The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 33 August 1002

dgar had now killed two men. The first had been the Viking; the second Stiggy. It might be three, if Bada had died of his broken collarbone. Edgar asked himself whether he was a killer.

Men-at-arms never had to ask themselves that question: killing was their role in life. But Edgar was a builder. Combat did not come naturally to a craftsman. Yet Edgar had defeated men of violence. Perhaps he should have felt proud: Stiggy had been a cold-blooded murderer. All the same Edgar was troubled.

And the death of Stiggy had solved no problems. Garulf had taken control of Outhen, and undoubtedly was even now tightening his grip on the villagers.

When Edgar reached Shiring he went straight to the ealdorman’s compound. He unsaddled Buttress, took her to the pond to drink, then turned her loose in the adjoining pasture with the other horses.

As he approached Ragna’s house he wondered—foolishly, perhaps—whether she would look different now that she was a widow. He had known her for five years, and for all that time she had belonged to another man. Would there be a different look in her eye, a new smile on her face, an unaccustomed liberty to the way she walked? She was fond of him, he knew; but would she express that feeling more freely now?

He found her at home. Despite the sunshine she was indoors, sitting on a bench, staring at nothing, brooding. Her three sons and Cat’s two daughters were taking their afternoon nap, supervised by Cat and Agnes. Ragna brightened a little when she saw Edgar, which pleased him. He handed her the leather bag of silver. “Your earnings from the quarry. I thought you might need money.”

“Thank you! Wigelm took my treasury—I was penniless, until now. They want to steal everything from me, including the Vale of Outhen. But the king is responsible for aristocratic widows, and sooner or later he’ll have something to say about what Wigelm and Wynstan have done. And how are you?”

He sat down on the bench next to her and spoke in an undertone so that the servants could not hear. “I was at Outhen. I saw Stiggy murder Seric.”

Her eyes widened. “Stiggy died . . .”

Edgar nodded.

She mouthed a question soundlessly: “You?”

He nodded again. “But nobody knows,” he whispered.

She squeezed his wrist, as if to thank him silently, and he felt a tingle in the place where her skin touched his. Then she resumed a normal voice. “Garulf is mad with rage.”

“Of course.” Edgar thought of the despondent expression he had seen on her face when he arrived, and he said: “But what about you?”

“Wigelm wants to marry me.”

“God forbid!” Edgar was appalled. He did not want Ragna to marry anyone, but Wigelm was a particularly repellent choice.

“It’s not going to happen,” she added.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“But what will they do?” Ragna’s face bore a look he had never seen before, of anxiety so desperate that Edgar wanted to take her in his arms and tell her that he would look after her. She went on: “I’m a problem they need to solve, and they aren’t going to leave it to King Ethelred—he doesn’t like them and he may not do what they want.”

“But what can they do?”

“They could kill me.”

Edgar shook his head. “Surely that would cause an international scandal—”

“They would say I fell ill and died suddenly.”

“Dear God.” It had not occurred to Edgar that they might go so far. They were ruthless enough to kill Ragna, but it could get them into major trouble. However, they were risk-takers. He was seriously alarmed. “We have to protect you, somehow!” he said.

“I have no bodyguard now. Bern is dead and the men-at-arms switched their loyalty to Wigelm.”

The two women servants could hear their conversation now, for they were speaking at normal volume, and Cat reacted to Ragna’s last remark. “Filthy beasts,” she said in Norman French. Bern had been her husband.

Edgar said to Ragna: “You probably have to leave this compound.”

“It would seem like giving up.”

“This would be temporary, until you can put your case to the king. Which you can’t do if you’re dead.”

“Where could I go?”

Edgar considered. “What about Leper Island? There’s a sanctuary stool in the nuns’ church. Even Wigelm wouldn’t dare to murder a noblewoman there. Every thane in England would consider it a duty to kill him in revenge.”

Her eyes sparkled. “That’s a clever idea.”

“We should leave immediately.”

“You would come with me?”

“Of course. When could you leave?”

She hesitated, then made up her mind. “Tomorrow morning.”

Edgar felt it was sounding too easy, too good to be true. “They may try to stop you.”

“You’re right. We’ll go before sunrise.”

“You’ll have to be discreet until then.”

“Yes.” Ragna turned to Cat and Agnes, who were both listening, wide-eyed. “You two, do nothing before supper—just carry on as normal. Then, when it’s dark, pack what we need for the children.”

Agnes said: “We should take food. Shall I get some from the kitchen?”

“No, that would give us away. Buy bread and ham in the town.” She gave Agnes three silver pennies from the purse Edgar had brought.

Edgar said: “Don’t use your own horses. Sheriff Den will lend you mounts.”

“Do I have to lose Astrid?”

“I’ll come back for her later.” He stood up. “I’ll stay at Den’s place tonight. I’ll speak to him about borrowing horses. Will you let me know, later this evening, that everything is ready for the morning?”

“Of course.” She took both his hands in hers, reminding him of their piercingly intimate conversation at his house in Dreng’s Ferry. Were there more intimate moments ahead? He hardly dared hope. “And thank you, Edgar, for everything. I’ve lost track of all you’ve done for me.”

He wanted to tell her that it was done out of love, but not in front of Cat and Agnes, so he said: “You deserve it. More.”

She smiled and released his hands, and he turned and left.

“We could just kill Ragna,” said Wigelm. “It would make everything simple.”

“I’ve thought about it, believe me,” said Wynstan. “She stands in our way.”

They were in the bishop’s residence, on the upper floor, drinking cider: it was thirsty weather.

Wynstan recalled Sheriff Den’s threat to kill him if anything happened to Ragna. But he dismissed it. Many people would have liked to kill Wynstan. If he feared them, he would never step out the door.

Wigelm said: “Without Ragna, I would have no rival for the ealdormanry.”

“No very convincing one. Who is the king going to choose? Deorman of Norwood is half blind. Thurstan of Lordsborough is a ditherer who could hardly lead a singsong, let alone an army. All the other thanes are little more than wealthy farmers. No one has your experience and connections.”

“So . . .”

Wynstan often felt exasperated that he had to explain things to Wigelm more than once, but on this occasion he was also getting the problem straight in his own mind. “We just need to keep her under control,” he said.

“How is that better than killing her? We could set it up so that someone else gets the blame, as we did with Wilf.”

Wynstan shook his head. “It’s possible, but it would be pushing our luck. Yes, we got away with it once, just about, even though plenty of people still don’t believe Carwen killed Wilf. However, a second convenient murder so soon after the first would be highly suspicious. Everyone would assume we were guilty.”

“King Ethelred might believe us.”

Wynstan laughed scornfully. “He wouldn’t even pretend to. We’re usurping his prerogatives in two ways. First, we’re forcing a choice of ealdorman on him. Second, we’re interfering with the fate of a widow.”

“Surely he’s more worried about raising his twenty-four thousand pounds?”

“For now, yes, but once he’s got the money he’ll do whatever he wants.”

“So we need to keep Ragna alive.”

“If at all possible, yes. Alive, but under control.” Wynstan looked up to see Agnes entering. “And here is the little mouse that will help us do that.” He saw that she was carrying a basket. “Have you been shopping, my mouse?”

“Supplies for a journey, my lord bishop.”

“Come here, sit on my lap.”

She looked surprised and embarrassed, but also thrilled. She put down her basket and sat on Wynstan’s knee, perching with a straight back.

He said: “Now, what journey is this?”

“Ragna wants to go to Dreng’s Ferry. It takes two days.”

“I know how long it takes. But why does she want to go there?”

“She thinks you might kill her when you realize she will never marry Wigelm.”

Wynstan looked at Wigelm. This was the kind of thing he had feared. A good thing he had found out in advance. How clever he had been to place a spy in Ragna’s house. “What brought this on?” he said.

“I’m not sure, but Edgar showed up with some money for her, and it was his idea. She will live in the nunnery and she thinks she will be safe from you there.”

She was probably right, Wynstan thought. He did not want to make all England his enemy. “When will she leave?”

“Tomorrow at sunrise.”

Wynstan ran his hand over Agnes’s breasts, and she shuddered with desire. “You’ve done well, my little mouse,” he said warmly. “This is important information.”

In a shaky voice she said: “I’m so glad to have pleased you.”

He winked at his brother then put his hand up her dress. “So wet, already!” he said. “I seem to have pleased you, too.”

She whispered: “Yes.”

Wigelm laughed.

Wynstan eased Agnes off his lap. “Kneel down, my little mouse,” he said. He lifted his tunic. “Do you know what to do with this?”

She bent her head over his lap.

“Ah, yes,” he sighed. “I see that you do.”

As darkness was falling Ragna slipped out of the compound. She pulled her hood over her head and hurried across the town. She was happy to be on her way to see Edgar. It was a familiar feeling, she realized. She had always been happy to see him. And he had been an unfailingly good friend to her ever since she came to England.

She found Sheriff Den and his wife preparing to go to bed. Edgar was occupying an empty house in the compound, Den told her, and he took her there. The place was lit by a single rush light. Edgar stood by the fireplace, but there was no fire: the weather was warm.

Den said briskly: “Your horses will be ready at first light.”

“Thank you,” Ragna said. Some of the English were decent folk and others were pigs, she reflected; perhaps it was the same everywhere. “You’ve probably saved my life.”

“I’m doing what I believe the king would wish,” he said, then he added: “And I’m glad to help you.” He looked at the two of them with a faint smile. “I’ll leave you to make final arrangements.” He went out.

Ragna’s heart beat faster. She had seldom been alone with Edgar—so seldom in fact that she could clearly recall each occasion. The first had been five years ago at Dreng’s Ferry when he had rowed her across to Leper Island. She remembered the darkness, the patter of the rain falling on the surface of the river, and the warmth of his strong arms as he carried her from the boat through the shallows to dry land. The second had been four years later, at Outhenham, in his house at the quarry, when she had kissed him, and he had almost died of embarrassment. And the third time had been at Dreng’s Ferry, when he had showed her the box he had made for the book she had given him, and she had as good as admitted that his love comforted her.

This was the fourth time.

She said: “Everything is ready.” She meant for the escape.

“Here, too.” He looked ill at ease.

“Relax,” she said. “I’m not going to bite you.”

He gave a sheepish grin. “Worse luck.”

Looking at him in the dim light, she wanted nothing more than to take him in her arms. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. She stepped closer. “I’ve realized something,” she said.

“What?”

“We’re not friends.”

He understood right away. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re something else entirely.”

She put her hands on his cheeks, feeling the soft hair of his beard. “Such a good face,” she said. “Strong, intelligent, and kind.”

He dropped his eyes.

She said: “Am I embarrassing you?”

“Yes, but don’t stop.”

She thought of Wilwulf, and wondered how she could have loved a warrior. It had been a girlish love, she thought. What she was feeling now was grown-up desire. But she could not say any of that, so she kissed him instead.

It was a long, soft kiss, their lips exploring gently. She stroked his cheeks and his hair, and she felt his hands on her waist. After a long minute she broke the kiss, panting. “Oh, my,” she said. “Can I have some more of that?”

“As much as you like,” he said. “I’ve been saving it up.”

She felt guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“That you waited so long. Five years.”

“I’d have waited ten.”

Tears came to her eyes. “I don’t deserve such love.”

“Yes, you do.”

She longed to do something to please him. She said: “Do you like my breasts?”

“Yes. That’s why I’ve been staring at them all these years.”

“Would you like to touch them?”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely.

She bent and lifted the hem of her dress, pulling it over her head with a swift motion, and stood naked in front of him.

“Oh, my,” he said. He caressed her with both hands, squeezing lightly, touched her nipples with feathery fingertips. His breath was coming faster. She thought he looked like a thirsty man finding a stream. After a while he said: “Can I kiss them?”

“Edgar,” she said, “you can kiss anything you like.”

He bent his head and she stroked his hair, watching him in the flickering light as his lips moved over her skin.

His kisses became more urgent and she said: “If you suck, you’ll get milk.”

He laughed. “Would I like it?”

She loved how he could be passionate and laugh all at the same time. She smiled. “I don’t know,” she said.

Then he turned serious again. “Can we lie down?”

“Wait a minute.” She bent and lifted the skirt of his tunic. When it was up to his waist she kissed the tip of his cock. Then she pulled the garment over his head.

They lay side by side and she explored his body with her hands, feeling his chest, his waist, his thighs; and he did the same to her. She felt his hand between her legs, and his fingertip in the wet cleft. She shuddered with pleasure.

Suddenly she was impatient. She rolled on top of him and guided his cock inside her. She moved slowly at first, then faster. Looking down at his face, she thought: I didn’t know how much I was longing for this. It was not just the sensation, the pleasure, the excitement; it was more, it was the intimacy, the openness with each other; it was the love.

He closed his eyes, but she did not want that, and she said: “Look at me, look at me.” He opened his eyes. “I love you,” she said. Then she was swamped by the sheer joy of doing this with him, and she cried out, and at the same time felt him convulse inside her. It went on for a long moment, then she collapsed on his chest, exhausted with emotion.

As she lay on him, the memories of the last five years came to her like a remembered poem. She recalled the terrifying storm when she had been aboard the Angel; the helmeted outlaw who had stolen her wedding gift for Wilf; the loathsome Wigelm groping her breasts the first time they met; the shock of learning that Wilf was already married, with a son; the misery of his infidelity with Carwen; the horror of his murder; the malice of Wynstan. And through it all there had been Edgar, whose kindness had turned into affection and then passionate love. Thank God for Edgar, she thought. Thank God.

After she had gone Edgar lay for a long time in a daze of happiness. He had thought that he was doomed to have two impossible loves, one for a dead woman and one for an unattainable one. And now Ragna had said that she loved him. Ragna of Cherbourg, the most beautiful woman in England, loved Edgar the builder.

He relived every minute: the kiss; her taking off her dress; her breasts; the way she had kissed his cock, lightly, affectionately, almost in passing; her telling him to open his eyes and look at her. Had two people ever enjoyed each other so intensely? Had two people ever loved each other so much?

Well, probably, he thought, but perhaps not very many.

With his head full of the most pleasant thoughts, he drifted off to sleep.

The monastery bell woke him. His first thought was: Did I really make love to Ragna? His second: Am I late?

Yes, he had made love to her, and no, he was not late. The monks got up an hour before dawn. He had plenty of time.

He and Ragna had not thought beyond the next two days. They would get out of Shiring, they would travel to Dreng’s Ferry, Ragna would take refuge in the nunnery, and then they would think about the future. But now he could not help speculating.

The social distance between them was not as great as it had been. Edgar was a prosperous craftsman, an important man in both Dreng’s Ferry and Outhenham. Ragna was a noblewoman, but a widow, and her financial resources were under attack by Wynstan. The gap was smaller—but still too large. Edgar saw no way out of this, but he was not going to let that spoil his happiness today.

He found Sheriff Den in the kitchen, breakfasting off cold beef and ale. Edgar was too tense and excited to feel hungry, but he made himself eat something: he might need his strength.

Den looked through the door up at the sky and said: “It’s getting light.”

Edgar frowned. It was not like Ragna to be late for anything.

He went to the stable. The grooms were saddling three horses, for Ragna, Cat, and Agnes, and loading a packhorse with panniers for the supplies. Edgar saddled Buttress.

Den appeared and said: “Everything is ready—except for Ragna.”

“I’ll go to her,” said Edgar.

He hurried through the town. Dawn was brightening and smoke rose from a bakery, but he did not see anyone on his way to the ealdorman’s compound.

Sometimes the gate entrance was barred and guarded, but not now: this year there was a truce with the Vikings, and the Welsh were going through a dormant phase. He opened the gate quietly. The compound was silent.

He walked quickly toward Ragna’s house. He knocked sharply on the door then tried the handle. It was not barred from the inside. He opened the door and stepped inside.

There was no one there.

He frowned, suddenly terribly fearful. What could have happened?

There were no lights. He peered into the gloom. A mouse scampered across the hearth: it must be cold. As his eyes grew accustomed to the faint light from the open doorway, he saw that most of Ragna’s possessions were here—dresses hanging from pegs, cheese box and meat safe, cups and bowls—but the children’s cots had gone.

She had gone. And the cold fireplace proved she had left hours ago, probably not long after saying goodnight to him at Sheriff Den’s compound. By now she might be miles away in any direction.

She must have changed her plans. But why had she sent him no message? She could have been prevented from doing so. That strongly suggested she had been taken against her will and held incommunicado. Wynstan and Wigelm had to be responsible. She had been made prisoner, then.

Anger flamed inside him. How dare they? She was a free woman, the daughter of a count and the widow of an ealdorman—they had no right!

If they had found out that she was planning to flee, who had told them? One of the sheriff’s servants, perhaps, or even Cat or Agnes.

Edgar had to find out where they had taken her.

Furious, he left the house. He was ready to confront either Wigelm or Wynstan, but Wigelm was probably nearer. When in Shiring he slept at the house of his mother, Gytha. Edgar strode across the grass to Gytha’s house.

A man-at-arms was outside the door, sitting on the ground with his back to the wall, dozing. Edgar recognized Elfgar, big and strong but an amiable youngster. Ignoring him, Edgar banged on the door.

Elfgar jumped up, suddenly awakened and unsteady on his feet. He looked at the floor around his feet and belatedly picked up a club, a length of gnarled oak roughly carved. He looked as though he was not sure what to do with it.

The door was thrown open and another man-at-arms stood there. He must have been sleeping across the threshold. It was Fulcric, older and meaner than Elfgar.

Edgar said: “Is Wigelm here?”

Fulcric said aggressively: “Who the hell are you?”

Edgar raised his voice. “I want to see Wigelm!”

“You’ll get your head bashed in if you’re not careful.”

A voice from within said: “Don’t worry, Elfgar, it’s only the little builder from Dreng’s Ferry.” Wigelm emerged from the gloom within. “But he’d better have a damned good reason for banging on my door at this hour of the morning.”

“You know the reason, Wigelm. Where is she?”

“Don’t presume to question me, or you’ll be punished for insolence.”

“And you’ll be punished for kidnapping a noble widow—a more serious offense in the eyes of the king.”

“No one has been kidnapped.”

“Then where is the lady Ragna?”

Behind Wigelm, his wife, Molly, and his mother appeared, both of them tousled and sleepy-eyed.

Edgar went on: “And where are her children? The king will want to know.”

“In a safe place.”

“Where?”

Wigelm sneered. “Surely you didn’t think you could have her?”

“You’re the one who asked her to marry you.”

Molly said: “What?” Clearly she had not been told about her husband’s proposal to Ragna.

Edgar said recklessly: “But Ragna rejected you, didn’t she?” He knew it was foolish to provoke Wigelm, but he was too enraged to stop. “That’s why you kidnapped her.”

“That’s enough.”

“Is that the only way you can get a woman, Wigelm? By kidnapping her?”

Elfgar sniggered.

Wigelm took a step forward and punched Edgar’s face. Wigelm was a strong man whose only skill was fighting, and the blow hurt. Edgar felt as if the whole left side of his face was on fire.

While Edgar was dazed, Fulcric swiftly stepped behind him and grabbed him in an expert hold, then Wigelm punched him in the stomach. Edgar had the panicky feeling that he could not breathe. Wigelm kicked him in the balls. Edgar caught his breath and roared in agony. Wigelm punched his face again.

Then he saw Wigelm take the club from Elfgar.

Terror possessed Edgar. He feared he would be beaten to death, and then there would be no one to protect Ragna. He saw the club come swinging toward his face. He turned his head and the heavy wood struck his temple, sending a lightning bolt of pain around his skull.

Next it smashed into his chest, and he felt as if his ribs had broken. He slumped, half unconscious, held up only by Fulcric’s grip.

Through the ringing in his ears he heard the voice of Gytha say: “That’s enough. You don’t want to kill him.”

Then Wigelm said: “Throw him in the pond.”

He was picked up by his wrists and ankles and carried across the compound. A minute later he felt himself flying through the air. He hit the water and sank. He was tempted to lie there and drown, to end his pain.

He rolled over and put his hands and knees on the sludgy bottom of the pond, then managed to raise his head above the surface and breathe.

Slowly, in agony, he crawled like a baby until he reached the edge.

He heard a woman’s voice say: “You poor thing.”

It was Gilda the kitchen maid, he realized.

He tried to get to his feet. Gilda gripped his arm and helped him up. Mumbling through smashed lips, Edgar said: “Thank you.”

“God curse Wigelm,” she said. She got under his armpit and slung his arm across her shoulders. “Where are you going?”

“Den’s.”

“Come on, then,” said Gilda. “I’ll help you there.”