The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 34 October 1002

ldred was pleased with the way his library was growing. He favored books in English rather than Latin, so that they could be used by all literate people, not just educated clergy. He had the Gospels, the Psalms, and some service books, all of which could be consulted by ordinary country priests who had few or no books of their own. His little scriptorium produced low-cost copies for sale. He also had some commentaries and secular poetry.

The priory was prospering, collecting more and more rents from the town and now, at last, getting gifts of land from noblemen. There were new novice monks in the monastery and resident pupils in the school. On a mild October afternoon the young students were chanting psalms in the churchyard.

All was well, except that Ragna had vanished, along with her children and servants. Edgar had spent two months going from town to town and village to village, but he had found no trace of her. He had even visited the new hunting lodge Wigelm was building near Outhenham. No one had seen Ragna pass by. Edgar was distraught but helpless, and Aldred pitied him.

Meanwhile, Wigelm was collecting all the rents from the Vale of Outhen.

Aldred had asked Sheriff Den how come the king did nothing about it. “Look at it from King Ethelred’s point of view,” Den had said. “He sees Ragna’s marriage as illegitimate. He declined to ratify it, but Wilwulf went ahead anyway. The royal court fined Wilf for disobedience, and he refused to pay the fine. Ethelred’s authority has been challenged and, what’s worse, his pride has been hurt. He’s not going to carry on as if this were a perfectly normal marriage.”

Aldred said indignantly: “So he’s punishing Ragna for Wilwulf’s sins!”

“What else can he do?”

“He could harry Shiring!”

“That’s an extreme measure: raising an army, burning the villages, killing the opposition, making off with the best horses and cattle and jewelry: it’s a king’s ultimate weapon, to be used only in extreme circumstances. Is he going to do that for a foreign widow whose marriage he never sanctioned in the first place?”

“Does her father know that she has disappeared?”

“Possibly. But a rescue operation from Normandy would be an invasion of England, and Count Hubert can’t manage that—especially when his neighbor’s daughter is about to marry the English king. Ethelred’s wedding to Emma of Normandy is set for November.”

“The king has to rule, come what may; and one of his duties is to take care of noble widows.”

“You should put that point to him yourself.”

“All right, I will.”

Aldred had written a letter to King Ethelred.

In response, the king had ordered Wigelm to produce the person of his brother’s widow.

Aldred thought Wigelm would simply ignore the order, as he had ignored royal decrees in the past, but this time it was different: Wigelm had announced that Ragna had gone home to Cherbourg.

If true, that would at least explain why no one had been able to find her in England. And she would naturally have taken her children and her Norman servants with her.

Edgar had made a second visit to Combe and had found no one who could confirm that Ragna had boarded a ship there—but she might have sailed from a different port.

While Aldred was worrying about Edgar, the man himself appeared. He had recovered from the beating he had suffered, except that his nose was slightly twisted now, and he was missing a front tooth. He approached the churchyard in the company of two others whom Aldred recognized. The man with the Norman-style haircut was Odo, and the small blond woman was his wife, Adelaide. They were the couriers from Cherbourg who brought Ragna her rents from Saint-Martin every three months. Close behind were three men-at-arms, their escort. They needed fewer bodyguards since the execution of Ironface.

Aldred greeted them, then Edgar said: “Odo has come to ask a favor, Prior Aldred.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Aldred.

“I would like you to look after Ragna’s money for her,” said Odo in his French accent.

“You can’t find her, of course,” Aldred said.

Odo threw up his hands in a gesture of frustration. “In Shiring they say she has gone to Outhenham, and at Outhenham they say she is in Combe, but we came via Combe and she was not there.”

Aldred nodded. “No one can find her. Of course I will take care of her money, if that is your wish. But our latest information is that she has gone home to Cherbourg.”

Odo was astonished. “But she is not there! If she were, we would not have come to England!”

“Of course not,” said Aldred.

Edgar said: “Then where on earth is she?”

Ragna and Cat and their children had been grabbed in their house and tied up and gagged by Wigelm and a group of men-at-arms. Under cover of darkness they had been carried out of the compound then bundled onto a four-wheeled cart and covered with blankets.

The children had been terrified, and the worst of it was that Ragna could not speak words of comfort to them.

The cart had jolted along dry-rutted dirt roads for hours. From what Ragna could hear, it had an escort of half a dozen men on horseback. However, they were quiet, speaking as little as possible and doing so in low voices.

The children had cried themselves to sleep.

When the cart stopped and the blankets were removed, it was daylight. Ragna saw that they were in a clearing in the forest. Agnes was with the escort, and that was when Ragna realized that she was a traitor. Agnes must have betrayed Ragna by telling Wynstan of Ragna’s plan to flee with Edgar. All this time the seamstress had been nursing a secret hatred of Ragna for the execution of her husband, Offa. Ragna cursed the merciful impulse that had led her to reemploy the woman.

She now saw that the children’s cots were on the cart with the prisoners. But everything was covered up. What had this looked like to villagers who saw the group pass by? Certainly not a kidnapping, for the women and children had not been visible. Ragna herself would have assumed, from the armed escort, that the blankets hid a large quantity of silver or other valuables that a wealthy nobleman or clergyman was transferring from one place to another.

Now, with no one around to see, Agnes untied the children and let them pee at the edge of the clearing. They would not run off, of course, for that would mean leaving their mothers behind. They were given bread soaked in milk, then tied up and gagged again. Then the mothers were released, one at a time, and watched carefully by the men as they relieved themselves then ate and drank a little. When all that was done, the prisoners were covered up again and the cart jolted on.

They stopped twice more at intervals of several hours.

That evening they arrived at Wilwulf’s hunting lodge in the forest.

Ragna had been there before, in the happy, early days of her marriage. She had always loved hunting, and it had reminded her of when she had hunted with Wilf in Normandy, and they had killed a boar together and then kissed passionately for the first time. But after the marriage started to go wrong, she had lost her enthusiasm for the chase.

The lodge was remote and isolated, she recalled. There were stables, kennels, stores, and a large house. A caretaker and his wife lived in one of the smaller buildings, but other than them no one had any reason to come here unless there was a hunting party.

Ragna and the others were carried into the big house and untied. The caretaker nailed boards over the two windows, making it impossible to open the shutters, and fixed a bar to the outside of the door. His wife brought a pot of porridge for their supper. Then they were left until morning.

That had been two months ago.

Agnes always brought them their food. They were allowed to exercise once a day, but Ragna was never let out at the same time as the children. There were always two of Wigelm’s personal bodyguard outside, Fulcric and Elfgar. As far as Ragna could tell there were never visitors.

Wigelm and Wynstan could not have done this to an English noblewoman. She would have had a powerful family, parents and siblings and cousins with money and men-at-arms, who would have come looking for her, would have demanded that the king enforce her rights, and failing that would have come to Shiring with an army. Ragna was vulnerable because her family was too far away to intervene.

Agnes enjoyed bringing bad news with the food. “Your boyfriend Edgar kicked up a fuss,” she had said early on.

“I knew he would,” Ragna had replied.

Cat had added: “He is a loyal friend.”

Agnes ignored that jibe. “He got beaten black and blue,” she said with malign satisfaction. “Fulcric held him still while Wigelm beat him with a club.”

Ragna whispered: “God save him.”

“I don’t know about God, but Gilda took him to Sheriff Den’s place. He couldn’t stand upright for twenty-four hours.”

At least he was alive, Ragna thought. Wigelm had not killed him. Already in trouble with the king, Wigelm had perhaps not wanted to add to his list of offenses.

Agnes was malign, but Ragna could beguile her into revealing information. “They can’t hide us here long,” she had said one day. “People know Wilwulf had a hunting lodge here—soon someone will show up looking for us.”

“No, they won’t,” Agnes had said with a triumphant look. “Wigelm has told people that this place burned down. He has even built a new hunting lodge near Outhenham. He says the game is more abundant there.”

That had been Wynstan’s idea, Ragna thought in despair; Wigelm was not clever enough to have thought of it.

All the same, there was a limit to how long their imprisonment could be kept secret. The forest was not empty of people: there were charcoal burners, horse catchers, woodcutters, miners, and outlaws. They might be frightened off by the men-at-arms, but it was impossible to stop them peeping from the bushes. Sooner or later someone would wonder whether prisoners were being kept at the hunting lodge.

Then rumors would start. People would say the house held a monster with two heads, or a coven of witches, or a corpse that came back to life at the full moon and tried to break open its coffin. But someone would connect the prison with the missing noblewoman.

How long would that take? The forest folk’s way of life meant they had little contact with ordinary peasants or townspeople. They did not speak to strangers for months on end. At some point they had to go to market with a string of newly broken horses or a cartload of iron ore, but that would most likely happen next spring.

As the weeks turned into months Ragna sank into depression. The children grizzled all the time, Cat was bad-tempered, and Ragna found she could not think of a reason to wash her face in the morning.

And then she found out that there was worse in store; much worse.

She was making scratch marks on the wall to count the days, and it was not long before Halloween when Wigelm arrived.

It was dark outside, and the children were already asleep. Ragna and Cat were sitting on a bench by the fire. The room was lit by a single rush lamp—they were allowed only one at a time. Fulcric opened the door for Wigelm then closed it, remaining outside.

Ragna looked carefully and saw that Wigelm was not armed.

“What do you want?” she said, and she immediately felt ashamed of the note of fear she heard in her own voice.

With a gesture of his thumb Wigelm ordered Cat to get up, then he took her place. Ragna shifted along the bench to be as far from him as possible.

He said: “You’ve had plenty of time to think about your position.”

With an effort, she summoned some of her old spirit. “I’ve been illegally imprisoned. I worked that out in no time at all.”

“You’re powerless and penniless.”

“I’m penniless because you stole my money. By the way, a widow is entitled to the return of her dowry. Mine was twenty pounds of silver. You stole Wilf’s treasury, too, so you owe me twenty pounds from that. How soon can you let me have the money?”

Wigelm said: “If you marry me you can have it all.”

“And lose my soul. No, thank you, I’ll just take my money.”

He shook his head as if saddened. “Why do you have to be such a bitch? What’s wrong with being nice to a man?”

“Wigelm, why have you come here?”

He sighed theatrically. “I made you a good offer. I will marry you—”

“So condescending!”

“—and together we will ask the king to appoint us to rule Shiring. I was hoping that by now you might have seen the sense of accepting my proposal.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You won’t get a better one.” He grasped her upper arm with a strong hand. “Come, now, you can’t pretend to find me unattractive.”

“Pretend? Let go of me.”

“I promise you, after one shag with me you’ll be begging for more.”

She wrenched her arm from his grasp and stood up. “Never!”

To Ragna’s surprise he went to the door and tapped on it, then turned back to her. “Never is a long time,” he said. The guard opened the door and Wigelm went out.

“Thank God,” said Ragna as the door closed.

“A lucky escape,” said Cat. She returned to the bench and sat beside Ragna.

Ragna said: “He doesn’t usually give up that easily.”

“You’re still worried.”

“Actually, I think Wigelm is worried. Why do you think he’s so keen to marry me?”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

Ragna shook her head. “He doesn’t really want me for a wife. I’m too much trouble. He’d rather sleep with someone who will never stand up to him.”

“What, then?”

“They’re worried about the king. They’ve got control of Shiring, and of me, for now, but they’ve done a lot to antagonize Ethelred in the process, and the time may come when he decides to teach them who rules England.”

“Or it may not,” said Cat. “Kings like a quiet life.”

“True. But Wynstan and Wigelm can’t predict which way Ethelred will jump. However, they’d have a better chance of getting the result they want if I married Wigelm. And that’s why they keep trying.”

The door opened, and Wigelm came back in.

This time he was accompanied by four men-at-arms whom Ragna did not recognize. He must have brought them with him. They looked like ruffians.

Cat screamed.

Two men grabbed each woman, threw them to the floor, and held them down.

All the children cried.

Wigelm grasped the neckline of Ragna’s dress and ripped if off, leaving her spread-eagled naked, held by her ankles and wrists.

One of the men said: “Now, there’s a pair of plump pigeons, by the gods!”

“They’re not for you,” Wigelm said, lifting the skirt of his tunic. “When I’ve finished you can fuck the maid, but not this one. She’s going to be my wife.”

There was a cold wind coming off the sea, and Wynstan walked gratefully into the warm, smoky atmosphere of Mags’s house in Combe, with Wigelm behind him. Mags saw him at once and threw her arms around him. “My favorite priest!” she exulted.

Wynstan kissed her. “Mags, you sweet thing, how are you?”

She looked over his shoulder. “And your equally handsome younger brother,” she said, and embraced Wigelm.

“Every rich man is handsome to you,” Wigelm said sourly.

She ignored that. “Sit down, dear friends, and have a cup of mead. It’s newly brewed. Selethryth!” She snapped her fingers, and a flagon and cups were brought by a middle-aged woman—undoubtedly a former prostitute now considered too old for the work, Wynstan thought.

They drank the ultra-sweet potion and Selethryth poured more.

Wynstan looked at the women sitting at the sides of the room on benches. Some were dressed, others draped in loose wraps, and one pale girl was stark naked. “What a lovely sight,” he said with a sigh.

“I have a new girl I’ve been saving,” Mags said. “But which of you will take her virginity?”

Wigelm said: “How many men have taken it so far?”

Wynstan chuckled.

Mags protested. “You know I’d never lie to you. I don’t even allow her in here—she’s locked up in the house next door.”

Wynstan said: “Let Wigelm have the virgin. I’m in the mood for a more experienced woman.”

“How about Merry? She likes you.”

Wynstan smiled at a voluptuous dark-haired woman of about twenty. She waved to him. “Yes,” he said. “Merry would be lovely. Such a big arse.”

Merry came and sat beside him, and he kissed her.

Mags said: “Selethryth, fetch the virgin from next door for Thane Wigelm.”

After a few minutes Wynstan said to Merry: “Lie down in the straw, my dear, and let’s get at it.”

Merry pulled her dress over her head and lay on her back. She was pink-skinned and plump: he was glad he had chosen her. He lifted the skirt of his tunic and knelt between her legs.

Merry screamed.

Wynstan flinched away, bewildered. “What the devil is wrong with the woman?” he said.

Merry screeched, “He’s got a chancre!” She leaped to her feet and covered her vagina protectively.

“No, I haven’t,” Wynstan said.

Mags spoke in a new tone of voice. Her former anything-you-like-darling attitude had been replaced by a brisk sense of authority. “Let me see, bishop,” she said in a matter-of-fact way. “Show me your prick.”

Wynstan turned.

“Oh, Jesus,” said Mags. “It’s a chancre.”

Wynstan looked down at his penis. Near the head was an oval ulcer an inch long with an angry red spot at its center. “That’s nothing,” he said. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

Mags’s jollity had all fallen away and her voice was cold. “It’s not nothing,” she said firmly. “It’s the great pox.”

“That’s impossible,” said Wynstan. “Great pox leads to leprosy.”

Mags softened, but only slightly. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said, and Wynstan felt she was humoring him. “But whatever it is I can’t let you fuck my girls. If any kind of pox got around this house half the clergy in England would be out of action before you could say ‘fornicate.’”

“Well, that’s a blow.” Wynstan felt cast down. An illness was a weakness, and he was supposed to be strong. Besides, he was aroused, and wanted a fuck. “What am I going to do?” he said.

Mags’s demeanor regained some of its usual coquetry. “You’re going to get the best hand-fuck you’ve ever had, and I’m going to give it to you myself, my sweet priest.”

“Well, if that’s the best you can do . . .”

“The girls will put on a show for you at the same time. What would you like to watch?”

Wynstan considered. “I’d like to see Merry’s arse flogged with a strap.”

“Then you shall,” Mags said.

Merry said: “Oh, no.”

“Don’t complain,” Mags told her. “You get extra pay for flagellation, you know that.”

Merry was contrite. “I’m sorry, Mags. I didn’t mean to complain.”

“That’s better,” said Mags. “Now, turn around and bend over.”