by Ken Follett
All peasants lived in such insecurity, never sure that this year’s harvest would be enough to keep them alive until next year’s. Mildred’s family were better off than some. “Perhaps you were lucky to get this place.”
Mildred said crisply: “We’ll see.”
Aldred said: “How did it happen that you came to Dreng’s Ferry?”
“We were offered this farm by the bishop of Shiring.”
“Wynstan?” Aldred knew the bishop, of course, and had a low opinion of him.
“Our landlord is Degbert Baldhead, the dean at the minster, who is the bishop’s cousin.”
“Fascinating.” Aldred was beginning to understand Dreng’s Ferry. Degbert and Dreng were brothers, and Wynstan was their cousin. They made a sinister little trio. “Does Wynstan ever come here?”
“He visited soon after Midsummer.”
Edgar put in: “Two weeks after Midsummer Day.”
Mildred went on: “He gave a lamb to every house in the village. That’s how we got ours.”
“The bountiful bishop,” Aldred mused.
Mildred was quick to pick up his undertone. “You sound skeptical,” she said. “You don’t believe in his kindness?”
“I’ve never known him to do good without an ulterior motive. You’re not looking at one of Wynstan’s admirers.”
Mildred smiled. “No argument here.”
Another of the boys spoke. It was Eadbald, the middle son, with the freckled face. His voice was deep and resonant. “Edgar killed a Viking,” he said.
The eldest, Erman, put in: “He says he did.”
Aldred said to Edgar: “Did you kill a Viking?”
“I went up behind him,” Edgar said. “He was struggling with . . . a woman. He didn’t see me until it was too late.”
“And the woman?” Aldred had noticed the hesitation and guessed she was someone special.
“The Viking threw her to the ground just before I struck him. She hit her head on a stone step. I was too late to save her. She died.” Edgar’s rather lovely hazel eyes filled with tears.
“What was her name?”
“Sungifu.” It came in a whisper.
“I will pray for her soul.”
“Thank you.”
It was clear Edgar had loved her. Aldred pitied him. He also felt relieved: a boy who could love a woman that much was unlikely to sin with another man. Aldred might be tempted, but Edgar would not. Aldred could stop worrying.
Eadbald, the freckled one, spoke again. “The dean hates Edgar,” he said.
Aldred said: “Why?”
Edgar said: “I argued with him.”
“And you won the argument, I suppose, thereby annoying him.”
“He said that we are in the year nine hundred and ninety-seven, so that means Jesus is nine hundred and ninety-seven years old. I pointed out that if Jesus was born in the year one, his first birthday would fall in the year two, and he would be nine hundred and ninety-six next Christmas. It’s simple. But Degbert said I was an arrogant young pup.”
Aldred laughed. “Degbert was wrong, though it’s a mistake others have made.”
Mildred said disapprovingly: “You don’t argue with priests, even when they’re wrong.”
“Especially when they’re wrong.” Aldred got to his feet. “It’s getting dark. I’d better return to the minster while there’s still some light, or I might fall in the river on my way. I’ve enjoyed meeting you all.”
He took his leave and headed back along the riverbank. He felt relieved to have met some likable people in this unlovable place.
He was going to spend the night at the minster. He went into the alehouse and picked up his box and his saddlebag. He spoke politely to Dreng but did not stay to chat. He led Dismas up the hill.
The first house he came to was a small building on a large lot. Its door stood open, as doors generally did at this time of year, and Aldred looked in. A fat woman of about forty was sitting near the entrance with a square of leather in her lap, sewing a shoe in the light from the window. She looked up and said: “Who are you?”
“Aldred, a monk of Shiring Abbey, looking for Dean Degbert.”
“Degbert Baldhead lives the other side of the church.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Bebbe.”
Like the alehouse, this place showed signs of prosperity. Bebbe had a cheese safe, a box with muslin sides to let air in and keep mice out. On a table beside her was a wooden cup and a small pottery jug that looked as if it might contain wine. A heavy wool blanket hung from a hook. “This hamlet seems well off,” Aldred said.
“Not very,” Bebbe said quickly. After a moment’s reflection she added: “Though the minster spreads its wealth a little.”
“And where does the minster’s wealth come from?”
“You’re a curious one, aren’t you? Who sent you to spy on us?”
“Spy?” he said in surprise. “Who would trouble to spy on a little hamlet in the middle of nowhere?”
“Well, then, you shouldn’t be so nosy.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Aldred left her.
He walked up the hill to the church and saw, on its east side, a large house that must be the residence of the clergy. He noticed that some kind of workshop had been built at the back, up against the end wall. Its door was open and there was a fire blazing inside. It looked like a smithy, but it was too small: a blacksmith needed more space.
Curious, he went to the door and looked in. He saw a charcoal fire on a raised hearth, with a pair of bellows beside it for making the heat fiercer. A block of iron firmly stuck into a massive section of a tree trunk formed an anvil about waist high. A clergyman was bent over it, working with a hammer and a narrow chisel, carving a disc of what looked like silver. A lamp stood on the anvil, lighting his work. He had a bucket of water, undoubtedly for quenching hot metal, and a heavyweight pair of shears, probably for cutting sheet metal. Behind him was a door that presumably led into the main house.
The man was a jeweler, Aldred guessed. He had a rack of neat, precise tools: awls, pliers, heavy trimming knives, and clippers with small blades and long handles. He looked about thirty, a plump little man with double chins, concentrating hard.
Not wanting to startle him, Aldred coughed.
The precaution was ineffective. The man jumped, dropped his tools, and said: “Oh, my God!”
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Aldred said. “I beg your pardon.”
The man looked frightened. “What do you want?”
“Nothing at all,” said Aldred in his most reassuring voice. “I saw the light and worried that something might be on fire.” He was improvising, not wanting to seem nosy. “I’m Brother Aldred, from Shiring Abbey.”
“I’m Cuthbert, a priest here at the minster. But visitors aren’t allowed in my workshop.”
Aldred frowned. “What are you so anxious about?”
Cuthbert hesitated. “I thought you were a thief.”
“I suppose you have precious metals here.”
Involuntarily Cuthbert looked over his shoulder. Aldred followed his gaze to an ironbound chest by the door into the house. That would be Cuthbert’s treasury, where he kept the gold, silver, and copper he used, Aldred guessed.
Many priests practiced different arts: music, poetry, wall painting. There was nothing strange about Cuthbert’s being a jeweler. He would make ornaments for the church, probably, and might have a profitable sideline in jewelry for sale: there was no shame in a clergyman making money. So why did he act guilty?
“You must have good eyes, to do such precise work.” Aldred looked at what was on the workbench. Cuthbert seemed to be engraving an intricate picture of strange animals into the silver disc. “What are you making?”
“A brooch.”
A
new voice said: “What the devil are you doing, poking your nose in here?”
The man addressing Aldred was not partially bald in the usual way, but completely hairless. He must be Degbert Baldhead, the dean. Aldred said calmly: “My word, you folks are touchy. The door was open and I looked in. What on earth is the matter with you? It almost seems as if you might have something to hide.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Degbert said. “Cuthbert needs quiet and privacy to do highly delicate work, that’s all. Please leave him alone.”
“That’s not the story Cuthbert told. He said he was worried about thieves.”
“Both.” Degbert reached past Aldred and pulled the door so that it slammed, shutting himself and Aldred out of the workshop. “Who are you?”
“I’m the armarius at Shiring Abbey. My name is Aldred.”
“A monk,” said Degbert. “I suppose you expect us to give you supper.”
“And a place to sleep tonight. I’m on a long journey.”
Degbert was clearly reluctant, but he could not refuse hospitality to a fellow clergyman, not without some strong reason. “Well, just try to keep your questions to yourself, he said, and he walked away and entered the house by the main door.
Aldred stood thinking for a few moments, but he could not imagine the reason for the hostility he had experienced.
He gave up puzzling and followed Degbert into the house.
It was not what he expected.
There should have been a large crucifix on prominent display, to indicate that the building was dedicated to the service of God. A minster should always have a lectern bearing a holy book so that passages could be read to the clergy while they ate their frugal meals. Any wall hangings should feature biblical scenes that would remind them of God’s laws.
This place had no crucifix or lectern, and a tapestry on the wall showed a hunting scene. Most of the men present had the shaved patch on top of the head called a tonsure, but there were also women and children who looked as if they were at home. It had the air of a large, affluent family house. “This is a minster?” he said incredulously.
Degbert heard him. “Who do you think you are, to come in here with that attitude?” he said.
Aldred was not surprised at his reaction. Lax priests were often hostile to the stricter monks, suspecting them of a holier-than-thou attitude—sometimes with reason. This minster was beginning to look like the kind of place that the reform movement was directed at. However, Aldred suspended judgment. Degbert and his team might be carrying out all the required services impeccably, and that was the most important thing.
Aldred put his box and his saddlebag up against the wall. From the saddlebag he took some grain. He went outside and fed it to Dismas, then hobbled the pony’s hind legs so that it could not wander far in the night. Then he returned inside.
He had hoped that the minster might be an oasis of calm contemplation in a bustling world. He had imagined spending the evening talking to men with interests similar to his own. They might discuss some question of biblical scholarship, such as the authenticity of the Epistle of Barnabas. They could talk about the troubles of the beleaguered English king, Ethelred the Misled, or even about issues in international politics, such as the war between Muslim Iberia and the Christian north of Spain. He had hoped they would be keen to hear all about Normandy, and in particular Jumièges Abbey.
But these men were not leading that kind of life. They were talking to their wives and playing with their children, drinking ale and cider. One man was attaching an iron buckle to a leather belt; another cutting the hair of a little boy. No one was reading or praying.
There was nothing wrong with domestic life, of course; a man should take care of his wife and children. But a clergyman had other duties, too.
The church bell rang. The men unhurriedly stopped what they were doing and prepared themselves for the evening service. After a few minutes they ambled out, and Aldred followed. The women and children stayed behind, and no one came from the village.
The church was in a state of disrepair that shocked Aldred. The entrance arch was propped up by a tree trunk, and the whole building seemed not quite straight. Degbert should have spent his money maintaining it. But of course a married man put his family first. That was why priests should be single.
They went inside.
Aldred noticed an inscription carved into the wall. The letters were timeworn, but he could make out the message. Lord Begmund of Northwood had built the church and was buried here, the inscription said, and he had left money in his will to pay for priests to say prayers for his soul.
Aldred had been dismayed by the lifestyle at the house, but the service shocked him. The hymns were a toneless chant, the prayers were gabbled, and two deacons argued throughout the ceremony about whether a wild cat could kill a hunting dog. By the final amen, Aldred was fuming.
It was no wonder that Dreng showed no shame about his two wives and his slave prostitute. There was no moral leadership in this hamlet. How could Dean Degbert reprove a man for defying the church’s teaching on marriage when he himself was just as bad?
Dreng had disgusted Aldred, but Degbert enraged him. These men were serving neither God nor their community. Clergymen took money from poor peasants and lived in comfort; the least they could do in return was to perform the services conscientiously and pray for the souls of the people who supported them. But these men were simply taking the church’s money and using it to support an idle life. They were worse than thieves. It was blasphemy.
But there was nothing to be gained, he told himself, by giving Degbert a piece of his mind and having a row.
He was now highly curious. Degbert was fearless in his transgression, probably because he had the protection of a powerful bishop—but that was not all. Normally, villagers were quick to complain about lazy or sinful priests; they liked moral leaders to have the credibility that came from obeying their own rules. But no one Aldred had spoken to today had criticized Degbert or the minster. In fact most people had been reluctant to answer questions. Only Mildred and her sons had been friendly and open. Aldred knew he did not have the common touch—he wished he could be like Lady Ragna of Cherbourg, and make everyone his friend—but he did not think his manner was bad enough to explain the taciturnity of Dreng’s Ferry residents. Something else was going on.
He was determined to find out what it was.
CHAPTER 6
Early August 997
he rusty old tools left behind by the previous tenant of the farm included a scythe, the long-handled reaping tool that enabled a person to cut the crop without stooping. Edgar cleaned the iron, sharpened the blade, and affixed a new wooden handle. The brothers took turns reaping the grass. The rain held off and the grass turned to hay, which Ma sold to Bebbe for a fat pig, a barrel of eels, a rooster, and six hens.
Next they reaped the oats, then came the threshing. Edgar made a flail from two sticks—a long handle and a short swipple—joined by a strip of leather that he had failed to return to Bebbe. On a breezy day he tried it out, watched by the dog, Brindle. He spread some ears of oats on a flat patch of dry ground and began to flog them. He was no farmer, and he was making this up as he went along, with Ma’s help. But the flail seemed to be doing what it should: the nutritious seeds became separated from the worthless husks, which blew away in the wind.
The grains left behind looked small and dry.
Edgar rested a moment. The sun was shining and he felt good. The eel meat in the family stew had made him stronger. Ma would smoke most of the creatures in the rafters of the house. When the smoked eel ran out they might have to kill the pig and make bacon. And they should get some eggs from the chickens before they had to eat them. It was not much to last four adults through a winter, but with the oats they probably would not die of starvation.
The house was habitable now. Edgar had mended all the holes in t
he walls and roof. There were fresh rushes on the ground, a stone hearth, and a pile of deadfalls from the forest for firewood. Edgar did not want to spend his life like this, but he was beginning to feel that he and his family had survived the emergency.
Ma appeared. “I saw Cwenburg a few minutes ago,” she said. “Was she looking for you?”
Edgar felt embarrassed. “Certainly not.”
“You seem very sure. I had the idea she was, well, interested in you.”
“She was, and I had to tell her frankly that I didn’t feel that way about her. Unfortunately, she took offense.”
“I’m glad. I was afraid you might do something foolish after losing Sungifu.”
“I wasn’t even tempted. Cwenburg is neither pretty nor good natured, but even if she were an angel I wouldn’t fall for her.”
Ma nodded sympathetically. “Your father was the same—a one-woman man,” she said. “His mother told me he never showed interest in any girl except me. He was the same after we were married, which is even more unusual. But you’re young. You can’t stay in love with a dead girl for the rest of your life.”
Edgar thought he might, but he did not want to argue the point with his mother. “Maybe,” he said.
“There will be someone else, one day,” she insisted. “It will probably take you by surprise. You’ll believe you’re still in love with the old one, and suddenly you’ll realize that all the time you’re thinking about a different girl.”
Edgar turned the tables on her. “Will you marry again?”
“Ah,” she said. “Clever you. No, I shan’t.”
“Why not?
She was silent for a long moment. Edgar wondered whether he had offended her. But no, she was just thinking. At last she said: “Your father was a rock. He meant what he said and he did what he promised. He loved me, and he loved you three, and that didn’t change in more than twenty years. He wasn’t handsome, and sometimes he wasn’t even good-tempered, but I trusted him utterly, and he never let me down.” Tears came to her eyes as she said: “I don’t want a second husband, but even if I did, I know I wouldn’t find another like him.” She had been speaking in a careful, considered way, but at the end her feelings broke through. She looked up at the summer sky and said: “I miss you so much, my beloved.”