, Wynstan was able to reassure her, for he had received confirmation of his speculation. Bishop Modulf had indiscreetly confided in his neighbor Thane Deorman of Norwood, and Deorman had told Wynstan.

Gytha had agreed to Wynstan’s plan, as he had known she would in the end. “What needs to be done must be done,” she had said. All the same she looked troubled.

Wynstan was tense. If this went seriously wrong and the plot was revealed, both he and Wigelm would be executed for treason.

He had tried to envisage every possible obstacle in his way and plan how to overcome each one, but there were always unexpected snags, and that thought kept him stressed.

When he judged the time was right he stood up. He picked up a lamp, a leather strap, and a small cloth bag, all of which he had got ready earlier.

Wigelm got to his feet and nervously touched the long-bladed dagger in its sheath at his belt.

Gytha said: “Don’t make Wilf suffer, will you?”

Wigelm replied: “I’ll do my best.”

“He’s not my son, but I loved his father. Remember that.”

Wynstan said: “We’ll remember it, mother.”

The two brothers left the house.

Here we go, Wynstan thought.

There were always three bodyguards outside Wilf’s house: one at the door and one at each of the two front corners of the building. Wigelm had spent two nights observing them, partly through cracks in Gytha’s walls and partly by going outside to piss frequently. He had found that all three bodyguards spent most of the night sitting on the ground with their backs to the walls of the house, and they often dozed off. Tonight they were probably in a drunken stupor and would not even know that two murderers were entering the house they were guarding. However, Wynstan had a story ready in case they were wide awake.

They were not, but he was taken aback to find Bern standing in front of Wilf’s door.

“God be with you, my lord bishop, and you, Thane Wigelm,” said Bern in his French accent.

“And with you.” Wynstan recovered quickly from the shock and implemented the fallback plan he had devised in case the bodyguards were not asleep. “We have to wake Wilf,” he said, speaking low but clearly. “It’s an emergency.” He glanced at the other two guards, who slept on. Improvising, he said to Bern: “Come inside with us—you need to hear this.”

“Yes, my lord.” Bern looked puzzled, as well he might—how would the brothers have learned of this emergency, in the middle of the night, when no one appeared to have entered the compound to bring news? But though he frowned, he opened the door. His task was to protect Wilf, but it would not occur to him that the ealdorman was in danger from his own brothers.

Wynstan knew exactly what had to happen now to counteract the surprise interference of Bern—it was obvious to him—but would Wigelm figure it out? Wynstan could only hope.

Wynstan went in, walking quietly on the straw. Wilf and Carwen were asleep on the bed, wrapped in blankets. Wynstan put the lamp and the cloth bag on the table but kept hold of the strap. Then he turned to look back.

Bern was closing the door behind him. Wigelm reached for his dagger. Wynstan heard a noise from the bed.

He looked at the two in bed and saw that Carwen was opening her eyes.

He grasped the ends of the strap and stretched a length of about a foot between his two hands. At the same time, he went down on one knee beside the slave girl. She came awake quickly, sat up, looked terrified, and opened her mouth to shout. Wynstan dropped the belt over her head, drew it into her open mouth like a horse’s bit, and pulled it tight. Thus gagged, she could make only desperate gargling sounds. He twisted the belt tighter, then looked behind him.

He saw Wigelm cut Bern’s throat with a powerful slash of his long dagger. Well done, Wynstan thought. Blood spurted and Wigelm jumped out of the way. Bern fell. The only noise was the thud his body made as it hit the ground.

That’s it, Wynstan thought; now there’s no turning back.

He turned to see Wilf waking up. Carwen’s grunting took on fresh urgency. Wilf’s eyes opened wide. Even with his reduced mental capacity he could grasp what was happening in front of him. He sat bolt upright and reached for the knife beside his bed.

But Wigelm was quicker. He reached the bed in two strides and fell on Wilf just as Wilf grasped his weapon. Wigelm brought his knife hand down in a long overhand swing, but Wilf raised his left arm and knocked aside Wigelm’s blow. Then Wilf thrust at Wigelm, but Wigelm dodged.

Wigelm lifted his arm for another slash, but suddenly Carwen moved, surprising Wynstan, who did not have her restrained as tightly as he had thought. Still gagged, she jumped on Wigelm, pummeling him and trying to scratch his face, and it took Wynstan a moment to tug on the belt and jerk her back. He jumped on her, landing with both knees. Keeping hold of the belt with his right hand, he drew his own dagger with his left.

Wilf and Wigelm were still grappling and it seemed neither had struck a telling blow. Wynstan saw Wilf open his mouth to yell for help. That would have been disastrous: the plan required a silent murder. Wynstan leaned over as a roar began in Wilf’s throat. Using all the force he could muster in his left arm, he plunged the dagger into Wilf’s mouth and thrust it as hard as he could down Wilf’s throat.

The roar was cut off almost before it began.

Wynstan suffered a moment of paralyzed horror. He saw the panic of extreme pain in Wilf’s eyes. He jerked the knife out, as if that would somehow mitigate the atrocity.

Wilf gave a strangled grunt of agony and blood poured out of his mouth. He writhed in pain, but he did not die. Wynstan had been in battle, and he knew that men with fatal wounds might suffer a long time before they died. He needed to put Wilf out of his misery, but he could not bring himself to do it.

Then Wigelm administered the coup de grâce, plunging his knife into the left side of Wilf’s chest, aiming accurately for the heart. The blade sunk in deep and stilled Wilf in an instant.

Wigelm said: “May God forgive us both.”

Carwen began to cry.

Wynstan listened hard. He could hear nothing from outside the house. The killing had been done quietly and the guards had not been disturbed from their drunken slumbers.

He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. “That’s only the beginning,” he said.

He climbed off Carwen, still holding the gag tightly, and pulled her to her feet. “Now you listen to me carefully,” he said.

She stared at him with terrified eyes. She had seen two men stabbed to death and she thought she might be next.

“Nod if you understand me,” Wynstan said.

She nodded with frantic energy.

“Wigelm and I are going to swear that you murdered Wilf.”

She shook her head from side to side vigorously.

“You could deny it. You could tell everyone the truth about what happened here tonight. You could accuse me and Wigelm of cold-blooded murder.”

He could tell by her expression that she was bewildered.

He said: “But who will believe you? The oath of a slave is worthless—doubly so against that of a bishop.”

He saw understanding dawn in her eyes, followed by despair.

“You see the position you’re in,” he said with satisfaction. “But I’m going to offer you a chance. I’m going to let you escape.”

She stared at him incredulously.

“In two minutes’ time you’re going to leave the compound and walk out of Shiring by the Glastonbury road. Travel by night and hide in the woods by day.”

She looked at the door, as if making sure that it was there.

Wynstan did not want her to be recaptured, so he had prepared some things that would help her. “Take that bag on the table beside the lamp,” he said. “It contains bread and ham, so that you won’t need to find food for a couple of days. It also contains twelve silver pennies, but don’t spend them until you’re a long way away.”

He could see from her eyes that she understood.

“Tell anyone you meet that you’re going to Bristol to find your husband, who is a sailor. In Bristol you can get a boat across the estuary to Wales, and then you’ll be safe.”

She nodded again, slowly this time, taking in his meaning and thinking about it.

He held his knife to her throat. “Now I’m going to take this gag out of your mouth, and if you scream it will be the last sound you ever make.”

She nodded again.

He released the strap.

She swallowed and rubbed her cheeks where the leather had left red marks.

Wynstan noticed that Wigelm had splashes of blood on his hands and face. He assumed that his own body showed similar telltale signs. There was a bowl of water on a table and he quickly washed himself and gestured to Wigelm to do the same. They probably had blood on their clothes, too, but Wigelm was wearing brown and Wynstan was in black so it showed only as unidentifiable stains that told no particular story.

The water in the bowl was now pink so Wynstan emptied it onto the floor.

Then he said to Carwen: “Put on your shoes and cloak.”

She did as she was told.

He handed her the bag.

“We’re going to open the door. If the remaining two guards are awake, Wigelm and I will kill them. If they’re asleep we will tiptoe past them. Then you will walk, briskly but quietly, to the gate of the compound and silently let yourself out.”

She nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Wynstan opened the door softly and peeped out.

Both bodyguards were slumped against the wall. One was snoring.

Wynstan stepped out, waited for Carwen and Wigelm, then closed the door.

He gestured to Carwen and she walked away, quickly and silently.

He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Her flight would be seen by everyone as proof of guilt.

Wynstan and Wigelm walked to Gytha’s house. At her door, Wynstan looked back. The guards had not moved.

He and Wigelm went into their mother’s house and shut the door.

Ragna had been sleeping badly for months. She had too many worries: Wilf, Wynstan, Carwen, Osbert and the twins. When at last she fell asleep she often had bad dreams. Tonight she dreamed that Edgar had murdered Wilf, and she was trying to protect the builder from justice, but every time she said something her voice was drowned out by shouting from outside. Then she realized that she was dreaming but the shouting was real, and she woke quickly and sat upright, her heart pounding.

The cries were urgent. Two or three men were calling out, and a woman was speaking in a high-pitched scream. Ragna jumped up and looked for Bern, who normally slept just inside her door; then she remembered that she had assigned him to guard Wilf.

She heard Agnes say: “What’s that?” in a frightened voice.

Then Cat said: “Something’s happened.”

Their fearful voices woke the children, and the twins began to cry.

Ragna pulled on her shoes, snatched up her cloak, and went out.

It was still dark, and she saw immediately that there were lights in Wilf’s house, and his door was wide open. Her breath caught in her throat. Had something happened to him?

She ran across the short distance to his door and stepped inside.

At first she could not make sense of the scene in front of her. Men and women were milling around, all speaking at the tops of their voices. There was a metallic smell in the air, and she saw blood on the floor and on the bed, lots of blood. Then she made out Bern, lying in a congealed puddle, his throat horribly slashed, and she gasped with horror and dismay. At last her gaze went to the bed. In among the red-stained blankets was her husband.

She let out a scream, and cut it short with a fist in her mouth. He was horribly wounded, his mouth full of dried black blood. His eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. A knife lay on the bed beside his open fist: he had tried to defend himself.

There was no sign of Carwen.

Staring at the ruin of Wilf, she remembered the tall, fair-haired man in a blue cloak who had walked off a ship in Cherbourg harbor and said in bad French: “I have come to speak with Count Hubert.” She began to cry, but even while she wept she had to ask a question, and she forced the words out: “How did this happen?”

She was answered by Wuffa, the head groom. “The bodyguards were asleep,” he said. “They must die for their negligence.”

“They will,” Ragna said, dashing the tears from her eyes with her fingers. “But what do they say happened?”

“They woke up and noticed that Bern was gone. They searched for him, eventually looked inside the house, and saw”—he spread his arms—“this.”

Ragna swallowed and made her voice calmer. “No one else here?”

“No. Obviously the slave did it and fled.”

Ragna frowned. Carwen would have to be stronger than she looked to kill two such big men with a knife, she thought, but she set the suspicion aside for the moment. “Fetch the sheriff,” she told Wuffa. “He must start the hue and cry as soon as dawn breaks.” Whether Carwen was the killer or not, she must be recaptured, for her testimony would be crucial.

“Yes, my lady.” Wuffa hurried away.

As he went out, Agnes came in carrying the twins. Just over a year old, the children did not understand what they were looking at, but Agnes screamed and they began to bawl.

Cat entered holding three-year-old Osbert by the hand. She stared at the corpse of Bern, her husband, in horrified disbelief. “No, no, no,” she said, and she let go of Osbert’s hand and knelt beside the body, shaking her head, sobbing.

Ragna struggled to think straight. What did she need to do next? Although she had thought about Wilf’s death and feared that he might be murdered, the actual event had rocked her so hard that she could hardly digest what had happened. She knew she should react quickly and decisively but she was too shocked and bewildered.

She listened to her sons crying and realized they should not be here. She was about to tell Agnes to take them away when she was distracted by the sight of Wigelm moving toward the door with a heavy oak chest in his arms. She recognized it at Wilf’s treasury, the box in which he kept his money.

She stood in front of Wigelm and said: “Stop!”

Wigelm said: “Get out of my way or I’ll knock you down.”

The room went quiet.

Ragna said: “That’s the treasury of the ealdormanry.”

“It was.”

Ragna let her voice express the contempt and loathing she felt. “Wilf’s blood isn’t dry yet, and you’re already stealing his money.”

“I’m taking charge of it, as his brother.”

Ragna realized that Garulf and Stiggy had moved to stand on either side of her, trapping her. She spoke defiantly. “I will decide who takes charge of the treasury.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I am the ealdorman’s wife.”

“No, you’re not. You’re his widow.”

“Put the box down.”

“Get out of the way.”

Ragna slapped Wigelm’s face hard.

She expected him to drop the box, but he restrained himself and nodded to Garulf.

The two young men seized Ragna, taking one arm each. She knew she could not escape from their grasp, so she maintained her dignity and did not struggle. She looked at Wigelm with narrowed eyes. “You’re not quick-thinking,” she said. “Therefore you must have planned this. It’s a coup. Did you murder Wilf so that you could take over?”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

She looked at the men and women around her. They were watching the scene avidly. They knew this was about who was going to rule them after Wilf. She had planted in their minds the suspicion that Wigelm had killed Wilf. For now she could do no more.

Wigelm said: “The slave killed Wilf.” He walked around Ragna and out through the door.

Garulf and Stiggy released Ragna.

She looked again at Agnes and Cat and the children, and realized there was no one left in her home. Her treasury, containing Wilf’s will, was unguarded. She hurried out, leaving Cat and Agnes to follow her.

She crossed the compound quickly and entered her house. She went to the corner where the treasury was kept. The blanket that normally covered it had been cast aside, and the chest had gone.

She had lost everything.