by Ken Follett
Cat handed her the armband she had bought from Cuthbert in Dreng’s Ferry, and Ragna slipped it into the leather purse attached to her belt.
She stepped outside. There was a faint silvery glow on the eastern horizon. It had rained in the night, and the ground was muddy underfoot, but the day promised to be bright. Down in the dark town, the monastery bell tolled for the morning office of Prime. The compound was just beginning to come alive: she saw a boy slave in a threadbare tunic carrying a pile of firewood, then a strong-armed maid with a pail of fresh milk that steamed in the morning air. Everyone else was out of sight, probably still warm in bed, eyes shut tight, pretending it was not yet day.
Ragna crossed the compound to Wilf’s house.
There was one other person in view. A young woman stood outside Gytha’s door, leaning against the wall, yawning. She caught sight of Ragna and stood upright.
Ragna smiled. Gytha was keeping her under surveillance, not taking any chances. As it happened, that suited Ragna’s purpose today.
She went to Wilf’s door, watched by the maid.
It suddenly occurred to her that Wilf might bar his door at night: some people did. That could spoil her plan.
But when she lifted the latch the door opened, and she relaxed. Perhaps Wilf thought that to lock his door at night might make him seem timorous in the eyes of his men.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the watching maid scurry inside Gytha’s house.
Wilf had another reason for feeling confident. As Ragna stepped inside, she heard a deep growl. Wilf had a dog to warn him of intruders.
Ragna looked toward where she knew the bed to be. There was a glow from the embers of the fire, and a faint light coming through the small windows. She saw a figure sit upright in the bed and reach for a weapon.
Wilf’s voice said: “Who’s there?”
Ragna said quietly: “Good morning, my lord.”
She heard him chuckle. “It’s a good morning now that you’re here.” He lay down again.
There was a movement on the floor, and she saw a big mastiff resume his position lying by the fire.
She sat on the edge of the bed. This was a delicate moment. Her mother had urged her not to lie with Wilf until after the ceremony. He would want it, Genevieve had said, and Ragna had known that she would want it, too. But she was determined to resist the temptation. She could not say exactly why this was so important, especially as they had already done it once. Her feelings had to do with how happy they both would feel about their marriage when at last they were able to yield to their desires without guilt or fear.
All the same, she kissed him.
She leaned over his broad chest. She grasped the hem of his blanket in both hands, keeping it in place as an additional barrier between their bodies. Then she slowly lowered her head until their lips met.
He made a low sound of satisfaction.
She ran her tongue around his mouth, feeling his soft lips and the bristle of his mustache. He buried one big hand in the thickness of her hair, dislodging her scarf. But when his other hand reached for her breast she pulled away. “I have a gift for you,” she said.
“You have several,” he said in a voice thick with desire.
“I brought you a belt from Rouen with a lovely silver buckle, but it was stolen from me on the journey.”
“Where?” he said. “Where were you robbed?” He was responsible for law and order, she knew, and any theft reflected on him.
“Between Mudeford and Dreng’s Ferry. The thief wore an old helmet.”
“Ironface,” he said angrily. “The reeve of Mudeford has searched the forest but can’t find his hideout. I’m going to tell him to search again.”
She had not meant to complain, and she was sorry she had angered him. She moved quickly to rescue the romantic atmosphere. “I got you something else, something better,” she said. She got up, looked around, and spotted the whiteness of a candle. She lit it at the fire and stood it on a bench near the head of the bed. Then she took out the armband she had bought from Cuthbert.
“What’s this?” he said.
She brought the candle closer so that he could examine it. He ran a finger over the incised lines of the complex pattern, engraved in the silver and picked out with niello. “It’s exquisite work,” he said, “but it still has a bold, manly look about it.” He slipped it up his left arm, over the elbow. It fitted closely to the muscles of his upper arm. “You have such good taste!” he said.
Ragna was thrilled. “It looks magnificent.”
“I shall be the envy of all England.”
That was not quite what Ragna wanted to hear. She did not want to be a symbol of greatness, like a white horse, or an expensive sword.
He said: “I want to spend all day kissing you.”
That was more like it, and she leaned toward him again. Now he was more assertive, and when he grasped her breast and she tried to pull away he prevented her, and drew her toward him. She became a little anxious. She still had the physical advantage while he was lying down, but if it came to a real struggle she could not resist him.
Then came the interruption she was expecting. The dog growled, the door creaked, and Gytha’s voice said: “Good morning, my son.”
Ragna took her time breaking the clinch: she wanted Gytha to see how much Wilf wanted her.
Gytha said: “Oh! Ragna! I didn’t know you were here.”
Liar, thought Ragna. The maid had told Gytha that Ragna had gone into Wilf’s house, and Gytha had dressed hastily and come to see what was going on.
Ragna turned slowly. She was entitled to kiss her fiancé, and she took pains not to look guilty. “Mother-in-law,” she said. “Good morning.” She was polite, but she allowed a hint of irritation into her voice. Gytha was the intruder here, the one who had ventured where she had no right to go.
Gytha said: “Shall I send the barber to shave your chin, Wilf?”
“Not today,” he said with a touch of impatience. “I’ll shave on the morning of the wedding.” He spoke as if she should have known this, and it was obvious that she had asked only because she needed a pretext for being there.
Ragna rearranged her headdress, taking more time than she needed, underlining the fact that Gytha had intruded upon a moment of intimacy. While tying the scarf she said: “Show Gytha your gift, Wilf.”
Wilf pointed to the band on his arm. It glinted in the firelight.
“Very attractive,” said Gytha without warmth. “Silver is always good value.” It was cheaper than gold, she was implying.
Ragna ignored the jibe. “And now, Wilf, I must ask you for something.”
“Anything, my beloved.”
“You’ve put me in a very poor house.”
He was startled. “Have I?”
His surprise confirmed Ragna’s suspicion that he had left this to Gytha. Ragna said: “It has no window, and the walls let in the cold air at night.”
Wilf looked at Gytha. “Is this true?”
She said: “It’s not that bad.”
That answer angered Wilf. “My fiancée deserves the best of everything!” he said.
“It’s the only house available,” Gytha protested.
Ragna said: “Not quite.”
“There is no other empty house,” Gytha insisted.
“But Wigelm doesn’t really need a house for himself and his men-at-arms,” Ragna said in a tone of gentle rationality. “His wife isn’t even here. Their home is at Combe.”
Gytha said: “Wigelm is the ealdorman’s brother!”
“And I am the ealdorman’s bride.” Ragna was working hard to suppress her anger. “Wigelm is a man, with a man’s simple needs, but I am a bride preparing for my wedding day.” She turned her gaze to Wilf. “Which of us do you wish to favor?”
There was only one possible answer a
bridegroom could make. “You, of course,” he said.
“And after the wedding,” she said, holding Wilf’s gaze, “I will be closer to you at night, for Wigelm’s house is right next door.”
He smiled. “That clinches it.”
Wilf had made up his mind, and Gytha gave in. She was too wise to argue when she had already lost. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll swap Ragna and Wigelm.” She could not resist adding: “Wigelm won’t like it.”
Wilf said crisply: “If he complains, just remind him which brother is the ealdorman.”
Gytha bowed her head. “Of course.”
Ragna had won, and Wilf was displeased with Gytha. Ragna decided to push her luck. “Forgive me, Wilf, but I need both houses.”
Gytha said: “What on earth for? No one has two houses.”
“I want my men nearby. At present they’re lodged in the town.”
Gytha said: “Why do you need men-at-arms?”
Ragna gave her a haughty look. “It is my preference,” she said. “And I am about to be the ealdorman’s wife.” She turned her face to Wilf.
Now he was losing patience. “Gytha, give her what she wants, and no more arguments.”
“Very well,” said Gytha.
“Thank you, my love,” said Ragna, and she kissed him again.
CHAPTER 12
Mid−October 997
n the day of the hundred court, Edgar was nervous but determined.
The hundred of Dreng’s Ferry consisted of five small settlements, widely scattered. Bathford was the largest village, but Dreng’s Ferry was the administrative center, and the dean of the minster traditionally presided over the court.
Court was held every four weeks. It took place out of doors, regardless of the weather, but today happened to be bright, though cold. The big wooden chair was positioned outside the west end of the church, and a small table was set beside it. Father Deorwin, the oldest priest, brought from underneath the altar the pyx. Made by Cuthbert, this was a round, silver container with a hinged lid, its sides engraved with images of the Crucifixion. It held a consecrated wafer from the Mass, and it would be used today for administering oaths.
Men and women from all five villages came, including children and slaves, some on horseback but most on foot. Everyone showed up if they possibly could, because the court made decisions that affected their everyday lives. Even Mother Agatha was there, though not any of the other nuns. Women were not allowed to testify, at least in theory, but strong characters such as Edgar’s Ma often spoke their minds.
Edgar had attended court many times in Combe. On several occasions his father had been obliged to bring suit against people who were slow to pay their bills. His brother Eadbald had gone through a phase of minor delinquency and had twice been charged with fighting in the street. So Edgar was not unfamiliar with the law and legal proceedings.
Today there was more excitement than usual, because an accusation of murder was to be heard.
Edgar’s brothers had tried to talk him out of bringing the charge. They did not want trouble. “Dreng is our father-in-law,” Eadbald had said, watching Edgar trimming a rough-hewn stone into a neat oblong shape, using his new hammer and chisel.
Anger made Edgar’s arm strong as he struck flakes off the stone. “That doesn’t mean he can break the law.”
“No, but it means my brother can’t be his accuser.” Eadbald was the more intelligent of Edgar’s two brothers, capable of a persuasive, rational argument.
Edgar had put down his tools to give Eadbald his full attention. “How can I keep silent?” he had replied. “A murder has been done, here in our village. We can’t pretend it never happened.”
“I don’t see why not,” Eadbald had said. “We’re just getting settled here. People are accepting us. Why do you have to make trouble?”
“Murder is wrong!” Edgar had said. “What other reason should I need?”
Eadbald had made a frustrated noise and walked away.
The other brother, Erman, had accosted Edgar that evening outside the tavern. He had taken a different tack. “Degbert Baldhead presides over the hundred court,” he had said. “He will make sure the court doesn’t convict his brother.”
“He may not be able to do that,” Edgar had replied. “The law is the law.”
“And Degbert is the dean, and our landlord.”
Edgar knew that Erman was right, but it made no difference. “Degbert may do what he wants, and answer for it on the Day of Judgment, but I won’t condone the killing of a child.”
“Aren’t you scared? Degbert is the power here.”
“Yes,” said Edgar. “I’m scared.”
Cuthbert had also tried to dissuade him. Edgar had made his new tools in Cuthbert’s workshop, which was the only forge in Dreng’s Ferry. There was more sharing here than there had been in the town of Combe, Edgar had learned: a small place had limited facilities and everyone needed help sooner or later. As Edgar was shaping his new tools on Cuthbert’s anvil, the clergyman had said: “Degbert is furious with you.”
Edgar guessed that Cuthbert had been told to say this. The man was too timid ever to venture a criticism on his own initiative.
“I can’t help that,” Edgar had said.
“He’s a bad man to have as an enemy.” Genuine fear was audible in Cuthbert’s tone: clearly he was terrified of the dean.
“I don’t doubt it.”
“And he comes from a powerful family. Ealdorman Wilwulf is his cousin.”
Edgar knew all that. Exasperated, he said: “You’re a man of God, Cuthbert. Can you stand silently by when murder is done?”
Cuthbert could, of course; he was weak. But he took offense at Edgar’s question. “I didn’t see any murder,” he had said peevishly, and he had walked away.
As the people were assembling, Father Deorwin spoke to the most important of them, especially the head men of each village. Edgar knew, from having attended previous hundred courts, that Deorwin was asking whether they had issues they needed to bring before the court, and making a mental list to communicate to Degbert.
Finally Degbert emerged from the priests’ house and sat in the chair.
In principle, what happened at a hundred court was that the people of the neighborhood reached a collective decision. In practice, the court was often presided over by a rich nobleman or a senior clergyman who might dominate proceedings. However, some degree of consensus was needed, because it was difficult for one side to compel the other. A nobleman could make life difficult for the peasants in a dozen different ways, but the peasants could simply refuse to obey him. There was no machinery for enforcing court decisions other than general consent. So court often involved a power struggle between two more or less equal forces, as when a sailor found that the wind was blowing his boat one way while the tide took it another.
Degbert announced that the court would first discuss the sharing of the ox team.
There was no rule that said he had the right to set the agenda. In some places the headman of the largest village would take that role. But Degbert had long ago seized the privilege.
The sharing of the ox team was a perennial issue. Dreng’s Ferry had no heavy ploughland, but the other four settlements had clay soil and shared a team of eight oxen, which had to be driven from one place to another during the winter ploughing season. The ideal time was when it got cold enough to stop the weeds growing and wet enough for the ground to have softened after the dryness of summer. But everyone wanted the ox team first, because villages that ploughed later might have to contend with drenched and slimy soil.
On this occasion the headman of Bathford, a wise old graybeard called Nothelm, had worked out a reasonable compromise, and Degbert, who had no interest in ploughing, made no objection.
Next Degbert invited Offa, the reeve of Mudeford, to speak. He had been ordered by Ea
ldorman Wilwulf to search—again—for the hideout of Ironface, who had had the temerity to rob Wilwulf’s bride-to-be. Offa was a big man of about thirty with a twisted nose, probably from some battle. He said: “I searched the south bank between here and Mudeford, and questioned everyone I met, even Saemar the smelly shepherd.” There was a chuckle from the crowd: everyone knew Sam. “We think Ironface must live on the south bank, because he always robs there, but I searched the north bank anyway. Same as always, there’s no trace of him.”
No one was surprised. Ironface had been evading justice for years.
At last it was time to hear Edgar. First Degbert called on him to swear an oath. Edgar put his hand on the silver pyx and said: “By Almighty God I say that Dreng the ferryman murdered an unnamed boy born to Blod the slave by throwing the newborn baby into the river twelve days ago. I saw this with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears. Amen.”
There was a murmur of revulsion from the crowd. They had known in advance what the charge was, but perhaps they had been unaware of the details; or maybe they knew but were horrified to hear them spoken out loud in Edgar’s clear voice. Whatever the reason, Edgar was glad they were shocked. They should be. And perhaps their indignation would shame Degbert into agreeing to some kind of justice.
Now, before the case went further, Edgar said: “Dean Degbert, you cannot preside over this trial. The accused man is your brother.”
Degbert pretended to be affronted. “Are you suggesting that I might judge corruptly? You may be punished for that.”
Edgar had anticipated this reaction, and he had his answer ready. “No, dean, but a man should not be asked to condemn his own brother.” He saw some among the crowed nod approvingly. Villagers were jealous of their rights and resentful of the tendency of nobleman to domineer over local courts.
Degbert said: “I am a priest, the dean of the minster, and the lord of the village. I shall continue to preside over this hundred court.”
Edgar persisted, not because he thought he could win the argument, but to emphasize Degbert’s bias more strongly to the villagers. “The headman of Bathford, Nothelm, could perfectly well preside.”