The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  This was Hildred’s way of getting rid of him. With Aldred gone, Hildred would surely succeed Osmund as abbot.

  He said: “No, thank you, Treasurer Hildred, I am not worthy of such a post.”

  Wynstan joined in with barely concealed glee. “Of course you are worthy, Aldred,” he said.

  You, too, want me out of the way, Aldred thought.

  Wynstan went on: “And as bishop I’m happy to give my immediate approval to your promotion.”

  “It’s hardly a promotion—I’m already armarius of the abbey.”

  “Oh, don’t be churlish,” said Wilwulf with a smile. “This will give free rein to your leadership qualities.”

  “It is for Abbot Osmund to appoint the prior. Is this court trying to usurp his prerogative?”

  “Of course not,” said Wynstan oilily. “But we can approve Treasurer Hildred’s proposal.”

  Aldred saw that he had been outmaneuvered. Now that the appointment had been endorsed by all the most powerful people in Shiring, Osmund would not have the guts to reverse their decision. He was trapped. He thought: Why did I ever imagine that I was clever?

  Wynstan said: “One thing I should point out now—if I may, brother Wilf.”

  Aldred thought: What now?

  “Go ahead,” said Wilwulf.

  “Over the years pious men have donated lands for the upkeep of the minster at Dreng’s Ferry.

  Aldred had a bad feeling.

  Wynstan went on: “Those lands were given to the diocese of Shiring, and they remain the property of the cathedral.”

  Aldred was outraged. When Wynstan said “the diocese” and “the cathedral” he meant himself. “This is nonsense!” Aldred protested.

  Wynstan said condescendingly: “The village of Dreng’s Ferry I grant to the new monastery, as a sign of my goodwill; but the village of Wigleigh, donated by you, brother, at your wedding, and the other lands that have supported the minster, remain the property of the diocese.”

  “This is wrong,” Aldred said. “When Archbishop Elfric turned Canterbury into a monastery, the departing priests did not take all the assets of Canterbury Cathedral with them!”

  “Different circumstances completely,” said Wynstan.

  “I disagree.”

  “Then the ealdorman will have to decide.”

  “No, he won’t,” said Aldred. “This is a matter for the archbishop.”

  Wilwulf said: “I intended my wedding gift to benefit the minster, not a monastery, and I believe the other donors felt the same way.”

  “You have no idea what the other donors felt.”

  Wilwulf looked angry. “I rule in favor of Bishop Wynstan.”

  Aldred persisted: “The archbishop will rule, not you.”

  Wilwulf was offended to be told he had no jurisdiction. “We shall see,” he said angrily.

  Aldred knew how it would be. The archbishop would command Wynstan to return the lands to the new monastery, but Wynstan would ignore him. Wilwulf had already defied the king twice, first over the treaty with Count Hubert and then over the marriage to Ragna, and now Wynstan would treat the ruling of the archbishop with the same kind of scorn. And there was little a king or an archbishop could do about a magnate who simply refused to obey orders.

  He noticed Wigbert speaking to Den quietly. Wilwulf saw the interaction and said: “Is everything ready for the punishment?”

  Den said reluctantly: “Yes, ealdorman.”

  Wilwulf stood up. Surrounded by his men-at-arms he walked through the crowd to the center of the square. The magnates followed him.

  A tall stake stood in the middle of the square for occasions such as this. While everyone had been looking at Wilwulf on his seat and listening to the arguments, poor Cuthbert had been stripped naked and roped to the stake so tightly that he could not move any part of his body, not even his head. Everyone gathered around him to watch. The townspeople jostled to see better.

  Wigbert produced a large pair of shears, blades gleaming from recent sharpening. A murmur rose up from the crowd. Looking at the faces of his neighbors, Aldred saw with disgust that many of them were avid for blood.

  Sheriff Den said: “Go ahead and carry out the ealdorman’s sentence.”

  The purpose of this punishment was not to kill the wrongdoer, but to doom him to life as merely half a man. Wigbert manipulated the shears so that the twin blades could close on Cuthbert’s testicular sack without removing his penis.

  Cuthbert was moaning, praying, and weeping all at the same time.

  Aldred felt ill.

  Wigbert cut off Cuthbert’s testicles with one decisive motion. Cuthbert screamed, and blood ran down his legs.

  A dog appeared from nowhere, snatched up the testicles in his jaws, and fled; and the crowd roared with laughter.

  Wigbert put down the bloodstained shears. Standing in front of Cuthbert he put his hands on the priest’s temples, touched the eyelids with his thumbs, and then, with another practiced motion, thrust his thumbs deep into the eyes. Cuthbert screamed again, and the fluid from his burst eyeballs dribbled down his cheeks.

  Wigbert undid the ropes binding Cuthbert to the stake, and Cuthbert fell to the ground.

  Aldred caught sight of Wynstan’s face. The bishop was standing next to Wilwulf, and both were staring at the bleeding man on the ground.

  Wynstan was smiling.

  CHAPTER 24

  December 998

  nly once before in Aldred’s life had he felt utterly defeated, humiliated, and despondent about the future. That had been when he was a novice at Glastonbury and had been caught kissing Leofric in the herb garden. Until then he had been the star among the youngsters: best at reading, writing, singing, and memorizing the Bible. Suddenly his weakness became the subject of every conversation, discussed even in chapter. Instead of talking in admiring tones of his bright future, people asked one another what was to be done with a boy so depraved. He had felt like a horse that could not be ridden or a dog that bit its master. He had wanted only to crawl into a hole and sleep for a hundred years.

  And now that feeling was back. All the promise he had shown as armarius of Shiring, all the talk of his becoming abbot one day, had come to nothing. His ambitions—the school, the library, the world-class scriptorium—were now mere daydreams. He had been exiled to the remote hamlet of Dreng’s Ferry and put in charge of a penniless priory, and this would be the end of the story of his life.

  Abbot Osmund had told him he was too passionate. “A monk should develop an accepting disposition,” he had said when saying good-bye to Aldred. “We can’t correct all the evil in the world.” Aldred had lain awake night after night chewing over that judgment in bitterness and anger. Two passions had undone him: first his love for Leofric, then his rage at Wynstan. But in his heart he still could not agree with Osmund. Monks ought never to accept evil. They had to fight against it.

  He was weighed down with despair, but not crippled by it. He had said that the old minster was a disgrace, so now he could throw his energy into making the new priory a shining example of what men of God ought to do. The little church already looked different: the floor had been swept and the walls whitewashed. The old scribe Tatwine, one of the monks who had chosen to migrate to Dreng’s Ferry with Aldred, had begun a wall painting, a picture of the Nativity, a birth scene for the reborn church.

  Edgar had repaired the entrance. He had taken out the stones of the arch one by one, trimmed them to shape, and reset them so that they sat precisely on the spokes of an imaginary wheel. That was all that was needed, he said, to make it stronger. Aldred’s sole consolation in Dreng’s Ferry was that he saw more of the clever, charming young man who had captured his heart.

  The house looked different, too. When Degbert and his crew left they had naturally taken with them all their luxuries, the wall hangings and the ornaments and th
e blankets. The place was now bare and utilitarian, as monks’ accommodation ought to be. But Edgar had welcomed Aldred with a gift of a lectern he had made of oak, so that while the monks were eating they could listen to one of their number reading from the Rule of Saint Benedict or the life of a saint. It had been made with love, and although this was not the kind of love Aldred sometimes dreamed of, not a love of kisses and caresses and embraces in the night, nevertheless the gift brought tears to his eyes.

  Aldred knew that work was the best solace. He told the brothers that the history of a monastery normally began with the monks rolling up their sleeves and clearing ground, and here in Dreng’s Ferry they had already started to fell trees on the wooded hillside above the church. A monastery needed land for a vegetable garden, an orchard, a duck pond, and grazing for a few goats and a cow or two. Edgar had made axes, hammering out the blades on the anvil in Cuthbert’s old workshop, and had taught Aldred and the other monks how to chop down trees efficiently and safely.

  The rents Aldred got as landlord of the hamlet were not sufficient to feed even the monks, and Abbot Osmund had agreed to pay the priory a monthly subsidy. Hildred had, of course, argued for an amount that was hopelessly inadequate. “If it’s not enough you can come back and discuss it,” Hildred had said, but Aldred had known that once the subvention was fixed the treasurer would never agree to an increase. The upshot had been an allowance that would keep the monks alive and the church functional but no more. If Aldred wanted to buy books, plant an orchard, and build a cowshed, he would have to find the funds himself.

  When the monks had arrived here and looked around, the old scribe Tatwine had said to Aldred, not unkindly: “Perhaps God wants to teach you the virtue of humility.” Aldred thought Tatwine might be right. Humility had never been one of his strengths.

  On Sunday Aldred celebrated Mass in the little church. He stood at the altar in the tiny chancel while the six monks who had come here with him—all volunteers—stood in two neat rows on the ground floor of the tower, which served as the nave. The villagers gathered behind the monks, quieter than usual and awed by the unfamiliar sense of discipline and reverence.

  During the service a horse was heard outside, and Aldred’s old friend Wigferth of Canterbury came into the church. Wigferth visited the west of England frequently, to collect rents. His mistress in Trench had recently given birth, according to monastic gossip. Wigferth was a good monk in other respects, and Aldred remained friendly to him, restricting himself to the occasional disapproving frown if Wigferth was so tactless as to mention his illicit family.

  As soon as the service was over, Aldred spoke to him. “It’s good to see you. I hope you have time to stay for dinner.”

  “Certainly.”

  “We’re not rich, so our food will save you from the sin of gluttony.”

  Wigferth smiled and patted his belly. “I stand in need of such salvation.”

  “What news from Canterbury?”

  “Two things. Archbishop Elfric has ordered Wynstan to return the village of Wigleigh to the ownership of the church at Dreng’s Ferry, which means you.”

  “Good!”

  “Wait, don’t celebrate. I have already taken that message to Wynstan, who said the matter was outside the archbishop’s jurisdiction.”

  “In other words he will ignore the ruling.”

  “That one, and another. Wynstan has made Degbert an archdeacon at Shiring Cathedral.”

  “In effect, deputy to Wynstan, and his likely successor.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Some punishment.” The promotion, coming so swiftly after the trial and Degbert’s demotion, told everyone that Wynstan’s people would always do well, and those who opposed him—such as Aldred—would suffer.

  “The archbishop refused to ratify the appointment—and Wynstan ignored him.”

  Aldred scratched his shaved head. “Wynstan defies the archbishop and Wilwulf defies the king. How long can this go on?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe until the Day of Judgment.”

  Aldred looked around. Two of the congregation were watching him expectantly. “We’ll talk more at dinner,” he said to Wigferth. “I must speak to the villagers. They’re a discontented lot.”

  Wigferth left, and Aldred turned to the waiting couple. A woman called Ebba, with chapped hands, said: “The priest used to pay me to do their laundry. Why don’t you?”

  “Laundry?” said Aldred. “We do our own.” There was not much. Monks usually washed their robes twice a year. Other people might have loincloths, strips of material wound around the waist and between the legs and tied in front. Women used them during the monthly flux, and washed them afterward; men wore them for riding, and probably never washed them at all. Babies were sometimes wrapped in something similar. Monks had no use for such things.

  The woman’s husband, Cerdic, said: “I used to gather firewood for the priests, and rushes for their floor, and bring them fresh water from the river every day.”

  “I have no money to pay you,” Aldred said. “Bishop Wynstan has stolen all the wealth of this church.”

  “The bishop was a very generous man,” said Cerdic.

  With the proceeds of forgery, Aldred thought; but there was no point in making such accusations to the villagers. Either they believed Wynstan’s story of innocence or they would pretend to believe it: anything else would make them complicit. He had lost that argument in court and he was not going to rerun it for the rest of his life. So he said: “One day the monastery will be prosperous and bring employment and trade to Dreng’s Ferry, but that will require time and patience and hard work, for I have nothing else to offer.”

  He left the disgruntled couple and moved on. What he had said to them depressed him. This was not the life he had dreamed of: struggling to make a new monastery viable. He wanted books and pens and ink, not a vegetable garden and a duck pond.

  He approached Edgar, who still had the power to brighten his day. Edgar had created a weekly fish market in the hamlet. There were no large villages near Dreng’s Ferry, but there were many small settlements and lonely farms such as Theodberht Clubfoot’s sheepfold. Every Friday a handful of people, mostly women, showed up to buy Edgar’s fish. But Degbert had claimed he was entitled to one fish in three of Edgar’s catch. “You asked me about Degbert’s charter,” Aldred said. “It’s attached to that of the new monastery, since some of the rights are the same.”

  “And did Degbert tell the truth about it?” Edgar asked.

  Aldred shook his head. “There’s no mention of fish in the charter. He had no right to tax you.”

  “I thought as much,” said Edgar. “The lying thief.”

  “I’m afraid he is.”

  “Everyone wants something for nothing,” Edgar complained. “My brother Erman said I should share the money with him. I made the pond, I make the traps, I empty the traps every morning, and I give my family all the fish they can eat. But they want money, too.”

  “Men are greedy.”

  “Women, too. My sister-in-law Cwenburg probably told Erman what to say. Never mind. Can I show you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Come with me to the graveyard.”

  They left the building and walked around to the north side. Edgar said conversationally: “My father taught me that in a well-made boat the joints should never be too tight. A small amount of movement between the timbers absorbs some of the shock of the endless buffeting of wind and waves. But there’s no looseness in a stone building.” Near the place where the little chancel extension joined the tower he pointed up. “See that crack?”

  Aldred certainly did see it. Where the tower met the chancel was a gap he could have put his thumb into. “Good Lord,” he said.

  “Buildings move, but there’s no looseness between mortared stones, so cracks appear. In some ways they’re useful, because
they tell us what’s happening in the structure and forewarn us of problems.”

  “Can you fill the crack with mortar?”

  “Of course, but that’s not enough. The problem is that the tower is slowly tilting downhill, and leaving the chancel behind. I can fill the gap, but the tower will continue to move, and then the crack will reappear. But that’s the least of your problems.”

  “What is the greatest of my problems?”

  “The tower will fall down.”

  “How soon?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  Aldred wanted to weep. As if his tribulations were not already as much as a man could bear, now his church was falling down.

  Edgar saw the expression on his face, touched his arm lightly, and said: “Don’t despair.”

  The touch heartened Aldred. “Christians never despair.”

  “Good, because I can stop the tower falling down.”

  “How?”

  “By building buttresses to support it on the downhill side.”

  Aldred shook his head. “I have no money for stone.”

  “Well, perhaps I could get some free.”

  Aldred brightened. “Could you, really?”

  “I don’t know,” said Edgar. “I can try.”

  * * *

  Edgar went to ask Ragna for help. She had always been kind to him. Other people spoke of her as formidable, something of a dragon, a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and was determined to get it. But she seemed to have a soft spot for Edgar. However, that did not mean she would give him anything he asked for.

  He felt eager to see her, and he asked himself why. Of course he wanted to help Aldred out of the morass of gloom. But Edgar suspected himself of a desire he despised in others, the wish to be friends with aristocrats. He thought of the way Dreng acted around them, fawning on Wilwulf and Wynstan and constantly mentioning that he was related to them. He hoped his keenness to talk to Ragna was not part of a similar, shameful aspiration.