The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 38 November 1005

he nave of Canterbury Cathedral was cold and dark on a November afternoon. Candles lit the scene fitfully, throwing shadows like restless ghosts. In the chancel, the holiest part of the church, Archbishop Elfric was slowly dying. His pale hands clasped a silver cross, holding it over his heart. His eyes were open but they moved very little. His breathing was regular though shallow. He seemed to like the chanting of the monks who surrounded him, for whenever it stopped he frowned.

Bishop Wynstan knelt in prayer at the archbishop’s feet for a long time. He felt ill himself. He had a headache. He was sleeping badly. He ached with tiredness like an old man, though he was only forty-three. And he had an unsightly reddish lump over his collarbone that he hid by fastening his cloak high on his throat.

Feeling as he did, he had not wished to travel across the width of England in winter weather, but he had a compelling motive. He wanted to be the next archbishop of Canterbury. That would make him the senior clergyman in southern England. And a power struggle could not be fought at a distance: he had to be here.

He judged that he had prayed long enough to impress the monks with his piety and respect. He got to his feet and suddenly felt dizzy. He put his arm out and managed to lay his hand on a stone pillar to steady himself. He felt angry: he hated to show weakness. All his adult life he had been the strong man, the one others feared. And the last thing he wanted was for the Canterbury monks to think he was in poor health. They would not want a sick archbishop.

After a minute his head cleared and he was able to turn and walk away with reverent slowness.

Canterbury Cathedral was the largest building Wynstan had ever seen. Made of stone, it was cross-shaped, with a long nave, side transepts, and a short chancel. The tower over the crossing was topped by a golden angel.

Shiring Cathedral would have fitted inside it three times.

Wynstan met his cousin Degbert, archdeacon of Shiring, in Canterbury’s north transept. Together they went out into the cloisters. A cold rain lashed the green of the quadrangle. A group of monks sheltering under the roof fell respectfully silent as they approached. Wynstan pretended first not to notice them then to be startled out of his meditations.

He spoke in the tones of one devastated by grief. “The soul of my old friend seems reluctant to leave the church he loved.”

There was a moment of silence, then a lanky young monk said: “Elfric is a friend of yours?”

“But of course,” said Wynstan. “Forgive me, brother, what’s your name?”

“I’m Eappa, my lord bishop.”

“Brother Eappa, I got to know our beloved archbishop when he was the bishop of Ramsbury, which is not far from my cathedral at Shiring. When I was a young man, he took me under his wing, so to speak. I was infinitely grateful for his wisdom and guidance.”

None of this was true. Wynstan despised Elfric and the feeling was probably mutual. But the monks believed Wynstan. He was often amazed at how easy it was to fool people, especially if you had some kind of status. Men who were so gullible deserved everything that was coming to them.

Eappa said: “What sort of thing did he say to you?”

Wynstan made something up on the spur of the moment. “He said that I should listen more and speak less, because you learn while you’re listening but not when you’re speaking.” Enough of that, he thought. “Tell me, who do you think will be the next archbishop?”

Another monk spoke up. “Alphage of Winchester,” he said.

The man was familiar. Wynstan looked more closely. He had seen that round face and brown beard before. “We know each other, don’t we, brother?” he said warily.

Degbert interrupted. “Brother Wigferth visits Shiring regularly. Canterbury owns property in the West Country, and he comes to collect rents.”

“Yes, of course, Brother Wigferth, it’s good to see you again.” Wynstan remembered that Wigferth was a friend of Prior Aldred’s, and resolved to be cautious. “Why do people assume that Alphage will succeed to the archbishopric?”

“Elfric is a monk, and so is Alphage,” Wigferth replied. “And Winchester is our senior cathedral after Canterbury and York.”

“Very logical,” said Wynstan, “although perhaps not decisive.”

Wigferth persisted. “And Alphage ordered the building of the famous church organ at Winchester. They say you can hear it a mile away!”

Wigferth was clearly an admirer of Alphage’s, Wynstan thought—or perhaps he was simply against Wynstan, being a friend of Aldred’s.

Wynstan said: “According to the Rule of Saint Benedict, the monks have the right to elect their abbot, don’t they?”

“Yes, but Canterbury doesn’t have an abbot,” Wigferth said. “We’re led by the archbishop.”

“Or, to put it another way, the archbishop is the abbot.” Wynstan knew that the monks’ privileges were not clear. The king claimed the right to appoint the archbishop, and so did the pope. As always, the rules did not matter as much as the men. There would be a struggle, and the strongest and smartest would win.

Wynstan went on: “In any case, it will take a great man to live up to the example set by Elfric. From all I hear, he has ruled wisely and fairly.” He left the hint of a question at the end of his sentence.

Eappa took the bait. “Elfric has strict ideas about bedding,” he said, and the others laughed.

“How so?”

“He thinks a monk should be denied the luxury of a mattress.”

“Ah.” Monks often slept on boards, sometimes without any kind of cushion. The bony Eappa must have found that uncomfortable. “I’ve always believed that monks need their sleep, so that they can be fully alert when they perform their devotions,” said Wynstan, and the monks nodded eagerly.

A monk called Forthred, who had medical knowledge, disagreed. “Men can sleep perfectly well on boards,” he said. “Self-denial is our watchword.”

Wynstan said: “You’re right, brother, though there is a balance to be struck, is there not? Monks should not eat meat every day, of course, but beef once a week helps to build up their strength. Monks should not indulge themselves by having pets, but sometimes a cat is needed to keep down the mice.”

The monks murmured their approval.

Wynstan had done enough for one day to establish himself as a lenient leader. Any more and they might begin to suspect that he was merely currying favor—which was the truth. He turned back into the church.

“We need to do something about Wigferth,” he murmured to Degbert as soon as they were out of earshot. “He might become the leader of an anti-Wynstan faction.”

“He has a wife and three children in Trench,” Degbert said. “The peasants there don’t know he’s a monk, they think he’s a regular priest. If we revealed his secret here in Canterbury that would undermine him.”

Wynstan reflected for a moment then shook his head. “Ideally Wigferth should be absent from Canterbury when the monks make their decision. I’ll have to think about that. Meanwhile, we should talk to the treasurer.”

Treasurer Sigefryth was the most senior monk under the archbishop, and Wynstan needed to get him on his side.

“He has the timber house just outside the west end of the church,” Degbert said.

They walked down the nave and passed through the great west doorway. Wynstan pulled his hood over his head to keep the rain off. They hurried across the muddy ground to the nearest building.

The treasurer was a small man with a large bald head. He greeted Wynstan warily but without fear. Wynstan said: “There’s no change in the condition of our beloved archbishop.”

Sigefryth said: “Perhaps we may be blessed with his presence a little longer.”

“Not much, sadly,” Wynstan said. “I think the monks here are thankful to God that you are here, Sigefryth, to watch over the affairs of Canterbury.”

Sigefryth acknowledged the compliment with a nod.

Wynstan smiled and spoke in a light tone. “I always think a treasurer has an impossible job.”

Sigefryth looked intrigued. “How so?”

“He is supposed to make sure there is always enough money, but he has no control over the spending of it!”

Sigefryth at last permitted himself a smile. “That is true.”

Wynstan went on: “I think an abbot—or prior, or whoever fulfills the role—should consult the treasurer about expenditure, not just about income.”

“It would prevent a lot of problems,” Sigefryth said.

That was enough, Wynstan thought again. He needed to ingratiate himself, but in a way that was not too obvious. Now to deal with Wigferth. “This year of all years a treasurer has reason to look anxious.” There had been a poor harvest, and people had starved.

“Dead men pay no rent.”

An unsentimental man, Wynstan thought. I like that. He said: “And the bad weather is continuing. There’s flooding all over southern England. On my way here I kept having to make long diversions.” This was much exaggerated. There had been heavy rain, but it had not delayed him more than a few days.

Sigefryth tutted sympathetically.

“And it seems to be getting worse. I hope you’re not planning a journey.”

“Not for a while. We’ll have rents to collect at Christmas, from those of our tenants who are still alive. I’ll be sending Brother Wigferth to your neighborhood.”

“If you want Wigferth to get there by Christmas, send him soon,” said Wynstan. “It’s going to take him a long time.”

“I’ll do that,” said Sigefryth. “Thank you for the warning.”

So gullible, Wynstan thought with satisfaction.

Wigferth left the next day.

Ragna’s sons were having a snowball fight. The twins, four years old, were ganging up on Osbert, who was six. Alain, two years old and toddling, was screaming with laughter.

Ragna’s small household watched with her: Cat, Gilda, Winthryth, and Grimweald, the bodyguard. Grimweald was no use: as one of Wigelm’s men-at-arms, he probably would not protect Ragna from the person most likely to attack her.

However, this was a happy moment. All four boys were in good health. Osbert was already learning to read and write. This was not the life Ragna had wanted, and she yearned for Edgar still, but she had things to be thankful for.

When Wigelm became ealdorman he no longer wanted to be bothered with the detailed administration of Combe, so Ragna deputized, and in practice she was reeve of Combe and of Outhen; although Wigelm still visited and held court.

Wigelm appeared now, accompanied by a young concubine, Meganthryth. They stood beside Ragna, watching the boys play. Ragna did not speak to Wigelm or even look at him. Her loathing of him had only deepened in the two years they had been husband and wife. He was both cruel and stupid.

Fortunately she did not have to be with him much. Most nights he got drunk and was carried to bed. When sober enough he spent the night with Meganthryth, who nevertheless had borne him no children. Occasionally the old desire overcame him and he visited Ragna. She did not resist him, but closed her eyes and thought about something else until he had finished. Wigelm enjoyed sex against the woman’s will, but he disliked indifference, and Ragna’s apparent apathy helped to discourage him.

Osbert threw a large snowball wildly and it hit Alain full in the face. The little boy was shocked, and he burst into tears and ran to Ragna. She wiped his cheeks with her sleeve and comforted him.

Wigelm said: “Don’t be a crybaby, Alain. It’s only snow, it doesn’t hurt.”

His harsh tone made Alain sob harder.

Ragna muttered: “He’s only two.”

Wigelm did not like arguments: he was better at fights. “Don’t mollycoddle the boy,” he said. “I don’t want a namby-pamby son. He’s going to be a warrior, like his father.”

Ragna prayed every day that Alain would grow up to be as different as possible from his father. But she said no more: discussion with Wigelm was profitless.

“Don’t you start teaching him to read,” Wigelm added. Wigelm himself could not read. “That’s for priests and women.”

We’ll see about that, Ragna thought, but she said nothing.

“You raise him right,” Wigelm said. “Or else.” He walked away, and his concubine trailed after him.

Ragna felt chilled. What did he mean by or else?

She saw Hildi the midwife approaching across the snowy compound. Ragna was always pleased to speak to her. She was a wise old woman, and her medical skill extended much beyond childbirth.

Hildi said: “I know you don’t like Agnes.”

Ragna stiffened. “I liked her well enough until she turned traitor.”

“She’s dying, and she wants to beg your forgiveness.”

Ragna sighed. Such a request was hard to refuse, even when it came from the woman who had ruined Ragna’s life.

She told Cat to watch the boys, and left with Hildi.

In the town the pure white of the snow had already been defiled by garbage and muddy footsteps. Cat led the way to a small house behind the bishop’s palace. The place was dirty and smelled bad. Agnes lay in the straw on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. On her cheek, beside her nose, was a hideous red lump with a scabbed crater in its center.

Her gaze roamed around the room as if she did not know where she was. Her eyes fell on Ragna and she said: “I know you.”

It was an odd thing to say. Agnes had lived with Ragna for more than a decade, but she spoke as if they were distant acquaintances.

Hildi said: “She gets confused. It’s part of the illness.”

“I’ve got a terrible headache,” Agnes said.

Hildi addressed her. “You asked me to bring the lady Ragna to see you so that you could tell her how sorry you are.”

Agnes’s face changed. Suddenly she appeared to have all her mental faculties. “I did a wicked thing,” she said. “My lady, can you ever forgive me for betraying you?”

The plea was irresistible. “I forgive you, Agnes,” Ragna said sincerely.

Agnes said: “God is punishing me for what I did. Hildi says I’ve got Whore’s Leprosy.”

Ragna was shocked. She had heard of this disease. It was spread by sexual contact, hence the name. Starting with headaches and dizziness, it caused mental deterioration and eventually drove the sufferer mad. In a quiet tone she said to Hildi: “Is it fatal?”

“In itself, no, but the sufferer is so weakened and accident prone that death comes soon from other causes.”

Ragna raised her voice and spoke to Agnes. “Did Offa have it?” she asked incredulously.

Hildi shook her head. “Agnes didn’t get it from her husband.”

“Who, then?”

Agnes said: “I sinned with the bishop.”

“Wynstan?”

Hildi said: “Wynstan has the disease. It’s progressing more slowly with him than it did with Agnes, so he doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve seen the signs. He’s tired all the time and he gets dizzy spells. And he has a lump on his throat. He tries to hide it under his cloak, but I’ve seen it, and it’s just like the one on Agnes’s face.”

Ragna said: “If he finds out, he’ll keep it deadly secret.”

“Yes,” said Hildi. “If people knew he was going mad he might lose his power.”

“Exactly,” said Ragna.

“I will never tell anyone. I’m too frightened.”

“Me, too,” said Ragna.

Aldred felt a little dazed as he looked at the stacks of silver pennies on the table.

Brother Godleof was the treasurer of King’s Bridge Priory, and he had brought the money chest from the safe in Cuthbert’s old workshop and placed it on the table. Together they had counted out the silver coins. They could have weighed them faster, but they did not have a scale.

Until now they had not needed one.

“I thought we would be short of money this year, after the famine,” Aldred said.

“The upside of that was it caused the Vikings to go home,” said Godleof. “We earned less than usual, but still plenty. We have the tolls from the bridge, the rents from stallholders in the marketplace, and donations from pilgrims. And don’t forget that we’ve received four grants of substantial lands in the past year, and we’re now collecting rents from them.”

“Success breeds success. But we must have spent a lot, too.”

“We have fed starving people from miles around. But we’ve also built a schoolhouse, a scriptorium, a refectory, and a dormitory for all the new monks who have joined us.”

It was true. Aldred was well on the way to achieving his dream of a center of learning and scholarship.

Godleof went on: “Most of them are timber buildings, so they didn’t cost much.”

Aldred stared at the money. He had worked hard to strengthen the priory’s finances, but now he found himself feeling uncomfortable about so much wealth. “I took a vow of poverty,” he said, half to himself.

“It’s not your money,” said Godleof. “It belongs to the priory.”

“True. Still, we can’t just sit and gloat over it. Jesus told us not to store up treasure on earth, but in heaven. This was given to us for a purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“Perhaps God wants us to build a bigger church. We certainly need it. We have to hold three separate Masses on Sundays now, and the church is packed for each one. Even on weekdays the pilgrims sometimes queue for hours to see the bones of the saint.”

“Whoa,” said Godleof. “What you see in front of you is not enough to pay for a stone church.”

“But more money will continue to come in.”

“I certainly hope so, but we can’t see the future.”

Aldred smiled. “We must have faith.”

“Faith isn’t money.”

“No, it’s much better than money.” Aldred stood up. “Let’s lock all this away, then I’ll show you something.”

They put the chest back in the safe, left the monastery, and walked up the hill. There were new houses on both sides of the street—all of which were paying rent to the monastery, Aldred recalled. They drew level with Edgar’s house. Aldred should have rented it to a new tenant, but he had sentimentally kept it empty.

Opposite Edgar’s house was the marketplace. Today was not a market day, but nevertheless a handful of hopeful traders were there, despite the cold weather, offering fresh eggs, sweet cakes, woodland nuts, and homemade ale. Aldred led Godleof across the square.

On the far side the forest began, but here much of it had been cut down for timber. “This is where the new church will stand. Edgar and I made a town plan, years ago.”

Godleof stared at the jungle of bushes and tree stumps. “All this will have to be properly cleared.”

“Of course.”

“Where would we get the stone?”

“Outhenham. The lady Ragna will probably give it to us free, as a pious donation, but we’ll have to employ a quarryman.”

“There’s a lot to be done.”

“Indeed—so the sooner we begin, the better.”

“Who’s going to design the church? It’s not like building a house, is it?”

“I know.” Aldred’s heart beat faster. “We need to get Edgar back.”

“We don’t even know where he is.”

“He can be found.”

“By whom?”

Aldred was tempted to lead the search himself. However, that was impossible. The priory was thriving, but he was the leader. If he absented himself for the weeks or months that a trip to Normandy would take, all kinds of things could go wrong. “Brother William could go,” he said. “He was born in in Normandy and lived there until he was twelve or thirteen. And I’ll send young Athulf with him, because Athulf is always restless.”

“Today is not the first time you’ve thought about this.”

“True.” Aldred did not want to admit how often he had daydreamed of bringing Edgar home. “Let’s go and talk to William and Athulf.”

As they walked downhill to the monastery, Aldred noticed a man in monk’s robes riding across the bridge. The figure looked familiar, and as he came closer Aldred recognized Wigferth of Canterbury.

He welcome Wigferth and took him to the kitchen for bread and hot ale. “This is early for you to be collecting your Christmas rents,” he said.

“They sent me ahead of time to get rid of me,” Wigferth said sourly.

“Who wanted to get rid of you?”

“The bishop of Shiring.”

“Wynstan? What’s he doing in Canterbury?”

“Trying to be made archbishop.”

Aldred was horrified. “But it’s supposed to be Alphage of Winchester!”

“I still hope it will be Alphage. But Wynstan has cleverly ingratiated himself with the monks, and in particular with Sigefryth, the treasurer. A lot of them are now opposed to Alphage. And a discontented body of monks can be a frightful nuisance. King Ethelred may appoint Wynstan just for the sake of a quiet life.”

“Heaven forbid!”

“Amen,” said Wigferth.

A fresh fall of snow gave Ragna the chance to teach the children some letters. She gave each boy a stick and said: “What letter starts Osbert’s name?”

“I know, I know!” said Osbert.

“Can you draw it?”

“Easy.” Osbert drew a large, uneven circle in the snow.

“The rest of you, draw the letter that starts Osbert. See, it’s round, like the shape of your lips when you say the beginning of his name.”

The twins managed rough circles. Alain had trouble, but he was only two, and Ragna’s main purpose was to teach them that words were made of letters.

“What letter starts Hubert?” she said.

“I know, I know!” Osbert said again, and he drew a passable H in the snow. The twins copied it, more or less. Alain’s effort looked like three random sticks, but she praised it anyway.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ragna saw Wigelm. She cursed under her breath.

“What’s going on here?” Wigelm said.

Ragna invented something on the spur of the moment. Pointing at the circles she said: “The English are here, on these hills. And all around them . . .” She indicated the other scrawls. “The Vikings. What happens next, Wigelm?”

He looked at her with suspicion. “The Vikings attack the English,” he said.

Ragna said: “And who wins, boys?”

“The English!” they all shouted.

If only that were true, Ragna thought.

Then Alain gave the game away. Pointing at the rough circle Osbert had drawn he said: “That’s Osbert’s name.” He smiled proudly, and looked to his father for praise.

It was not forthcoming. Wigelm gave Ragna a hard look. “I’ve warned you.”

Ragna clapped her hands. “Let’s go inside and have breakfast,” she said.

The boys ran indoors and Wigelm stalked off.

Ragna followed the boys more slowly. How was she going to educate Alain? Living so close to Wigelm made it hard to deceive him. Twice now he had hinted that he would hand over the raising of Alain to someone else. Ragna cold not bear that. But neither could she bring Alain up to be an ignoramus, especially when his brothers were learning.

As they were finishing breakfast Prior Aldred came in. He had probably arrived from King’s Bridge yesterday and spent the night at Shiring Abbey. He accepted a cup of warm ale and sat on a bench. “I’m going to build a new church,” he said. “The old one is too small.”

“Congratulations! The priory must be prospering for you to plan such a project.”

“I think we’ll be able to afford it, God willing. But it would be a great help if you would continue to let us take stone from Outhenham free of charge.”

“I’ll be glad to.”

“Thank you.”

“But who will be your master builder?”

Aldred lowered his voice so that the servants could not hear. “I’ve sent messengers to Normandy to beg Edgar to come back.”

Ragna’s heart leaped. “I hope they can find him.”

“They’ll sail to Cherbourg and start by speaking to your father. Edgar told me he would ask Count Hubert where he might find work.”

Hope filled Ragna’s heart. Would Edgar really come home? He might not want to. She shook her head sadly. “He left because I married Wigelm—and I’m still married to Wigelm.”

Aldred said brightly: “I’m trusting that the prospect of designing and building his own church from scratch will be enough to tempt him.”

“It might be—he’d love that,” Ragna said with a smile. Then she thought of another possibility. “He might have met a girl there.”

“Perhaps.”

“He might even be married by now,” she said dismally.

“We must wait and see.”

“I hope he comes,” Ragna whispered.

“So do I. I’ve kept his house empty for him.”

Aldred loved him too, Ragna knew—and with even less expectation than she had.

Aldred’s tone became brisk, as if he had read her thoughts and wanted to change the subject. “There’s something else I need to ask you—another favor.”

“Go ahead.”

“The archbishop of Canterbury is dying, and Wynstan is making a bid to succeed him.”

Ragna shuddered. “The idea of Wynstan as the moral leader of the entire south of England is just obscene.”

“Would you say that to Queen Emma? You know her, she likes you, she would listen to you more than to anyone.”

“You’re right, she’d listen to me,” Ragna said. And there was something Aldred did not know. Ragna could tell the queen that Wynstan had a disease that would slowly drive him mad. That would certainly be enough to prevent his being made archbishop.

But Ragna would never do it. She could not pass her information to Emma or anyone else. Wynstan would easily find out what had blocked his appointment, and there would be reprisals. Wigelm would take Alain away from Ragna, knowing that was the most severe punishment he could inflict.

She looked at Aldred and felt sad. His face showed optimism and determination. He was a good man, but she could not give him what he needed. The evil men always seemed to get their way, she thought: Dreng, Degbert, Wigelm, Wynstan. Perhaps it would always be so, on this earth.

“No,” she said. “I’m too scared of what Wynstan and Wigelm would do to me in revenge. I’m sorry, Aldred, I can’t help you.”