by Ken Follett
Edgar felt like crying. They stood together for a minute, saying nothing. At last Ma swallowed, wiped her eyes, and said: “Enough of that.”
Edgar took her cue and changed the subject. “Am I doing this threshing right?”
“Oh, yes. And the flail works fine. But I see the grains are a bit stunted. We’re going to have a hungry winter.”
“Did we do something wrong?”
“No, it’s the soil.”
“But you think we’ll survive.”
“Yes, though I’m relieved that you’re not in love with Cwenburg. That girl looks as if she eats heartily. This farm couldn’t feed a fifth adult—let alone any children that might come along. We’d all starve.”
“Perhaps next year will be better.”
“We’ll manure the field before we plough again, and that should help, but in the end there’s no way to get rich crops out of poor earth.”
Ma was as shrewd and forceful as ever, but Edgar worried about her. She had changed since the death of Pa. For all her spirit, she no longer seemed invulnerable. She had always been strong, but now he found himself hastening to help her lift a big log for the fire or a full pail of water from the river. He did not speak to her about his worries: she would resent the imputation of weakness. In that way she was more like a man. But he could not help thinking about the dismal prospect of life without her.
Brindle barked suddenly and anxiously. Edgar frowned: the dog often sounded the alarm before the humans knew anything was wrong. A moment later he heard shouting—not just noisy speech but furious, aggressive yelling and snarling. It was his brothers, and he could hear both voices: they must be fighting each other.
He ran toward the noise, which seemed to be coming from near the barn on the other side of the house. Brindle ran with him, barking. Out of the corner of his eye Edgar saw Ma bend to pick up the threshed oats, frugally saving them from the birds.
Erman and Eadbald were rolling on the ground outside the barn, punching and biting each other, screaming with rage. Eadbald’s freckled nose was bleeding and Erman had a bloody abrasion on his forehead.
Edgar yelled: “Stop it, you two!” They ignored him. What fools, Edgar thought; we need all our strength for this damn farm.
The reason for the fight was instantly visible. Cwenburg stood in the barn doorway watching them, laughing with delight. She was naked. Seeing her, Edgar was filled with loathing.
Erman rolled on top of Eadbald and drew back a big fist to punch his face. Seizing the chance, Edgar grabbed Erman from behind, gripping both arms, and pulled him backward. Off balance, Erman could not resist, and he toppled to the ground, releasing Eadbald.
Eadbald leaped to his feet and kicked Erman. Edgar grabbed Eadbald’s foot and lifted, throwing him backward to the ground. Then Erman was up again, shoving Edgar aside to get at Eadbald. Cwenburg clapped her hands enthusiastically.
Then the voice of authority was heard. “Stop that at once, you stupid boys,” said Ma, coming around the corner of the house. Erman and Eadbald immediately stood still.
Cwenburg protested: “You spoiled the fun!”
Ma said: “Put your dress back on, you shameless child.”
For a moment Cwenburg looked as if she might be tempted to defy Ma, and tell her to go to the devil, but she did not have the nerve. She turned around, took a step into the barn, and bent down to pick up her dress. She did so slowly, making sure they all got a good view of her rear. Then she turned around and lifted the dress over her head, raising her arms so that her breasts stuck out. Edgar could not help looking, and he noticed that she had put on weight since he saw her naked in the river.
At last she lowered the garment over her body. For a final touch she wriggled inside it until she was comfortable.
Ma murmured: “Heaven spare us.”
Edgar spoke to his brothers. “I suppose one of you was shagging her and the other objected.”
Eadbald said indignantly: “Erman forced her!”
“I did not force her,” said Erman.
“You must have! She loves me!”
“I did not force her,” Erman repeated. “She wanted me.”
“She did not.”
Edgar said: “Cwenburg, did Erman force you?”
She looked coy. “He was very masterful.” She was enjoying this.
Edgar said: “Well, Eadbald says you love him. Is that true?”
“Oh, yes.” She paused. “I love Eadbald. And Erman.”
Ma made a disgusted noise. “Are you telling us you’ve lain with both of them?”
“Yes.” Cwenburg looked pleased with herself.
“Many times?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Since you arrived here.”
Ma shook her head in revulsion. “Thank God I never had daughters.”
Cwenburg protested: “I didn’t do it on my own!”
Ma sighed. “No, it takes two.”
Erman said: “I’m the eldest, I should marry first.”
Eadbald gave a scornful laugh. “Who told you that was a rule? I’ll marry when I want, not when you say.”
“But I can afford a wife and you can’t. You’ve got nothing. I’m going to inherit the farm one day.”
Eadbald was outraged. “Ma has three sons. The farm will be divided among us when Ma dies, which I hope will not happen for many years.”
Edgar said: “Don’t be stupid, Eadbald. This farm can barely support our family now. If the three of us each tried to raise a family on one third of the land, we’d all starve.”
Ma said: “Edgar is the only one of you talking sense, as usual.”
Eadbald looked genuinely hurt. “So, Ma, does that mean you’re going to throw me out?”
“I would never do such a thing. You know that.”
“Do the three of us have to be celibate, like a convent of monks?”
“I hope not.”
“What are we going to do, then?”
Ma’s answer caught Edgar by surprise. “We’re going to talk to Cwenburg’s parents. Come on.”
Edgar was not sure this would help. Dreng had little common sense, and might just try to throw his weight around. Leaf was smarter, and kinder, too. But Ma had something up her sleeve, and Edgar could not guess what.
They tramped along the riverbank. The grass was already growing again where they had reaped the hay. The hamlet basked in the August sun, quiet but for the ever-present shush of the river.
They found Ethel, the younger wife, and Blod, the slave, in the alehouse. Ethel smiled at Edgar: she seemed to like him. She said that Dreng was at his brother’s minster, and Cwenburg went to fetch him. Edgar found Leaf in the brewhouse, stirring her mash with a rake. She was happy to break off from her work. She filled a jug with ale and carried it to the bench in front of the alehouse. Cwenburg returned with her father.
They all sat in the sun, enjoying the breeze off the water. Blod poured everyone a cup of ale, and Ma set out the problem in a few words.
Edgar studied the faces around him. Erman and Eadbald were beginning to realize what fools they looked, each thinking he had deceived the other, each having been deceived. Cwenburg was simply proud of the power she had over them. Her parents did not seem surprised by what she had done: perhaps there had been previous incidents. Dreng bristled at any hint of criticism of his daughter. Leaf just looked weary. Ma was in command, confident; in the end, Edgar thought, she would decide what was going to be done.
When Ma had finished, Leaf said: “Cwenburg must be married soon. Otherwise she will fall pregnant by some random ferry passenger who will disappear, leaving us with his bastard to raise.”
Edgar wanted to say: That bastard would be your grandchild. But he kept the thought to himself.
Dreng said: “Don’t speak of my daugh
ter like that.”
“She’s my daughter, too.”
“You’re too hard on her. She may have her faults—”
Ma interrupted. “We all want her to marry, but how is she to live? My farm will not feed another mouth—never mind two.”
Dreng said: “I’m not going to marry her to a husband who can’t support her. I’m a cousin of the ealdorman of Shiring. My daughter could marry a nobleman.”
Leaf laughed derisively.
Dreng went on: “Besides, I can’t let her go. There’s too much work to do around here. I need someone young and strong to paddle the ferry. Blod is too pregnant and I can’t do it myself—I’ve got a bad back. A Viking knocked me off my horse—”
“Yes, yes, at the battle of Watchet,” said Leaf impatiently. “I’ve heard you were drunk, and you fell off a whore, not a horse.”
Ma said: “As to that, Dreng, when Cwenburg leaves you can employ Edgar.”
Well, Edgar thought, I didn’t see that coming.
“He’s young and strong, and what’s more he can build you a new boat to replace that old tree trunk, which is going to sink any day now.”
Edgar was not sure what he thought of that. He would love to build another boat, but he hated Dreng.
“Employ that cocky pup?” Dreng said scornfully. “No one wants a dog that barks at its master, and I don’t want Edgar.”
Ma ignored that. “You can pay him half a penny per day. You’ll never get a cheaper boat.”
A calculating look came over Dreng’s face as he figured that Ma was right. But he said: “No, I don’t like it.”
Leaf said: “We have to do something.”
Dreng looked obstinate. “I’m her father, and I’ll decide.”
“There is one other possibility,” said Ma.
Here it comes, Edgar thought. What scheme has she dreamed up?
“Come on, spit it out,” said Dreng. He was trying to be in charge, but no one else believed it.
Ma was silent for a long moment, then said: “Cwenburg must marry Erman and Eadbald.”
Edgar had not seen that coming, either.
Dreng was outraged. “And she would have two husbands?”
Leaf said pointedly: “Well, plenty of men have two wives.”
Dreng looked indignant but could not, for the moment, find words to express just where Leaf was wrong.
“I’ve heard of such marriages,” Ma said calmly. “It happens when two or three brothers inherit a farm that is too small for more than one family.”
Eadbald said: “But how does it work? I mean . . . at night?”
Ma said: “The brothers take it in turn to lie with their wife.”
Edgar was sure he wanted no part of this, but he kept quiet for the moment, not wanting to undermine Ma. He would state his position later. Come to think of it, Ma must already have guessed how he felt.
Leaf said: “I knew such a family, once. When I was a child I sometimes played with a girl who had one mama and two daddies.” Edgar wondered whether to believe her. He looked hard at her face and saw an expression of genuine reminiscence. She added: “Margaret, her name was.”
“That’s how it should be,” said Ma. “When a child is born, no one knows which brother is the father, which the uncle. And if they’re sensible, no one cares. They just raise all the children as their own.”
Eadbald said: “What about the wedding?”
“You will make all the usual vows, in front of a few witnesses—just the members of the two families, I suggest.”
Erman said: “No priest would bless such a marriage.”
“Fortunately,” said Ma, “we don’t need a priest.”
Leaf said scathingly: “But if we did, Dreng’s brother would surely oblige us. Degbert has two women.”
Dreng said defensively: “A wife and a concubine.”
“Though no one knows which is which.”
“Very well,” said Ma. “Cwenburg, do you have something to tell your father?”
Cwenburg was puzzled. “I don’t think so.”
“I think you do.”
Edgar thought: What now?
Cwenburg frowned. “No.”
“You haven’t had your monthly blood since we arrived in Dreng’s Ferry, have you?”
Edgar thought: That’s the third time Ma has surprised me.
Cwenburg said to Ma: “How did you know that?”
“I know because your shape has changed. You’ve put on a little weight around your middle, and your breasts are bigger. I expect your nipples hurt.”
Cwenburg was frightened and looked pale. “How do you know all this? You must be a witch!”
Leaf understood what Ma was getting at. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I should have seen the signs.”
Edgar thought: Your eyesight was blurred by ale.
Cwenburg said: “What are you all talking about?”
Ma spoke gently. “You’re going to have a baby. When you stop getting the monthly blood, that’s how you know you’re pregnant.”
“Is it?”
Edgar wondered how a girl could reach the age of fifteen without knowing that.
Dreng was infuriated. “You mean she’s already with child?”
“Yes,” said Ma. “I knew it when I saw her naked. And she doesn’t know whether the father is Erman or Eadbald.”
Dreng stared malevolently at Ma. “You’re saying she’s no better than a whore!”
Leaf said: “Calm down, Dreng. You shag two women—does that make you a male whore?”
“I haven’t shagged you for a while.”
“A mercy for which I thank heaven daily.”
Ma said: “Someone has to help Cwenburg raise the baby, Dreng. And there are only two possibilities. She can stay here with you, and you can help her raise the grandchild.”
“A child needs its father.” Dreng was being unusually decent. Edgar had noticed that he softened when Cwenburg was around.
Ma said: “The alternative is that Erman and Eadbald will marry Cwenburg and they will raise the child together. And if that happens, Edgar must come here to live, and be paid half a penny a day on top of his food.”
“I don’t like either choice.”
“Then suggest another.”
Dreng opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Leaf said: “What do you think, Cwenburg? Do you want to marry Erman and Eadbald?”
“Yes,” Cwenburg said. “I like them both.”
Leaf said: “When shall we have the wedding?”
“Tomorrow,” Ma said. “At noon.”
“Where? Here?”
“Everyone in the hamlet will show up.”
Dreng said grumpily: “I don’t want to give them all free beer.”
Ma said: “And I don’t want to explain the marriage ten times over to every fool in Dreng’s Ferry.”
Edgar said: “At the farm, then. They can all find out about it later.”
Leaf said: “I’ll provide a small barrel of ale.”
Ma looked inquiringly at Ethel, who had not spoken.
Ethel said: “I’ll make honey cakes.”
“Oh, good,” said Cwenburg. “I love honey cakes.”
Edgar stared at her in disbelief. She had just agreed to marry two men, and she was able to get excited about cakes.
Ma said: “Well, Dreng?”
“I’ll pay Edgar a farthing a day.”
“Done,” said Ma. She stood up. “We’ll expect you all tomorrow at noon, then.”
Her three sons stood and followed her as she walked away from the alehouse.
Edgar thought: I’m not a farmer anymore.
CHAPTER 7
Late August 997
agna was not pregnant.
She had suffered agon
ies of apprehension for two weeks after Wilwulf left Cherbourg. To be impregnated and deserted was the ultimate humiliation, especially for a noble maiden. A peasant’s daughter who suffered the same fate would be equally mocked and scorned, but might eventually find someone to marry her and take on the raising of another man’s child. A lady would be shunned by every man of her class.
However, she had escaped that fate. The arrival of the monthly blood had been as welcome as sunrise.
After that she should have hated Wilwulf, but she found she could not. He had betrayed her, but she still yearned for him. She was a fool, she knew. Anyway, it hardly mattered, for she would probably never see him again.
Father Louis had gone home to Reims without spotting the early signs of Ragna’s romance with Wilwulf, and it seemed he had reported that Ragna would make a suitable wife for the young Viscount Guillaume, for Guillaume himself had arrived at Cherbourg to make the final decision.
Guillaume thought Ragna was perfect.
He kept telling her so. He studied her, sometimes touching her chin to move her face a little to one side or the other, up or down, to catch the light. “Perfect,” he would say. “The eyes, green like the sea, such a shade as I never saw before. The nose, so straight, so fine. The cheekbones, perfectly matched. The pale skin. And most of all, the hair.” Ragna kept her hair mostly covered, as did all respectable women, but a few locks were artfully allowed to escape. “Such a bright gold—angels’ wings must be that color.”
She was flattered, but she could not help feeling that he was looking at her as he might have admired an enameled brooch, the most prized of his collection. Wilwulf had never told her she was perfect. He had said: “By the gods, I can’t keep my hands off you.”
Guillaume himself was very good-looking. As they stood on the high parapet of Cherbourg Castle, looking down at the ships in the bay, the breeze tousled his hair, which was long and glossy, dark brown with auburn lights. He had brown eyes and regular features. He was much more handsome than Wilwulf, but all the same the castle maids never blushed and giggled when he walked by. Wilwulf exerted a masculine magnetism that Guillaume just did not have.