The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 39 Spring 1006

he craftsmen working on the new stone church stopped for a break at midmorning. The master mason’s daughter, Clothild, brought her father a pot of ale and some bread. Giorgio, a builder from Rome, soaked his bread in ale to soften it before eating.

Edgar was the master’s deputy, and during the break he usually went to the lodge, a lean-to hut, to discuss what orders should be given for the rest of the day. After more than two years of speaking nothing but Norman French, Edgar was now fluent.

Clothild had got into the habit of bringing ale and bread for Edgar, too. Edgar gave some of the bread to his new dog, Coalie, who was black with a whiskered muzzle.

The church was being built on a site that sloped down from west to east, which presented a challenge in itself. In order to keep the floor level throughout, a deep crypt with massive squat pillars would provide a platform to hold up the east end.

Edgar was thrilled by Giorgio’s design. The nave would have two parallel rows of huge semicircular arches supported by mighty pillars, so that people in the side aisles could see the entire width of the church, and a large congregation could watch the Mass. Edgar had never imagined such a bold design, and he was pretty sure no one else in England had either. The French workers were equally startled: this was something brand new.

Giorgio was a thin, grumpy man in his fifties, but he was the most skilled and imaginative builder Edgar had ever known. He sat drawing in the dirt with a stick, explaining how the voussoirs, the stones in the arches, would be carved with molding in such a way that, when they were set side by side, they would look like a series of concentric rings. “Do you understand?” he said.

“Yes, of course,” Edgar said. “It’s extremely clever.”

“Don’t say you understand unless it’s true!” Giorgio said with irritation.

Giorgio often expected to spend a long time explaining things that Edgar grasped immediately. It reminded Edgar of conversations with his father. “You describe things so clearly,” he said, smoothing Giorgio’s feathers.

Clothild handed him a platter with bread and cheese, and he ate hungrily. She sat opposite him. As he continued to discuss the shape of voussoirs with Giorgio, she crossed and uncrossed her knees repeatedly, showing him her strong brown legs.

She was attractive, with an easygoing personality and a trim figure, and she had made it clear that she liked Edgar. She was twenty-one, just five years younger than he. She was lovely, except that she was not Ragna.

He had long ago realized that he did not love as most men did. He seemed to become almost blind to all women but one. He had remained faithful to Sungifu for years after her death. Now he was being true to a woman who had married another man—two other men, in fact. At times he wished he had been made differently. Why should he not marry this likable girl? She would be kind and affectionate to him, as she was with her father. And Edgar would be able to lie between those strong brown legs every night.

Giorgio said: “We draw a half circle on the ground the same size as the arch, draw a radius from the center to the circumference, then place a stone on the circumference so that it is square to the radius. But the sides of the stone, where it butts onto the neighboring voussoirs, must be slightly angled.”

“Yes,” said Edgar. “So we draw two more radii, one on each side, and they give us the correct slant for the edges of the stone.”

Giorgio stared at him. “How did you know that?” he said tetchily.

Edgar needed to be careful not to offend Giorgio by knowing too much. Builders jealously guarded what they called the “mysteries” of their craft. “You told me, awhile ago,” Edgar lied. “I remember everything you tell me.”

Giorgio was mollified.

Edgar saw two monks walking across the site. They were looking around openmouthed, probably never having seen a church as large as this one would be. Something about them made Edgar think they were English. But the older one spoke Norman French. “Good day to you, master mason,” he said courteously.

“What do you want?” said Giorgio.

“We’re looking for an English builder called Edgar.”

Messengers from home, Edgar thought, and he felt a mixture of excitement and fear. Would it be good news or bad?

He noticed that Clothild looked dismayed.

“I’m Edgar,” he said, speaking in the now-unfamiliar language of English.

The monk slumped with relief. “It has taken us a long time to find you,” he said.

Edgar said: “Who are you?”

“We’re from King’s Bridge Priory. I’m William and this is Athulf. May we have private words with you?”

“Of course.” Neither man had been at the monastery when Edgar left. The place must be expanding, he realized. He led them across the site to the timber stack, where there was less noise. They sat on the piles of planks. “What’s happened?” Edgar said. “Did someone die?”

“Our news is different,” William said. “Prior Aldred has decided to build a new stone church.”

“Halfway up the slope? Opposite my house?”

“Exactly where you planned it.”

“Has work begun?”

“When we left, the monks were clearing tree stumps from the site, and we were starting to receive deliveries of stone from Outhenham quarry.”

“Who will design the church?”

William paused and said: “You, we hope.”

So that was it.

“Aldred wants you to come home,” William went on, verifying Edgar’s deduction. “He has kept your house empty for you. You will be the master builder. He has ordered us to find out how much a master is paid here in Normandy and to offer you the same wages. And anything else you care to demand.”

There was really only one thing Edgar wanted. He hesitated to bare his heart to these two strangers, but probably everyone in Shiring knew the story. After a moment he just blurted it out. “Is the lady Ragna still married to Ealdorman Wigelm?”

William looked as though he had expected this question. “Yes.”

“She still lives with him at Shiring?”

“Yes.”

The flicker of hope in Edgar’s heart died away. “Let me think about this. Do you two have somewhere to lodge?”

“There is a monastery nearby.”

“I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.”

“We will pray for your agreement.”

The monks moved away, and Edgar stayed where he was, thinking, staring at a muscular woman stirring a mountain of mortar with a wooden paddle, hardly seeing her. Did he want to go back to England? He had left because he could not bear to see Ragna married to Wigelm. If he returned, he would meet them often. It would be torture.

On the other hand, he was being offered the top job. He would be the master. Every detail of the new church would be for him to decide. He could create a magnificent building in the radical new style Giorgio had shown him. It might take ten years, perhaps twenty, possibly more. It would be his life.

He got up from his perch on the wood pile and went back to his work. Clothild had gone. Giorgio was working on a sample voussoir, and had drawn the circle and radii he had described earlier. Edgar was about to resume his current task, which was to make the wooden support, called formwork, that would hold the stones in place while the mortar hardened, but Giorgio detained him.

“They asked you to go home,” Giorgio said.

“How did you know?”

Giorgio shrugged. “Why else would they come from England?”

“They want me to build a new church.”

“Will you go?”

“I don’t know.”

To Edgar’s surprise, Giorgio put down his tools. “Let me tell you something,” he said. His tone changed, and suddenly he seemed vulnerable. Edgar had never seen him like this. “I married late,” Giorgio said, as if reminiscing. “I was thirty when I met Clothild’s mother, rest her soul.” He paused, and for a moment Edgar thought he might weep; then Giorgio shook his head and carried on. “Thirty-five when Clothild was born. Now I’m fifty-six. I’m an old man.”

Fifty-six was not ancient, but this was not a moment to quibble.

Giorgio said: “I get pains in my stomach.”

That would account for the bad temper, Edgar thought.

“I can’t keep food down,” Giorgio said. “I live on sops.”

Edgar had thought Giorgio soaked his bread because he liked it that way.

“I probably won’t die tomorrow,” Giorgio went on. “But I may have only a year or so.”

I should have known, Edgar thought. All the clues were there. I could have guessed. Ragna would have figured it out long ago. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I hope it doesn’t come true.”

Giorgio dismissed that possibility with a wave of his hand. “As I think about the life to come, I realize that two things on earth are precious to me,” he said. He looked around the site. “One is this church.” His gaze came back to Edgar. “The other is Clothild.”

Giorgio’s face changed again, and Edgar saw naked emotion. The man was revealing his soul.

Giorgio said: “I want someone to take care of them both when I’m gone.”

Edgar stared, thinking: He’s offering me his job and his daughter.

“Don’t go home,” Giorgio said. “Please.”

It was a heartfelt appeal, and hard to resist, but Edgar managed to say: “I have to think about this.”

Giorgio nodded. “Of course.” The moment of intimacy was over. He turned away and resumed his work.

Edgar thought about it for the rest of the day and most of the night.

It never rains but it pours, he thought. To be a master builder was the summit of his ambition, and he had been offered two such posts in one day. He could be master mason here or at home. Both would give him profound satisfaction. But the other half of the choice was what kept him awake: Clothild or Ragna?

It was not a real choice. Ragna might be married to Wigelm for the next twenty years. Even if Wigelm died young, she might again be forced to remarry to a nobleman chosen by the king. As dawn approached, Edgar realized that back in England he might well spend the rest of his life longing for someone he could never have.

He had spent too many years living like that, he thought. If he stayed in Normandy and married Clothild he would not be happy, but he might be tranquil.

In the morning he told the monks he was staying.

Wigelm came to Ragna’s bed on a warm spring night when the trees were in bud. The opening of the door awakened her and her servants. She heard the maids shift in the rushes on the floor, and Grimweald, her bodyguard, grunted, but the children remained asleep.

With no forewarning she did not have the chance to oil herself. Wigelm lay beside her and pushed her shift up around her waist. She hastily spat on her hand and moistened her vagina, then opened her legs obediently.

She was resigned to this. It happened only a few times a year. She just hoped she would not become pregnant again. She loved Alain, but she did not want another child by Wigelm.

But this time it was different. Wigelm shoved in and out but seemed unable to reach satisfaction. She did nothing to help him. She knew from female conversations that when there was no love, other women often pretended to be aroused, just to get it over faster; but she could not bring herself to play that role.

Soon his erection softened. After a few more hopeless thrusts he withdrew. “You’re a cold bitch,” he said, and punched her face. She sobbed, expecting a beating and knowing that her bodyguard would do nothing to protect her; but Wigelm stood up and went out.

In the morning the left side of her face was swollen and her upper lip felt huge. She told herself it could have been worse.

Wigelm came into the house when the children were having their breakfast. She noticed that his big nose was now marked with wine-colored lines like a red spiderweb from drinking so much, an ugly feature she had not seen last night in the firelight.

He looked at her and said: “I should have punched the other side to match.”

A sarcastic remark came to her mind but she suppressed it. She sensed that he was in a dangerous mood. She felt a cold dread: perhaps her punishment was not over. She spoke in a neutral tone through her damaged mouth. “What do you want, Wigelm?”

“I don’t like the way you’re raising Alain.”

This was an old song, but she heard a new level of malice in his tone. She said: “He’s only two and a half years old—still a baby. There’s plenty of time for him to learn to fight.”

Wigelm shook his head determinedly. “You want to give him womanish ways—reading and writing and such.”

“King Ethelred can read.”

Wigelm refused to be drawn into an argument. “I’m going to take charge of the boy’s upbringing.”

What could that mean? Ragna said desperately: “I’ll get him a wooden sword.”

“I don’t trust you.”

Much of what Wigelm said could normally be ignored. He uttered abuse and curses that meant little, and forgot what he had said within minutes. But now Ragna had a feeling that he was not just making empty threats. In a scared voice she said: “What do you mean?”

“I’m taking Alain to live at my house.”

The idea was so ludicrous that at first Ragna hardly took it seriously. “You can’t!” she said. “You can’t look after a two-year-old.”

“He’s my son. I shall do as I please.”

“Will you wipe his butt?”

“I’m not alone.”

Ragna said incredulously: “Are you talking about Meganthryth? You’re going to give him to Meganthryth to raise? She’s sixteen!”

“Many girls of sixteen are mothers.”

“But she’s not!”

“No, but she will do as I say, whereas you completely ignore my wishes. Alain hardly knows he’s got a father. But I will have him raised according to my principles. He must become a man.”

“No!”

Wigelm moved toward Alain, who was sitting at the table, looking scared. Cat stepped between the two. Wigelm grabbed the front of her dress with both hands, lifted her off her feet, and threw her at the wall. She screamed, hit the timber planks, and crumpled to the floor.

All the children were crying.

Wigelm picked Alain up. The boy screamed in terror. Wigelm tucked him under his left arm. Ragna grabbed Wigelm’s arm and tried to detach Alain. Wigelm punched the side of her head so hard that momentarily she blacked out.

She came to, lying on the floor. She looked up to see Wigelm going out, with Alain kicking and screaming under his arm.

She struggled to her feet and staggered to the door. Wigelm was marching across the compound to his own house. Ragna was too dazed to run after him, and anyway she knew she would only be knocked down again.

She turned back inside. Cat was sitting on the floor rubbing her head through her mop of black hair. Ragna said: “How badly are you injured?”

“I don’t think anything’s broken,” Cat said. “What about you?”

“My head hurts.”

Grimweald spoke. “What can I do to help?”

Ragna’s answer was sarcastic. “Just carry on protecting us, as usual,” she said.

The bodyguard stamped out.

The children were still wailing. The women began to comfort them. Cat said: “I can’t believe he’s taken Alain.”

“He wants Meganthryth to raise the boy to be a stupid bully like his father.”

“You can’t let him get away with this.”

Ragna nodded. She could not let things stand. “I’m going to talk to him,” she said. “Perhaps I can get him to see sense.” She was not optimistic, but she had to try.

She left the house and crossed to Wigelm’s place. As she approached, she could hear Alain crying. She went in without knocking.

Wigelm and Meganthryth stood talking, Meganthryth holding Alain and trying to quiet him. As soon as the child saw Ragna he screamed: “Mudder!” That was what he had always called Ragna.

Instinctively, Ragna went toward him, but Wigelm stopped her. “Leave him,” he said.

Ragna stared at Meganthryth. She was short and plump, and would have been pretty but for a twist about her mouth that suggested greed. Still, she was a woman: would she really refuse to let a child go to his mother?

Ragna stretched out her arms toward Alain.

Meganthryth turned her back.

Ragna was horrified that any woman could do such a thing, and her heart filled with loathing.

With an effort, she turned from Alain and spoke to Wigelm, doing her best to use a calm, reasonable voice. “We need to discuss this,” she said.

“No. I don’t discuss. I tell you what’s going to happen.”

“Will you make a prisoner of Alain, and keep him locked in this house? That will turn him into a weakling, not a warrior.”

“Of course I won’t.”

“Then he will play in the compound with his brothers, and he will go with them when they come home, and every day you will have to do what you’ve just done. And when you’re not here, which is often, who is going to drag the little boy away from his family while he kicks and screams for his mother?”

Wigelm looked baffled. Clearly he had thought of none of this. Then his face cleared and he said: “When I travel I’ll take him with me.”

“And who will look after him on the road?”

“Meganthryth.”

Ragna glanced at her. She looked appalled. Clearly she had not been consulted. But she clamped her mouth shut.

Wigelm went on: “I leave for Combe tomorrow. He can come with me. He’ll get to know about the life of an ealdorman.”

“You’re going to take a two-year-old on a four-day journey.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“And when you come back?”

“We’ll see. But he’s not going to live with you, not ever again.”

Ragna could no longer control herself, and she began to cry. “Please, Wigelm, I beg you, don’t do this. Forget about me, but take pity on your son.”

“I pity him being raised by a gaggle of women and turned effeminate. If I allowed that to happen he would grow up to curse his father. No, he stays here.”

“No, please—”

“I’m not listening to any more of this. Get out.”

“Just think, Wigelm—”

“Do I have to pick you up and throw you through the door?”

Ragna could not take any more beating. She hung her head. “No,” she sobbed. Slowly she turned and walked to the door. She looked back at Alain, still screaming hysterically and holding his arms out to her. With a huge effort she turned away and walked out.

The loss of her youngest child left a hole in Ragna’s heart. She thought about him constantly. Did Meganthryth keep him clean and fed? Was he well, or suffering from a childish ailment? Did he wake at night and cry for her? She had to force herself to put him out of her mind for at least part of the day, otherwise she would go mad.

She had not given him up—she never would. So when the king and queen came to Winchester, Ragna went there to plead with them.

By this time Ragna had not seen Alain for a month. Wigelm’s visit to Combe turned into a spring tour of his region, and he kept the child with him. Apparently he intended on staying away from Shiring for an extended period.

Wynstan was still at Canterbury, for the tussle over who was to be the new archbishop was dragging out; so both brothers managed to miss the royal court, which encouraged Ragna.

However, she preferred not to plead her cause in open court. She was distraught, but she could still strategize. Open court was unpredictable. The noblemen of the region might side with Wigelm. Ragna preferred to talk quietly to individuals.

After the grand service in the cathedral on Easter Sunday, Bishop Alphage gave a dinner at his palace for the magnates gathered in Winchester. Ragna was invited, and saw her chance. Full of hope, she rehearsed again and again what she would say to the king.

Easter was the most important festival of the Church year, and this was a royal occasion, too, so it was a great social event. People wore their finest clothes and most costly jewelry, and Ragna did the same.

The bishop’s house was richly furnished with carved oak benches and colorful tapestries. Someone had put fragrant apple tree twigs on the fire to perfume the smoke. The table was set with silver-rimmed cups and bronze dishes.

Ragna was greeted warmly by the royal couple, which gave her encouragement. She immediately told them that Wigelm had taken Alain from her. Queen Emma was a mother—she had given birth to a son and a daughter in the first four years of her marriage to Ethelred—so she would undoubtedly sympathize.

But Ethelred interrupted Ragna before she had finished the first sentence of her prepared speech. “I know about this,” he said. “On our way here we happened to meet Wigelm and the child.”

That was news to Ragna—bad news.

Ethelred went on: “I discussed this problem with him.”

Ragna despaired. She had been hoping her story would shock the king and queen and excite their compassion. But unfortunately Wigelm had got there first. Ethelred had already heard his version, which would have been distorted.

Ragna would just have to combat that. As an experienced ruler, Ethelred must know not to believe everything he heard.

She spoke emphatically. “My lord king, it can’t be right for a two-year-old to be torn from his mother.”

“I think it’s very harsh, and I told Wigelm so.”

Queen Emma said: “Quite right. The boy is the same age as our Edward, and if he were taken from me it would break my heart.”

“I don’t disagree, my love,” said Ethelred. “But it’s not for me to tell my subjects how to order their families. The king’s responsibilities are defense, justice, and a sound currency. The raising of children is a private matter.”

Ragna opened her mouth to argue. The king was a moral leader, too, and he had the right to reprove misbehaving magnates. But then she saw Emma give a quick shake of her head. Ragna closed her mouth. A moment’s reflection told her that Emma was right. When a ruler had spoken so decisively he would not be talked around. For her to persist would only alienate Ethelred. It was hard, but she controlled her disappointment and rage. She bowed her head and said: “Yes, my lord king.”

How long would she be separated from Alain? Surely not forever?

Someone else caught the attention of the royal couple, and Ragna turned aside. She tried not to cry. Her position seemed hopeless. If the king would not help her get her son back, who would?

Wigelm and Wynstan had all the power, that was the curse. They could get away with just about anything. Wynstan was clever, Wigelm was thuggish, and both of them were willing to defy the king and the law. If she could have done something to weaken them, she would have. But it seemed nothing could stop them.

Aldred approached her. She said: “Are your messengers back from Normandy yet?”

“No,” he said.

“They’ve been away months.”

“They must be having trouble finding him. Builders often move around. They have to go where the work is.”

He looked worried and distracted, she now saw. She said: “How are you?”

“I understand that kings avoid conflict whenever they can,” he said angrily. “But sometimes a king should rule!”

Ragna had exactly the same complaint, but such things should be said privately. She looked around uneasily. However, no one seemed to have heard. “What’s brought that on?”

“Wynstan has stirred up everyone at Canterbury so that there’s now an anti-Alphage faction, and Ethelred is hesitating because he doesn’t want trouble with the monks.”

“You want the king to put his foot down, announce that Wynstan is unfit to be archbishop, and impose Alphage regardless of the monks’ opinion.”

“It strikes me that a king should take a moral stand!”

“Those monks, living so far away from Shiring, simply don’t know what we all know about Wynstan.”

“True.”

Ragna suddenly recalled something that could damage Wynstan. She had almost forgotten it in her anguish about Alain. “What if . . .”

She hesitated. She had decided to keep this secret, for fear of reprisals. But Wigelm had already done his worst. He had carried out the threat he had hinted at for so long. He had taken away Ragna’s child. And his cruelty had a consequence that undoubtedly he had not foreseen: he no longer had a hold over her.

As she drank in this realization she felt liberated. From now on, she would do anything in her power to undermine Wigelm and Wynstan. It would still be dangerous, but she was prepared for risk. It was worth it to undermine the brothers.

She said: “What if you could prove to the monks that Wynstan is unfit?”

Aldred looked suddenly alert. “What do you mean?”

Ragna hesitated again. She was eager to weaken Wynstan but at the same time afraid of him. She took her courage in both hands. “Wynstan has Whore’s Leprosy.”

Aldred’s mouth fell open. “God save us! Really?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Hildi has seen a growth on his neck that is characteristic of the disease. And Agnes, his mistress, had the same kind of growth, and died.”

“But this changes everything!” Aldred said eagerly. “Does the king know?”

“No one knows except Hildi and me—and now you.”

“Then you must tell him!”

Fear made Ragna pause. “I’d rather Wynstan did not know that I had spread the news.”

“Then I’ll tell the king, without mentioning your name.”

“Hold on.” Aldred was in a rush, but Ragna was figuring out the best approach. “You have to be careful with a king. Ethelred knows you favor Alphage, and he might view your intervention as opposition to his will.”

Aldred looked frustrated. “We have to use this information!”

“Of course,” Ragna said. “But there might be a better way.”

Bishop Wynstan and Archdeacon Degbert often attended meetings in the chapter house, where the monks discussed the daily business of the monastery and the cathedral. It was not usual for visitors to take part, but Brother Eappa had suggested it, and Treasurer Sigefryth had become an ally of Wynstan’s. They went along to the first meeting after Easter.

After the chapter had been read, Sigefryth, who chaired the meetings, said: “We have to decide what to do about the riverside pasture. Local people are using it for grazing, even though it belongs to us.”

Wynstan had no interest in such a topic, but he put on an earnest expression. He had to pretend that anything affecting the monks was of concern to him.

Brother Forthred, the medical monk, said: “We don’t use that field. You can’t blame them.”

“True,” said Sigefryth, “but if we allow it to be treated as communal property, we may have trouble in the future when we need it for ourselves.”

Brother Wigferth, who had just returned from Winchester, spoke up. “My brethren, forgive me for interrupting, but there is something much more important that I believe we should talk about right away.”

Sigefryth could hardly refuse such a strong plea from Wigferth. “Very well,” he said.

Wynstan perked up. He had agonized over whether to go to Winchester for Easter. He hated to miss a royal court so close to home. But in the end he had decided it was more important to keep his finger on the pulse here in Canterbury. Now he was eager to learn what had gone on.

“I attended the Easter court,” Wigferth said. “Many people spoke to me about the question of who is to be the next archbishop of Canterbury.”

Sigefryth was offended. “Why would they speak to you?” he said. “Did you pretend to be our representative? You’re just a rent collector!”

“Indeed I am,” said Wigferth. “But if people speak to me, I’m obliged to listen. It’s only good manners.”

Wynstan had a bad feeling. “Never mind about that,” he said, impatient with this quarrel about mere etiquette. “What were they saying, Brother . . . Brother . . . ?” He could not think of the name of the monk who had gone to Winchester.

“You know me well, bishop. My name is Wigferth.”

“Of course, of course, what did they say?”

Wigferth looked scared but determined. “People are saying that Bishop Wynstan is unfit to be archbishop of Canterbury.”

Was that all? “It’s not up to people!” Wynstan said scornfully. “It’s the pope who awards the podium.”

Wigferth said: “You mean the pallium.”

Wynstan realized he had misspoken. The pallium was an embroidered sash given by the pope to new archbishops as a symbol of his approval. Embarrassed, Wynstan denied his error. “That’s what I said, the pallium.”

Sigefryth said: “Brother Wigferth, did they say why they object to Bishop Wynstan?”

“Yes.”

The room went quiet, and Wynstan’s unease deepened. He did not know what was coming, and ignorance was dangerous.

Wigferth seemed glad to have been asked that question. He looked around the chapter house and raised his voice to make sure everyone heard. “Bishop Wynstan has a disease called Whore’s Leprosy.”

Pandemonium broke out. Everybody spoke at once. Wynstan jumped to his feet yelling: “It’s a lie! It’s a lie!”

Sigefryth stood in the middle of the room saying: “Quiet, please, everyone, quiet, please,” until the others got tired of shouting. Then he said: “Bishop Wynstan, what do you say to this?”

Wynstan knew he should stay calm but he was unnerved. “I say that Brother Wigferth has a wife and child in the west of England village of Trench, and that as a fornicating monk he has no credibility.”

Wigferth said coolly: “Even if the accusation were true it would have no bearing on the question of the bishop’s health.”

Wynstan realized immediately that he had taken the wrong tack. What he had said sounded like a tit-for-tat accusation, something he might have made up on the spot. He seemed to be losing his touch. He thought: what’s the matter with me?

He sat down, to look less bothered, and said: “How would those people know anything about my health?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized he had made another mistake. In an argument it was never good to ask a question: that simply gave the opponent an opening.

Wigferth seized his chance. “Bishop Wynstan, your mistress, Agnes of Shiring, died of Whore’s Leprosy.”

Wynstan was silenced. Agnes had never been his mistress, just an occasional indulgence. He knew she was dead—the news had reached him in a letter from Deacon Ithamar. But the deacon had not specified what had killed her, and Wynstan had not been interested enough to ask.

Wigferth went on: “One of the symptoms is mental confusion: forgetting people’s names and mixing up words. Saying podium for pallium, for example. The sufferer’s mental state gets worse and eventually he goes mad.”

Wynstan found his voice. “Am I to be condemned for nothing more than a sip of the tongue?”

The monks burst out laughing, and Wynstan realized he had made another mistake: he had intended to say a slip of the tongue. He was humiliated and enraged. “I’m not going mad!” he roared.

Wigferth had not finished. “The infallible sign of the disease is a large red lump on the face or neck.”

Wynstan’s hand flew to his throat, covering the carbuncle; and a second later he realized he had given himself away.

Wigferth said: “Don’t try to hide it, bishop.”

“It’s just a boil,” Wynstan said. Reluctantly he moved his hand away.

Forthred said: “Let me see.” He approached Wynstan. Wynstan was obliged to let him: anything else would have been an admission. He sat still while Forthred examined the lump.

Finally Forthred straightened up. “I have seen sores like this before,” he said. “On the faces of some of the most wretched and unfortunate sinners in this city. I’m sorry, my lord bishop, but what Wigferth says is true. You have Whore’s Leprosy.”

Wynstan stood up. “I’m going to find out who started this filthy lie!” he yelled, and he had the small consolation of seeing fear on the faces of the monks. He walked to the door. “And when I find him—I will kill him! I will kill him!”

Wynstan fumed throughout the long journey back to Shiring. He abused Degbert, yelled at tavern keepers, slapped maids, and whipped his horse mercilessly. The fact that he kept forgetting the simplest things made him even more angry.

When he got home he grabbed Ithamar by the front of his tunic, slammed him up against the wall, and yelled: “Someone has been going around saying I’ve got Whore’s Leprosy—who is it?”

Ithamar’s childish face was white with terror. He managed to stutter: “No one, I swear it.”

“Someone told Wigferth of Canterbury.”

“He probably made it up.”

“What did that woman die of? The reeve’s wife—what was her name?”

“Agnes? The palsy.”

“What kind of palsy, fool?”

“I don’t know! She fell ill, then she got a huge pustule on her face, then she went mad and died! How should I know what kind?”

“Who attended her?”

“Hildi.”

“Who’s she?”

“The midwife.”

Wynstan let go of Ithamar. “Bring the midwife to me, now.”

Ithamar hurried off, and Wynstan took off his traveling clothes and washed his hands and face. This was the greatest crisis of his life. If everyone came to believe that he had a debilitating disease then power and wealth would slip away from him. He had to kill the rumors, and the first step was to punish whoever had started them.

Ithamar returned in a few minutes with a small, gray-haired woman. Wynstan could not figure out who she was or why Ithamar had brought her.

Ithamar said: “Hildi, the midwife who attended Agnes when she was dying.”

“Of course, of course,” Wynstan said. “I know who she is.” Now he recalled that he had got to know her when he took her to the hunting lodge to check on Ragna’s pregnancy. She was prim but she possessed a calm confidence. She looked nervous, but not as frightened as most people were on being summoned by Wynstan. Bluster and bullying would not work with this woman, he guessed.

He put on a sad face and said: “I am in mourning for beloved Agnes.”

“Nothing could be done to save her,” said Hildi. “We prayed for her, but our prayers were not answered.”

“Tell me how she died,” he said lugubriously. “The truth, please, I don’t want comfortable illusions.”

“Very well, my lord bishop. At first she was tired and suffered headaches. Then she became confused. She developed a large lump on her face. Finally she lost her mind. At the end she caught a fever and died.”

The list was horrifying. Most of the same symptoms had been mentioned by Wigferth.

Wynstan suppressed the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. “Did anyone visit Agnes during her illness?”

“No, my lord bishop. They were frightened of catching the disease.”

“Who did you talk to about her symptoms?”

“No one, my lord bishop.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

Wynstan suspected that she was lying. He decided to spring a surprise. “Did she have Whore’s Leprosy?” He saw just a flicker of fear in Hildi’s expression.

“There is no such disease, my lord bishop, to the best of my knowledge.”

She had recovered quickly, but he had seen the reaction, and now he was sure she was lying. But he decided not to say so. “Thank you for consoling me in my grief,” he said. “You may go now.”

Hildi seemed very self-possessed, he thought as she went out. “She doesn’t seem the type of woman to spread scandalous gossip,” he said to Ithamar.

“No.”

“But she told someone.”

“She’s friendly with the lady Ragna.”

Wynstan shook his head doubtfully. “Ragna and Agnes hated each other. Ragna sentenced Agnes’s husband to death, then Agnes took revenge by warning me of Ragna’s attempt to escape.”

“Could there have been a deathbed reconciliation?”

Wynstan considered that. “It’s possible,” he said. “Who would know?”

“Her French maid, Cat.”

“Is Ragna here in Shiring right now?”

“No, she went to Outhenham.”

“Then I shall go and see Cat.”

“She won’t tell you anything.”

Wynstan smiled. “Don’t you be so sure.”

He left his residence and walked up the hill to the ealdorman’s compound. He felt energized. For the moment his mind was clear of the confusion that sometimes afflicted him nowadays. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that there was a link from Agnes through Hildi and Ragna to Wigferth of Canterbury.

Wigelm was still away from home, and the compound was quiet. Wynstan went straight to Ragna’s house and found the three maids taking care of the children.

“Good day to you,” he said. The prettiest of the three was the important one, he knew, but he could not remember her name.

She looked at him with fear. “What do you want?” she said.

Her French accent reminded him who she was. “You’re Cat,” he said.

“The lady Ragna isn’t here.”

“That’s a shame, because I came to thank her.”

Cat looked slightly less fearful. “Thank her?” she said skeptically. “What did she do for you?”

“She visited my dear Agnes on her deathbed.”

Wynstan waited for Cat’s reaction. She might say But my lady never visited her, in which case Wynstan would have to wonder whether she was telling the truth or not. But Cat said nothing.

Wynstan said: “It was kind of her.”

Another silence followed, then Cat said: “More kind than Agnes deserved.”

There it was. Wynstan worked hard not to smile. His guess had been accurate. Ragna had gone to see Agnes. She must have observed the symptoms, which would then have been explained to her by Hildi. It was the French bitch who was behind the rumors.

But he continued the pretence. “I am most grateful to her, especially as I myself was far away and unable to give dear Agnes comfort. Will you please tell your mistress what I said?”

“I certainly will,” said Cat in a bemused tone.

“Thank you,” said Wynstan. Nothing wrong with me, he thought; I’m as sharp as ever.

Then he left.

Wigelm returned a week later and Wynstan went to see him the following morning.

In the compound he saw Alain running around with Ragna’s other three sons, all of them clearly overjoyed to be together again. A moment later, Meganthryth came out of Wigelm’s house and called Alain to come for his dinner. The boy said: “I don’t want to.”

She repeated the summons, and he ran away.

She was obliged to run after him. He was not yet three, and could not outrun a healthy adult, so she soon caught him and picked him up. He threw a tantrum, yelling and wriggling and trying to hit her with his little fists. “I want mudder!” he screamed. Embarrassed and annoyed, Meganthryth carried him into Wigelm’s house.

Wynstan followed.

Wigelm was sharpening a long-bladed dagger on a whetstone. He looked up with irritation at the screaming child. “What is the matter with that boy?” he said angrily.

Meganthryth replied with equally ill temper: “I don’t know, he’s not my son.”

“This is Ragna’s fault. By God, I wish I’d never married her. Hello, Wynstan. You priests are wise to remain single.”

Wynstan sat down. “I’ve been thinking that it may be time to get rid of Ragna,” he said.

Wigelm looked eager. “Can we?”

“Three years ago we needed her to join our family. It was a way of neutralizing any opposition to your becoming ealdorman. But you’re established now. Everyone has accepted you, even the king.”

“And Ethelred still needs me,” Wigelm said. “The Vikings are back in force, raiding all along the south coast of England. There will be more battles this summer.”

Meganthryth sat Alain at the table and put buttered bread in front of him, and he quieted down and started to eat.

“So we no longer need Ragna,” said Wynstan. “In addition, she has become a nuisance. Alain won’t forget her while she’s still living in this compound. And she is a spy in our camp. I believe she’s the one spreading rumors that I’ve got Whore’s Leprosy.”

Wigelm lowered his voice. “Can we kill her?”

He had never learned subtlety.

“It would cause trouble,” Wynstan said. “Why don’t you just set her aside?”

“Divorce?”

“Yes. It’s easily done.”

“King Ethelred won’t like it.”

Wynstan shrugged. “What can he do? We’ve been defying him for years. All he does is impose fines that we don’t pay.”

“I’d be glad to see the back of her.”

“Then do it. And order her to leave Shiring.”

“I could marry again.”

“Not yet. Give the king time to get used to the divorce.”

Meganthryth overheard this and said to Wigelm: “Will we be able to get married?”

“We’ll see,” Wigelm prevaricated.

Wynstan said to her: “Wigelm needs more sons, and you seem to be barren.”

It was a cruel remark, and tears came to her eyes. “I might not be. And if I become the ealdorman’s wife you’ll have to treat me with respect.”

“All right,” said Wynstan. “As soon as cows lay eggs.”

Ragna was free at last.

She was sad, too. She would not have Alain, and she would not have Edgar. But she would not have Wigelm or Wynstan either.

She had been under their domination for almost nine years, and now she realized how repressed she had felt for almost all that time. In theory English women had more rights than Norman women—control over their own property being the major one—but in practice it had proved difficult to enforce the law.

She had told Wigelm that she would continue to rule the Vale of Outhen. She planned to stay in England at least until Aldred’s messengers returned from Normandy. When she knew what Edgar’s plans were she could make her own.

She would write to her father, telling him what had happened, and entrust the letter to the couriers who brought her money four times a year. Count Hubert was going to be angry, she felt sure, though she did not know what he would do about it.

Her maids packed. Cat, Gilda, and Winnie all wanted to go with Ragna.

She asked Den to lend her a couple of bodyguards for the journey. As soon as she was settled she would hire her own.

She was not allowed to say good-bye to Alain.

They loaded the horses and left early in the morning, with little fuss. Many of the women in the compound came out of their houses to say quiet good-byes. Everyone felt that Wigelm’s behavior had been shameful.

They rode out of the compound and took the road to King’s Bridge.