by Ken Follett
Ragna was sitting on a four-legged stool by the fire. She felt that it was she who had done Agnes a wrong. She had killed the woman’s husband. It had been the right decision, but it felt dreadfully cruel.
She hesitated to show her feelings. She let Agnes remain standing. She thought: What should I do?
Agnes said: “You might have had me flogged for the things I said to you, but you did nothing, which was more kindness than I deserved.”
Ragna waved a dismissive hand. Insults uttered in anger were the least of her concerns.
Cat, who was listening, took a different view. She said severely: “It was a lot more kindness than you deserved, Agnes.”
Ragna said: “That’s enough, Cat. I can speak for myself.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady.”
Agnes said: “I have come to ask your forgiveness, my lady, even though I know I don’t merit it.”
Ragna felt that they both needed forgiveness.
Agnes said: “I have lain awake nights thinking and I can see, now, that you did the right thing, the only thing you could. I’m so sorry.”
Ragna did not like apologies. When there was a rift between people it could not be mended by the utterance of a form of words. But she wanted to heal this rift.
Agnes went on: “I couldn’t think straight at the time, I was too distraught.”
Ragna thought: I, too, might curse someone who let my husband be executed, even if he deserved his punishment.
Ragna wondered what to say. Could she reconcile with Agnes? Wilf would have scoffed at the idea, but he was a man.
From a practical point of view she would like to have Agnes back. It was difficult for Cat to manage Ragna’s three sons plus her own two daughters, all under the age of two. Since Agnes left, Ragna had been looking for a replacement, but she had not found the right sort of woman. If Agnes were to come back, that problem would be solved. And the children liked her.
Could she trust Agnes, after what had happened?
“You don’t know what it’s like, my lady, to find that you have chosen the wrong husband.”
Ah, but I do, Ragna thought; then she realized this was the first time she had admitted that to herself.
She felt a surge of compassion. Whatever sins Agnes had committed had been done under the strong influence of Offa. She had married a dishonest man, but that did not make her a dishonest woman.
“It would mean so much to me if you would just say a kind word before I go,” Agnes said, and she did seem pathetic. “Just say ‘God bless you,’ please, my lady.”
Ragna could not refuse her. “God bless you, Agnes.”
“May I just kiss the twins? I do miss them so.”
She did not have children of her own, Ragna reflected. “All right.”
Agnes expertly picked up both babies at the same time, holding one in each arm. “I do love you both,” she said.
Colinan, the younger twin by a few minutes, was the more advanced. He met Agnes’s eye, gurgled, and smiled.
Ragna sighed and said: “Agnes, do you want to come back?”
CHAPTER 27
April 1001
rior Aldred had high hopes of Thane Deorman of Norwood. Deorman was rich. Norwood was a market town, and a market was always a big earner. And Deorman’s wife of many years had died a month ago. That would have put the thane in mind of the afterlife. The death of someone close often prompted a nobleman to make a pious donation.
Aldred needed donations. The priory was not as poor as it had been three years ago—it had three horses, a flock of sheep, and a small herd of milk cows—but Aldred had ambitions. He accepted that he would never take charge of Shiring Abbey, but he now believed he might turn the priory into a center of learning. For that he needed more than a few hamlets. He had to win something big, a prosperous village or a small town, or some moneymaking enterprise such as a port or the fishing rights to a river.
Thane Deorman’s great hall was richly furnished with wall hangings and blankets and cushions. His servants were preparing the table for a lavish midday meal, and there was a powerful aroma of roasting meat. Deorman was a middle-aged man with failing eyesight, unable to join Wilwulf in fighting the Vikings. Nevertheless, with him he had two women in brightly colored dresses who seemed too fond to be merely servants, and Aldred wondered disapprovingly what their exact status was. At least six small children ran in and out of the house, playing some game that involved much high-pitched squealing.
Deorman ignored the children and did not respond to the women’s touches and smiles, but gave his affection to a large black dog that sat beside him.
Aldred got right to the point. “I was sorry to hear of the death of your dear wife, Godgifu. May her soul rest in peace.”
“Thank you,” said Deorman. “I have two other women, but Godgifu was with me for thirty years, and I miss her.”
Aldred did not comment on Deorman’s polygamy. That might be a discussion for another time. Today he had to focus on his target. He spoke in a deeper, more emotional tone. “The monks of Dreng’s Ferry would be glad to give solemn daily prayers for the dear lady’s immortal soul, if you should wish to commission us.”
“I have a cathedral full of priests praying for her right here in Norwood.”
“Then you are truly blessed, or rather she is. But I’m sure you know that the prayers of celibate monks carry more weight, in that other world that awaits us all, than those of married priests.”
“So people say,” Deorman conceded.
Aldred changed his tone and became more brisk. “As well as Norwood, you’re lord of the little hamlet of Southwood, which has an iron mine.” He paused. It was time to make his request specific. With a quick, silent prayer of hope he said: “Would you consider making a pious gift of Southwood and its mine to the priory, in memory of Lady Godgifu?”
He held his breath. Would Deorman pour scorn on such a demand? Would he burst out laughing at Aldred’s effrontery? Would he be offended?
Deorman’s response was mild. He looked startled, but also amused. “That’s a bold request,” he said noncommittally.
“Ask, and it shall be given you, Jesus told us; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” Aldred often remembered this verse from Matthew’s Gospel when he was soliciting gifts.
“You certainly don’t get much in this world if you don’t ask,” Deorman said. “But that mine makes me a lot of money.”
“It would transform the fortunes of the priory.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Deorman had not said no, but there was a negative undertone, and Aldred waited to find out what the problem was.
“How many monks are there at your priory?” Deorman asked after a moment.
He was playing for time, Aldred thought. “Eight, including me.”
“And are they all good men?”
“Most certainly.”
“Because, you see, there are rumors.”
Here it comes, Aldred thought. He felt a bubble of anger in his guts, and told himself to stay calm. “Rumors,” he repeated.
“To be frank, I’ve heard that your monks hold orgies with slaves.”
“And I know who you heard it from,” said Aldred. He could not completely hide his rage, but he managed to speak quietly. “Some years ago I had the misfortune to discover a powerful man committing a terrible crime, and I’m still being punished for doing so.”
“You’re being punished?”
“Yes, by this kind of slander.”
“You’re telling me the orgy story is a deliberate lie?”
“I’m telling you that the monks of Dreng’s Ferry follow the Rule of Saint Benedict strictly. We have no slaves, no concubines, no catamites. We are celibate.”
“Hmm.”
“But please don’t take my word fo
r it. Pay us a visit—preferably with no forewarning. Surprise us, and you will see us as we are every day. We work, we pray, and we sleep. We will invite you to share our dinner of fish and vegetables. You will see that we have no servants, no pets, no luxuries of any kind. Our prayers could not be more pure.”
“Well, we’ll see.” Deorman was backing down, but was he convinced? “Meanwhile, let’s eat.”
Aldred sat at the table with Deorman’s family and senior servants. A pretty young woman sat next to him and engaged him in a teasing conversation. Aldred was polite, but flintily unresponsive to her flirting. He guessed he was being tested. It was the wrong test: he might have revealed a weakness if confronted with an alluring young man.
The food was good, suckling pig with spring cabbage, and the wine was strong. Aldred ate sparingly and drank one sip, as always.
At the end of the meal, as the bowls and platters were being cleared away, Deorman announced his decision. “I’m not going to give you Southwood,” he said. “But I’ll give you two pounds in silver to pray for the soul of Godgifu.”
Aldred knew he should not show his disappointment. “Your kindness is much appreciated, and you can be sure that God will hear our prayers,” he said. “But could you not make it five pounds?”
Deorman laughed. “I’ll make it three, to reward your persistence, on the condition you ask for no more.”
“I’m most grateful,” Aldred said, but in his heart he was angry and resentful. He should have got much more, but Wynstan’s slanders had sabotaged him. Even if Deorman did not really believe the lies, they gave him an excuse to be less generous.
Deorman’s treasurer got the money from a chest and Aldred stashed it in his saddlebag. “I won’t travel alone with this money,” he said. “I’ll go to the Oak alehouse and find companions for tomorrow’s journey.”
He took his leave. The town center was only a few steps from Deorman’s compound, so Aldred did not mount Dismas, but walked him to the stable of the tavern, brooding over his failure. He had hoped that Wynstan’s malign influence would not reach this far, for Norwood had its own cathedral and bishop, but he had been disappointed.
When he reached the Oak, he walked past the alehouse, from which came the sound of a boisterous group enjoying the drink, and went straight to the stable. As he arrived, he was surprised to see the familiar lean frame of Brother Godleof unsaddling a piebald. He looked anxious, and seemed to have hurried here. “What is it?” Aldred said.
“I thought you’d want to hear the news as soon as possible.”
“What news?”
“Abbot Osmund is dead.”
Aldred crossed himself and said: “May his soul rest in peace.”
“Hildred has been made abbot.”
“That was quick.”
“Bishop Wynstan insisted on an immediate election, which he oversaw.”
Wynstan had made sure that his preferred candidate won, and had then ratified the monks’ decision. In theory, both the archbishop and the king had a say in the appointment, but it would be difficult now for them to overturn Wynstan’s fait accompli.
Aldred said: “How do you know all this?”
“Archdeacon Degbert brought the news to the priory. I think he was hoping to tell you himself. Especially the part about the money.”
Aldred had a bad feeling. “Go on.”
“Hildred has canceled the abbey’s subsidy to our priory. From now on we must manage on whatever sums we can raise for ourselves, or close down.”
That was a blow. Aldred was suddenly grateful for Deorman’s three pounds. It meant the priory was not in danger of immediate closure.
He said to Godleof: “Get yourself something to eat. We should leave as soon as possible.”
They sat on the ground beside the oak tree that gave the house its name. While Godleof ate bread and cheese and drank a pot of ale, Aldred brooded. There were advantages to the new arrangement, he told himself. The priory would now be independent, in practice: the abbot could no longer control it by threatening to cut off funds—that was an arrow that could be shot only once. Aldred would now ask the archbishop of Canterbury for a charter that would make the priory’s independence official.
However, Deorman’s gift would not last forever, and Aldred’s search for some means of financial security was now urgent. What could he do?
Most monasteries depended on the accumulation of wealth from numerous donations. Some had large flocks of sheep, some drew rents from villages and towns, some owned fisheries and quarries. For three years Aldred had worked tirelessly to attract such gifts, and his success had been no more than modest.
His mind strayed to Winchester and Saint Swithin, who had been bishop there in the ninth century. Swithin had worked a miracle on the bridge over the Itchen River. Taking pity on a poor woman who had dropped her basket of eggs, he had made the smashed eggs whole again. His tomb in the cathedral was a popular destination for pilgrims. Sick people experienced miraculous cures there. The pilgrims donated money to the cathedral. They also bought souvenirs, lodged in alehouses owned by the monks, and generally brought prosperity to the town. The monks spent the profits enlarging the church so that it could accommodate more pilgrims, who brought more money.
Many churches possessed holy relics: the whited bones of a saint, a splintered piece of the True Cross, a worn square of ancient cloth miraculously imprinted with the face of Christ. Provided the monks managed their affairs shrewdly—making sure pilgrims were welcomed, placing the sacred objects in an impressive shrine, publicizing miracles—the relics would attract pilgrims who would bring prosperity to the town and to the monastery.
Unfortunately, Dreng’s Ferry had no relics.
Such things could be bought, but Aldred did not have enough money. Would anyone give him something so valuable? He thought of Glastonbury Abbey.
He had been a novice at Glastonbury, and knew that the abbey had such a large collection of relics that the sacrist, Brother Theodric, did not know what to do with them all.
He began to feel excited.
The abbey had the grave of Saint Patrick, patron saint of Ireland, and twenty-two complete skeletons of other saints. The abbot would not give Aldred a priceless complete skeleton, but the abbey also owned numerous odd bones and scraps of clothing, one of the bloodstained arrows that had killed Saint Sebastian, and a sealed jug of wine from the wedding at Cana. Would Aldred’s old friends take pity on him? He had left Glastonbury in disgrace, of course, but that had been a long time ago. Monks generally sided with monks against bishops, and no one liked Wynstan: there was a chance, Aldred decided with mounting optimism.
Anyway, he had no better ideas.
Godleof finished his meal and took his wooden tankard back into the alehouse. Coming out, he said: “So, are we heading back to Dreng’s Ferry?”
“Change of plan,” said Aldred. “I’ll accompany you part of the way—then I’m going to Glastonbury.”
* * *
He was not prepared for the intense wave of nostalgia that overwhelmed him when he came in sight of the place where he had spent his adolescence.
He crested a low hill and looked down on a flat, swampy plain, green with spring foliage interlaced with pools and runnels that glinted in the sun. To the north a canal five yards wide came arrow straight along the gently sloping hillside and ended in a wharf at a marketplace bright with bales of red cloth and truckles of yellow cheese and stacks of green cabbages.
Edgar had questioned Aldred closely about this canal, severely taxing Aldred’s memory, before beginning construction of the canal at Outhenham.
Beyond the village stood two buildings of pale gray stone, a church and a monastery. A dozen or more timber structures were clustered around: animal shelters, storehouses, kitchens, and servants’ quarters. Aldred could even see the herb garden where he had been caught kissing Leofric, bring
ing down on himself a cloud of shame that had never lifted.
As he rode closer, he remembered Leofric, whom he had not seen for twenty years. He pictured a boy, tall and skinny, pink-faced with a few blond hairs on his upper lip, full of adolescent energy. But Leo must have changed. Aldred himself was different: slower and more dignified in his movements, solemn in his demeanor, with the dark shadow of a beard even when he had just shaved.
Sadness possessed him. He mourned the passing of the tireless lad he had once been, reading and learning and absorbing knowledge as the parchment soaked up the ink, and then, when lessons were over, deploying just as much energy in breaking all the rules. Coming to Glastonbury was like visiting the grave of his youth.
He tried to shake off the feeling as he rode through the village, which was noisy with buying and selling, carpentry and ironwork, men shouting and women laughing. He made his way to the monastery stable, which smelled of clean straw and brushed horses. He unsaddled Dismas and let the tired beast drink its fill from the horse trough.
Would his history here help or hinder his mission? Would people remember him with affection and do their best to help him, or would they treat him as a renegade who had been expelled for bad behavior and whose return was unwelcome?
He knew none of the stable hands, who were not monks but employees, but he asked one of the older men if Elfweard was still abbot. “Yes, and in good health, praise God,” said the groom.
“And is Theodric the sacrist?”
“Yes, though getting older, now.”
Pretending to ask casually, Aldred added: “And Brother Leofric?”
“The kitchener? Yes, he’s well.”
The kitchener was an important monastery officer, responsible for purchasing all supplies.
One of the lads said: “Well fed, anyhow,” and the others laughed.
From that Aldred deduced that Leo had put on weight.
The older groom, clearly curious, said: “May I direct you to a part of the abbey, or any particular one of the monks?”