by Ken Follett
He stood up from his seat and stared, openmouthed, as he grasped the size and authority of the arriving contingent. His expression showed shock and dismay. No doubt he had thought that by causing Astrid to be lamed he had made sure Ragna could not leave Shiring. He was now beginning to realize how badly he had underestimated her. He said: “How did you—?” But he changed his mind and did not finish the question.
She continued to walk her horse toward him, and the crowd parted for her. She held the reins in her left hand and a riding crop in her right.
Wynstan, always a quick thinker, changed his tune. “Lady Ragna, welcome to the Vale of Outhen,” he said. “We’re surprised, but honored, to see you here.” He seemed about to grasp the bridle of her horse, but Ragna was not having that: she raised her riding crop just a little, as if to strike his hand away; but he saw her determination and aborted his move.
She rode past him.
She had often spoken to large groups in the open air, and she knew how to make her voice carry. “People of the Vale of Outhen,” she said. “I am the lady Ragna, and I am your lord.”
There was a moment of silence. Ragna waited. A man in the crowd went down on one knee. Others followed suit, and soon everyone was kneeling.
She turned to her group. “Take possession of those carts,” she ordered.
The sheriff nodded to his men-at-arms.
Their captain, Wigbert, was a small, wiry, mean-looking man with a temper as taut as a bowstring. His lieutenant was Godwine, tall and heavy. People were intimidated by Godwine’s size, but he was the friendlier of the two. Wigbert was the man to be scared of.
Wynstan said: “Those are my carts.”
Ragna said: “And you shall have them back—but not today.”
Wynstan’s companions were mostly servants, not men-at-arms, and they backed away from the carts as soon as Wigbert and Godwine approached them.
The villagers were still on their knees.
Wynstan said: “Wait! Are you going to be ruled by a mere woman?”
There was no response from the villagers. They were still on their knees, but kneeling was free. The real issue was not who they bowed to but who they paid rent to.
Ragna had an answer ready for Wynstan. “Don’t you know about the great princess Ethelfled, the daughter of King Alfred and lord of all Mercia?” she said. Aldred had told her that most people would have heard of this remarkable woman who had died only eighty years ago. “She was one of the greatest rulers England ever saw!”
Wynstan said: “She was English. You’re not.”
“But Bishop Wynstan, you negotiated my marriage contract. You arranged for me to be given the Vale of Outhen. When you were in Cherbourg, making arrangements with Count Hubert, did you not notice that you were in Normandy, dealing with a Norman nobleman for the hand of his Norman daughter?”
The crowd laughed, and Wynstan flushed with anger. “The people are used to paying their dues to me,” he said. “Father Draca will confirm that.” He looked hard at the village priest.
The man looked terrified. He managed to say: “What the bishop says is true.”
Ragna said: “Father Draca, who is the lord of the Vale of Outhenham?”
“My lady, I’m just a poor village priest—”
“But you know who is the lord of your village.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Then answer the question.”
“My lady, we have been informed that you are now lord of Outhen.”
“And so the people owe their rents to whom?”
Draca mumbled: “You.”
“Louder, please, so that the villagers can hear you.”
Draca saw that he had no alternative. “They owe their rents to you, my lady.”
“Thank you.” She looked over the crowd, paused a moment, then said: “All stand.”
They got to their feet.
Ragna was satisfied. She had taken control. But it was not over yet.
She dismounted and went to the table. Everyone watched her silently, wondering what she would do next. “You’re Ithamar, aren’t you?” she said to Wynstan’s assistant. He stared at her anxiously. She snatched the parchment from his hand. Taken by surprise, he offered no resistance. The document specified, in Latin, what dues were payable by each man in the village, with many scribbled changes. It was old, and today’s tenants would be the sons and grandsons of those originally listed.
She decided to impress the villagers with her education. “How far have you got this morning?” she asked Ithamar.
“To Wilmund the baker.”
She ran a finger down the list. “Wilmundus Pistor,” she read aloud. “It says here that he owes thirty-six pence per quarter.” There was a murmur of surprise from the crowd: not only could she read, but she could translate Latin. “Step forward, Wilmund.”
The baker was a plump young man with floury streaks of white in his dark beard. He stepped forward with his wife and a teenage son, each of them holding a small purse. Wilmund slowly counted out twenty pence in whole coins, then his wife counted another ten in halves.
Ragna said: “What’s your name, baker’s wife?”
“Regenhild, my lady,” she said nervously.
“And is this your son?”
“Yes, my lady, he’s Penda.”
“He’s a fine lad.”
Regenhild relaxed a little. “Thank you, my lady.”
“How old are you, Penda?”
“Fifteen, my lady.”
“You’re tall, for fifteen.”
Penda blushed. “Yes.”
He counted out six pence in quarters, and the family’s rent was paid. They returned to the crowd, smiling at the attention they had received from a noblewoman. All she had done was to show interest in them as people, not just tenants, but they would remember it for years.
Ragna turned to Dudda, the headman. Feigning ignorance, she said: “Tell me about these notched sticks.”
“They are from Gab the quarrymaster,” Dudda replied. “He keeps a different stick for each man who buys stone. One stone in five belongs to the lord.”
“Which is me.”
Dudda said sulkily: “So we are told.”
“Which of you is Gab?”
A thin man with scarred hands stepped forward and coughed.
There were seven sticks, and only one of them bore five notches. She picked it up as if at random. “So, Gab, to which buyer does this stick refer?”
“That would be Dreng the ferryman.” Gab’s voice was hoarse, no doubt from breathing stone dust.
As if seeking to understand the system, Ragna said: “So Dreng bought five stones from you.”
“Yes, my lady.” Gab looked uneasy, as if wondering where this was leading. He added: “And I owe you the price of one of them.”
She turned to Dudda. “Is that right?”
He looked anxious, as if fearing a surprise but unable to figure out what it might be. “Yes, my lady.”
“Dreng’s builder is here with me today,” Ragna said.
She heard two or three startled exclamations, quickly supressed, and she guessed that some villagers must have known about Gab’s fraud. Gab himself suddenly looked sick, and Dudda’s red face paled.
Ragna said: “Come forward, Edgar.”
Edgar emerged from the middle of the group of men-at-arms and servants, and came to stand beside Ragna. Dudda directed a look of hatred at him.
Ragna said: “How many stones did you buy from my quarry, Edgar?”
Gab said quickly: “It was five, wasn’t it, young man?”
Edgar said: “No. Five stones isn’t enough to tile the roof of a brewhouse. I bought ten.”
Gab was panicking now. “An innocent mistake, then, my lady, I swear it.”
Ragna made her voice cold.
“There are no innocent mistakes.”
“But my lady—”
“Be silent.” Ragna would have liked to get rid of Gab, but she needed a quarryman and did not have a replacement ready. She decided to make a virtue of necessity. “I’m not going to punish you,” she said. “I’m going to say to you what our Lord said to the adulteress: Go thy way, and sin no more.”
The crowd was surprised at that, but they seemed to approve. Ragna hoped she had shown herself to be a ruler who could not be fooled but might be merciful.
She turned to Dudda. “However, I don’t forgive you. Your duty was to make sure your lord was not cheated, and you failed. You are no longer headman.”
Once again she listened to the crowd. They sounded shocked, but she heard no note of protest, and she concluded that they did not much regret the dismissal of Dudda.
“Let Seric step forward.”
A man of about fifty with an alert look came out of the crowd and bowed to her.
She looked at the villagers and said: “I’m told that Seric is an honest man.”
She had not asked them a question—that might have given the impression that the choice was theirs. But she paid attention to their reactions. Several people made approving noises, and others nodded assent. Edgar’s instinct about Seric had been right, it seemed.
“Seric, you are now headman.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Seric. “I will be honest and true.”
“Good.” She looked at Wynstan’s assistant. “Ithamar, you are no longer required. Father Draca, you can take his place.”
Draca looked nervous, but he sat at the table, and Seric stood beside him.
Wynstan stalked off, and his men began to hurry after him.
Ragna looked around. The villagers were quiet, watching her, waiting to see what she would do next. She had their rapt attention, and they were ready to do her bidding. She had taken leadership. She was satisfied.
“Very well,” she said. “Let us continue.”
CHAPTER 19
June 998
ldred left Shiring on the pony Dismas, heading for Combe. There was safety in numbers, and he traveled with Offa the reeve, who was going to Mudeford. Aldred was carrying a letter from Abbott Osmund to Prior Ulfric. The letter was about a routine matter of business having to do with some land that, awkwardly, was jointly owned by the two monasteries. In Aldred’s saddlebag, carefully wrapped in linen, was a precious volume of the Dialogues of Pope Gregory the Great, copied and illuminated in Aldred’s scriptorium, a gift to Combe Priory. Aldred was hoping to receive a reciprocal present, another book that would enlarge the library at Shiring. Books were sometimes bought and sold, though exchange of gifts was more usual. But Aldred’s real reason for going to Combe was neither the letter nor the book. He was investigating Bishop Wynstan.
He wanted to be in Combe immediately after Midsummer Day, at the time when Wynstan and Degbert would visit, if they followed their usual routine. He was determined to find out what the corrupt cousins did there and whether it had any connection with the mystery of Dreng’s Ferry. He had been firmly ordered to drop the whole thing, but he was determined to disobey.
The minster at Dreng’s Ferry affected him profoundly. It made him feel stained. It was hard to take pride in being a man of God when others who wore the robes behaved like libertines. Degbert and his crew seemed to cast a shadow over everything Aldred did. Aldred was willing to break his vow of obedience if he could put an end to the minster.
Now that he was on his way, he had misgivings. Just how was he going to find out what Wynstan and Degbert were up to? He could follow them around, but they might notice. Worse, there were houses in Combe that a man of God should not enter. Wynstan and Degbert might go to such places discreetly, or perhaps not care if they were seen, but Aldred would find it impossible to act the part of a habitué, and he would surely be spotted. And then he would be in all kinds of trouble.
His route lay via Dreng’s Ferry, and he decided to ask Edgar’s help.
On arriving at the hamlet he went first to the minster. He walked in with his head high. He had been unwelcome there before, but now he was hated. It was not surprising. He had tried to have the priests ejected and deprived of their life of comfort and idleness, and they would never forget it. Forgiveness and mercy were among the many Christian virtues they lacked. All the same, Aldred insisted that they offer him the hospitality they owed to all clergy. He was not prepared to skulk in the alehouse. He was not the one who should feel ashamed. Degbert and his priests had given such offense by their behavior that the archbishop had agreed to expel them: they should feel unable to hold up their heads. They were still here only because they had some clandestine usefulness to Bishop Wynstan—and that was the secret Aldred was determined to uncover.
He did not want to reveal that he was on his way to Combe and would be there at the same time as Wynstan and Degbert, so he told a white lie and said he was going to Sherborne, which was several days’ journey from Combe.
After a begrudged evening meal and a perfunctory service of collatio, Aldred went in search of Edgar. He found him outside the alehouse, dandling a baby on his knee in the warm evening air. They had not met since their triumph at Outhenham, and Edgar seemed pleased to see Aldred.
But Aldred was startled by the baby. “Yours?” he said.
Edgar smiled and shook his head. “My brother’s. Her name is Wynswith. We call her Winnie. She’s almost three months old. Isn’t she beautiful?”
To Aldred she looked like every other baby: round-faced, bald as a priest, dribbling, charmless. “Yes, she’s beautiful,” he said. That was his second white lie today. He would have to pray for clemency.
“What brings you here?” said Edgar. “It can’t be the pleasure of visiting Degbert.”
“Is there somewhere we can talk without fear of being overheard?”
“I’ll show you my brewhouse,” Edgar said eagerly. “Just a minute.” He stepped inside the alehouse and came out again without the baby.
The brewhouse was close to the river, so that water did not have to be carried too far, and it was on the upstream side. As in all riverside settlements, the villagers dipped their buckets upstream and disposed of waste downstream.
The new building had a roof of oak tiles. “I thought you planned a stone roof,” Aldred said.
“I made a mistake,” Edgar said. “I found I couldn’t cut stone into tiles. They were either too fat or too thin. I had to change my design.” He looked a bit abashed. “In the future I need to remember that not every bright idea I get is practicable.”
Inside, a strong, spicy odor of fermentation came from a big bronze cauldron suspended over a square stone-walled hearth. Barrels and sacks were stacked in a separate room. The stone floor was clean. “It’s a little palace!” said Aldred.
Edgar smiled. “It’s designed to be fireproof. Why did you want to talk privately? I’m eager to know.”
“I’m on my way to Combe.”
Edgar understood immediately. “Wynstan and Degbert will be there in a few days.”
“And I want to see what they get up to. But I have a problem. I can’t follow them around without being noticed, especially if they go into houses of ill fame.”
“What’s the answer?”
“I want you to help me keep an eye on them. You’re less likely to attract attention.”
Edgar grinned. “Is it really a monk who is asking me to visit Mags’s house?”
Aldred grimaced with distaste. “I can hardly believe it myself.”
Edgar turned serious again. “I can go to Combe to buy supplies. Dreng trusts me.”
Aldred was surprised. “Does he?”
“He set a trap for me, gave me too much money for stones, expecting me to steal the surplus, and was shocked when I gave it back to him. Now he’s glad to have me do the
work and take the strain off his famous bad back.”
“Do you need anything from Combe?”
“We’re going to have to buy new ropes soon, and they’re cheaper in Combe. I could probably leave tomorrow.”
“We shouldn’t travel together. I don’t want people to realize we’re collaborating.”
“Then I’ll leave the day after Midsummer, and take the raft.”
“Perfect,” Aldred said gratefully.
They stepped out of the brewhouse. The sun was going down. Aldred said: “When you get there, you’ll find me at the priory.”
“Travel safely,” said Edgar.
* * *
Five days after Midsummer, Edgar was eating cheese in the alehouse known as the Sailors when he heard that Wynstan and Degbert had arrived in Combe that morning and were staying with Wigelm.
Wigelm had rebuilt the compound that had been destroyed by the Vikings a year ago. It was easy for Edgar to keep an eye on the single entrance, especially as there was another alehouse a stone’s throw away.
It was boring work, and he passed the time by speculating about Wynstan’s secret. He could think of all kinds of nefarious activities that the bishop might indulge in, but he could not imagine how Dreng’s Ferry fitted in, and his guesswork got him nowhere.
That first evening Wynstan and his brother and cousin caroused at home. Edgar watched the gate until the lights began to go out in the compound, then he returned to the abbey for the night, and told Aldred he had nothing to report.
He was worried about being noticed. Most people in Combe knew him, and it would not take them long to start wondering what he was up to. He had bought rope and a few other supplies; he had drunk ale with a handful of old friends; he had taken a good look around the rebuilt town; and now he needed a pretext to linger.
It was June, and he remembered a place in the woods where wild strawberries grew. They were a special treat at this time of year, hard to find but mouthwateringly delicious. He left the town when the monks rose for their dawn service and walked a mile into the forest. He was lucky: the strawberries were just ripe. He picked a sackful, returned to the town, and began to sell them at Wigelm’s gate. There was a good deal of traffic into and out of the compound so it was a logical place for a vendor to stand. He charged a farthing for two dozen.