by Ken Follett
They waved at passing boats. There were no bridges, and just one ford, at a place called Mudeford Crossing. They could have spent the night in the alehouse there, but the weather was fine and Ma decided they would sleep outside and save money. However, they made their beds within shouting distance of the building.
The forest could be dangerous, Ma said, and she warned the boys to be alert, increasing Edgar’s sense of a world suddenly without rules. Lawless men lived rough here and stole from travelers. At this time of year such men could easily hide in the summer foliage and spring out unexpectedly.
Edgar and his brothers could fight back, he told himself. He still carried the ax he had taken from the Viking who killed Sunni. And they had a dog. Brindle was no use in a fight, as she had shown during the Viking raid, but she might sniff out a robber in a bush and bark a warning. More important, the four of them evidently had little worth stealing: no livestock, no fancy swords, no ironbound chest that might contain money. Nobody robs a pauper, Edgar thought. But he was not really sure even of that.
Ma set the walking pace. She was tough. Few women lived to her age, which was forty: most died in the prime childbearing years between marriage and midthirties. It was different for men. Pa had been forty-five, and there were plenty of men even older.
Ma was herself when dealing with practical problems, making decisions, and giving advice; but in the long miles of silent walking Edgar could see that she was possessed by grief. When she thought no one was looking she let down her guard and her face became drawn with sorrow. She had been with Pa more than half her life. Edgar found it hard to imagine that they had once experienced the storm of passion that he and Sunni had had for each other, but he supposed it must be so. They had produced three sons and raised them together. And after all those years they had still woken up to embrace each other in the middle of the night.
He would never know such a relationship with Sunni. While Ma mourned for what she had lost, Edgar grieved for what he would never have. He would never marry Sunni, or raise children with her, or wake up in the night for middle-aged sex; there would never be time for him and Sunni to grow accustomed to each other, to fall into routines, to take each other for granted; and he felt so sad he could hardly bear it. He had found buried treasure, something worth more than all the gold in the world, and then he had lost it. Life stretched ahead of him, empty.
On the long walk, when Ma sank into bereavement, Edgar was assaulted by flashes of remembered violence. The lush abundance of oak and hornbeam leaves around him seemed to vanish. Instead he saw the opening in Cyneric’s neck, like something on a butcher’s block; he felt Sunni’s soft body cooling in death; and he was appalled all over again to look at what he had done to the Viking, the blond-bearded Nordic face a bloody mess, disfigured by Edgar himself in a fit of uncontrollable, insane hatred. He saw the field of ash where there had been a town, the scorched bones of the old mastiff Grendel, and his father’s severed arm on the beach like jetsam. He thought of Sunni now lying in a mass grave in Combe cemetery. Although he knew her soul was with God, still he found it horrible to think that the body he loved was buried in the cold ground, tumbled with hundreds of others.
On the second day, when by chance Edgar and Ma were walking fifty yards or so ahead, she said thoughtfully: “Obviously you were some distance away from home when you saw the Viking ships.”
He had been waiting for this. Erman had asked puzzled questions, and Eadbald had guessed that something clandestine had been going on, but Edgar did not have to explain himself to them. However, Ma was different.
All the same, he was not sure where to begin, so he just said: “Yes.”
“I suppose you were meeting some girl.”
He felt embarrassed.
She went on: “No other reason for you to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night.”
He shrugged. It had always been hard to hide things from her.
“But why were you secretive about it?” she asked, following the chain of logic. “You’re old enough to woo a girl. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She paused. “Unless she was already married.”
He said nothing, but he felt his cheeks flame red.
“Go ahead, blush,” she said. “You deserve to feel ashamed.”
Ma was strict, and Pa had been the same. They believed in obeying the rules of the Church and the king. Edgar believed in it, too, but he had told himself that his affair with Sunni had been exceptional. “She hated Cyneric,” he said.
Ma was not going to buy that. She said sarcastically: “So you think the commandment says: ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery, unless the woman hates her husband.’”
“I know what the commandment says. I broke it.”
Ma did not acknowledge his confession. Her thoughts moved on. “The woman must have died in the raid,” she said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have come with us.”
Edgar nodded.
“I suppose it was the dairyman’s wife. What was her name? Sungifu.”
She had guessed it all. Edgar felt foolish, like a child caught in a lie.
Ma said: “Were you planning to run away that night?”
“Yes.”
Ma took Edgar’s arm, and her voice became softer. “Well, you chose well, I’ll give you that. I liked Sunni. She was intelligent and hardworking. I’m sorry she’s dead.”
“Thank you, Ma.”
“She was a good woman.” Ma released his arm, and her voice changed again. “But she was someone else’s woman.”
“I know.”
Ma said no more. Edgar’s conscience would judge him, and she knew that.
They stopped by a stream to drink the cold water and rest. It was hours since they had eaten, but they had no food.
Erman, the eldest brother, was as depressed as Edgar but did not have the sense to shut up about it. “I’m a craftsman, not an ignorant peasant,” he grumbled as they resumed walking. “I don’t know why I’m going to this farm.”
Ma had little patience for whining. “What was your alternative, then?” she snapped, interrupting his lament. “What would you have done if I had not made you take this journey?”
Erman had no answer to that, of course. He mumbled that he would have waited to see what might turn up.
“I’ll tell you what would have turned up,” said Ma. “Slavery. That’s your alternative. That’s what happens to people when they’re starving to death.”
Her words were directed at Erman, but Edgar was the more shocked. It had not occurred to him that he might face the prospect of becoming a slave. The thought was unnerving. Was that the fate that awaited the family if they could not make the farm viable?
Erman said petulantly: “No one’s going to enslave me.”
“No,” said Ma. “You’d volunteer for it.”
Edgar had heard of people enslaving themselves, though he did not know anyone who had actually done it. He had met plenty of slaves in Combe, of course: about one person in ten was a slave. Young and good-looking girls and boys became the playthings of rich men. The others pulled a plough, were flogged when they got tired, and spent their nights chained up like dogs. Most of them were Britons, people from the wild western fringes of civilization, Wales and Cornwall and Ireland. Every now and again they raided the wealthier English, stealing cattle and chickens and weapons; and the English would punish them by raiding back, burning their villages and taking slaves.
Voluntary slavery was different. There was a prescribed ritual, and Ma now depicted it scornfully to Erman. “You’d kneel down in front of a nobleman or woman with your head bowed low in supplication,” she said. “The noble might reject you, of course; but if the person put hands on your head, you would be a slave for life.”
“I’d rather starve,” Erman said in an attempt at defiance.
“No, you wouldn’t,” Ma said. “You’ve never
gone hungry for as much as a day. Your father made sure of that, even when he and I had to do without to feed you boys. You don’t know what it’s like to eat nothing for a week. You’ll bow your head in no time, just for the sake of that first plate of food. But then you’ll have to work the rest of your life for no more than sustenance.”
Edgar was not sure he believed Ma. He felt he might rather starve.
Erman spoke with sulky defiance. “People can get out of slavery.”
“Yes, but do you realize how difficult it is? You can buy your freedom, true, but where would you get the money? People sometimes give slaves tips, but not often, and not much. As a slave, your only real hope is that a kindly owner may make a will that frees you. And then you’re back where you started, homeless and destitute, but twenty years older. That’s the alternative, you stupid boy. Now tell me you don’t want to be a farmer.”
Eadbald, the middle brother, stopped suddenly, wrinkled his freckled brow, and said: “I think we might be there.”
Edgar looked across the river. On the north bank was a building that looked like an alehouse: longer than a regular home, with a table and benches outside, and a large patch of green where a cow and two goats grazed. A crude boat was tied up nearby. A footworn track ran up the slope from the alehouse. To the left of the road were five more timber houses. To the right was a small stone church, another large house, and a couple of outbuildings that might have been stables or barns. Beyond that, the road disappeared into woodland.
“A ferry, an alehouse, and a church,” Edgar said with rising excitement. “I think Eadbald is right.”
“Let’s find out,” said Ma. “Give them a yell.”
Eadbald had a big voice. He cupped his hands around his mouth, and his shout boomed across the water. “Hey! Hey! Anybody there? Hello? Hello?”
They waited for a response.
Edgar glanced downstream and noticed that the river divided around an island that seemed to be about a quarter of a mile long. It was heavily wooded but he could see, through the trees, what looked like part of a stone building. He wondered with eager curiosity what it could be.
“Shout again,” Ma said.
Eadbald repeated his cries.
The alehouse door opened and a woman came out. Peering across the river, Edgar made her out to be little more than a girl, probably four or five years younger than he. She looked across the water at the newcomers but made no acknowledgment. She was carrying a wooden bucket, and she walked unhurriedly to the water’s edge, emptied the bucket into the river, rinsed it out, then went back into the tavern.
Erman said: “We’ll have to swim across.”
“I can’t swim,” said Ma.
Edgar said: “That girl is making a point. She wants us to know that she’s a superior person, not a servant. She’ll bring the boat over when she’s good and ready, and she’ll expect us to be grateful.”
Edgar was right. The girl emerged from the tavern again. This time she walked at the same leisurely pace to where the boat was moored. She untied the rope, picked up a single paddle, got into the boat, and pushed off. Using the paddle on alternate sides, she rowed out into the river. Her movements were practiced and apparently effortless.
Edgar studied the boat with consternation. It was a hollowed-out tree trunk, highly unstable, though the girl was evidently used to it.
He studied her as she came closer. She was ordinary looking, with midbrown hair and spotty skin, but he could not help noticing that she had a plump figure, and he revised his estimate of her age to fifteen.
She rowed to the south bank and expertly halted the canoe a few yards from the shore. “What do you want?” she said.
Ma answered with a question. “What place is this?”
“People call it Dreng’s Ferry.”
So, Edgar thought, this is our new home.
Ma said to the girl: “Are you Dreng?”
“That’s my father. I’m Cwenburg.” She looked with interest at the three boys. “Who are you?”
“We’re the new tenants of the farm,” Ma told her. “The bishop of Shiring sent us here.”
Cwenburg refused to be impressed. “Is that so?”
“Will you take us across?”
“It’s a farthing each and no haggling.”
The only coin issued by the king was a silver penny. Edgar knew, because he was interested in such things, that a penny weighed one-twentieth of an ounce. There were twelve ounces in a pound, so a pound was two hundred and forty pennies. The metal was not pure: thirty-seven parts in forty were silver, the rest copper. A penny would buy half a dozen chickens or a quarter of a sheep. For cheaper items, a penny had to be cut into two halfpennies or four farthings. The exact division caused constant quarrels.
Ma said: “Here’s a penny.”
Cwenburg ignored the proffered coin. “There’s five of you, with the dog.”
“The dog can swim across.”
“Some dogs can’t swim.”
Ma became exasperated. “In that case she can either stand on the bank and starve or jump in the river and drown. I’m not paying for a dog to ride in a ferry.”
Cwenburg shrugged, brought the boat to the water’s edge, and took the coin.
Edgar boarded first, kneeling down and holding both sides to stabilize the boat. He noticed that the old tree trunk had tiny cracks, and there was a puddle in the bottom.
Cwenburg said to him: “Where did you get that ax? It looks expensive.”
“I took it from a Viking.”
“Did you? What did he say about that?”
“He couldn’t say much, because I split his head in half with it.” Edgar took some satisfaction in saying that.
The others boarded and Cwenburg pushed off. Brindle jumped into the river without hesitation and swam after the boat. Away from the shade of the forest, the sun was hot on Edgar’s head.
He asked Cwenburg: “What’s on the island?”
“A nunnery.”
Edgar nodded. That would be the stone building he had glimpsed.
Cwenburg added: “There’s a gang of lepers, too. They live in shelters they make out of branches. The nuns feed them. We call the place Leper Island.”
Edgar shuddered. He wondered how the nuns survived. People said that if you touched a leper you could catch the disease, though he had never heard of anyone who had actually done that.
They reached the north bank, and Edgar helped Ma out of the boat. He smelled the strong brown odor of fermenting ale. “Someone’s brewing,” he said.
Cwenburg said: “My mother makes very good ale. You should come into the house and refresh yourselves.”
“No, thanks,” Ma said immediately.
Cwenburg persisted. “You may want to sleep here while you fix up the farm buildings. My father will give you dinner and breakfast for a halfpenny each. That’s cheap.”
Ma said: “Are the farm buildings in bad condition, then?”
“There were holes in the roof of the house last time I walked past.”
“And the barn?”
“Pigsty, you mean.”
Edgar frowned. This did not sound good. Still, they had thirty acres: they would be able to make something of that.
“We’ll see,” said Ma. “Which house does the dean live in?”
“Degbert Baldhead? He’s my uncle.” Cwenburg pointed. “The big one next to the church. All the clergy live there together.”
“We’ll go and see him.”
They left Cwenburg and walked a short distance up the slope. Ma said: “This dean is our new landlord. Act nice and friendly. I’ll be firm with him if necessary, but we don’t want him to take against us for any reason.”
The little church looked almost derelict, Edgar thought. The entrance arch was crumbling, and was prevented from collapse only by the sup
port of a stout tree trunk standing in the middle of the doorway. Next to the church was a timber house, double the normal size, like the alehouse. They stood outside politely, and Ma called: “Anyone home?”
The woman who came to the door carried a baby on her hip and was pregnant with another, and a toddler hid behind her skirts. She had dirty hair and heavy breasts. She might have been beautiful once, with high cheekbones and a straight nose, but now she looked as if she were so tired she could barely stand. It was the way many women looked in their twenties. No wonder they died young, Edgar thought.
Ma said: “Is Dean Degbert here?”
“What do you want with my husband?” said the woman.
Clearly, Edgar thought, this was not the stricter kind of religious community. In principle the Church preferred priests to be celibate, but the rule was broken more often than it was kept, and even married bishops were not unheard of.
Ma said: “The bishop of Shiring sent us.”
The woman shouted over her shoulder: “Degsy? Visitors.” She stared at them a moment longer then disappeared inside.
The man who took her place was about thirty-five, but had a head like an egg, without even a monkish fringe. Perhaps his baldness was due to some illness. “I’m the dean,” he said, with his mouth full of food. “What do you want?”
Ma explained again.
“You’ll have to wait,” Degbert said. “I’m in the middle of my dinner.”
Ma smiled and said nothing, and the three brothers followed her example.
Degbert seemed to realize he was being inhospitable. All the same he did not offer to share his meal. “Go to Dreng’s alehouse,” he said. “Have a drink.”
Ma said: “We can’t afford to buy ale. We’re destitute. The Vikings raided Combe, where we lived.”
“Wait there, then.”
“Why don’t you just tell me where the farm is?” Ma said pleasantly. “I’m sure I can find it.”
Degbert hesitated, then said in a tone of irritation: “I suppose I’ll have to take you.” He looked back. “Edith! Put my dinner by the fire. I’ll be an hour.” He came out. “Follow me,” he said.