The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  Agnes hurried away.

  “Bern, talk to the soldiers and find someone who knows what happened to the ealdorman.”

  “Right away, my lady.”

  Wynstan came in. He said nothing but stood staring at the supine form of Wilf.

  Ragna concentrated on her husband. “Wilf, can you understand me?”

  He opened his eyes and took a long moment to fix his gaze on her, but then she could tell that he knew her. “Yes,” he said.

  “How were you wounded?”

  He frowned. “Can’t remember.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  “Headache.” The words came slowly but they were clear.

  “How bad?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Anything else?”

  He sighed. “Very tired.”

  Wynstan said: “It’s serious.” Then he left.

  Bern returned with a soldier called Bada. “It wasn’t even a battle, more of a skirmish,” Bada said in a tone of apology, as if his commander should not have been hurt in something as inglorious as a minor brawl.

  Ragna said: “Just tell me how it happened.”

  “Ealdorman Wilwulf was riding Cloud, as usual, and I was right behind him.” He spoke succinctly, a soldier reporting to a superior, and Ragna was grateful for his clarity. “We came upon a group of Vikings all of a sudden, on the bank of the river Exe a few miles upstream of Exeter. They had just raided a village and were loading the loot onto their ship—chickens, ale, money, a calf—before returning to their camp. Wilf jumped off his horse and stuck his sword into one of the Vikings, killing him; but he slipped on the riverside mud and fell. Cloud stamped on Wilf’s head, and Wilf lay like one dead. I couldn’t check right then—I was under attack myself. But we killed most of the Vikings and the rest escaped in their ship. Then I went back to Wilf. He was breathing, and eventually he came around.”

  “Thank you, Bada.”

  Ragna saw Hildi in the background, listening, and beckoned her forward.

  A woman of about fifty, she was small in stature and gray-haired. She knelt beside Wilf and studied him, taking her time. She touched the lump on his head with gentle fingertips. When she pressed, Wilf winced without opening his eyes, and she said: “Sorry.” She peered closely at the wound, parting his hair to see the skin. “Look,” she said to Ragna.

  Ragna saw that Hildi had lifted a patch of loose skin to show a crack in the skull beneath. It looked as if a sliver of bone had come away.

  “This explains all the blood on his clothes,” Hildi said. “But the bleeding stopped long ago.”

  Wilf opened his eyes.

  Hildi said: “Do you know how you were hurt?”

  “No.”

  She held up her right hand with three fingers sticking up. “How many fingers?”

  “Three.”

  She lifted her left hand with four fingers showing. “How many altogether?”

  “Six.”

  Ragna was dismayed. “Wilf, can you not see clearly?”

  He made no reply.

  Hildi said: “His eyesight is fine, but I’m not sure about his mind.”

  “God save him.”

  Hildi said: “Wilwulf, what is your wife’s name?”

  “Ragna.” He smiled.

  That was a relief.

  “What’s the king’s name?”

  There was a long pause, then he said: “King.”

  “And his wife?”

  “I forget.”

  “Can you name one of Jesus’ brothers?”

  “Saint Peter.”

  Everyone knew that Jesus’s brothers were James, Joseph, Jude, and Simeon.

  “What number comes after nineteen?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Rest now, Ealdorman Wilwulf.”

  Wilf closed his eyes.

  Ragna said: “Will the wound heal?”

  “The skin will grow back and cover the hole, but I don’t know whether the bone will regrow. He needs to keep as still as possible for several weeks.”

  “I’ll make sure of that.”

  “It will help to tie a bandage around his head, to reduce movement. Give him watered wine or weak ale to drink, and feed him soup.”

  “I will.”

  “The most worrying sign is the loss of much of his memory, and it’s hard to say how serious that is. He remembers your name, but not the king’s. He can count up to three but not to seven, and certainly not to twenty. There’s nothing you can do about that but pray. After a head wound, sometimes people recover all their mental abilities, and sometimes they don’t. I know no more than that.” She looked up, noticing someone else entering, and she added: “And nor does anyone else.”

  Ragna followed her glance. Gytha had come in with Father Godmaer, a priest at the cathedral who had studied medicine. He was a big, heavy man with a shaved head. A younger priest followed him in. “What is that midwife doing here?” said Godmaer. “Stand aside, woman. Let me look at the patient.”

  Ragna considered telling him to leave. She had more faith in Hildi. But a second opinion could do no harm. She stepped back, and others followed suit, allowing Godmaer to kneel beside Wilf.

  He was not as gentle as Hildi, and when he touched the swelling Wilf groaned in pain. It was too late for Ragna to protest.

  Wilf opened his eyes and said: “Who are you?”

  “You know me,” Godmaer said. “Have you forgotten?”

  Wilf closed his eyes.

  Godmaer turned Wilf’s head to one side, looked into his ear, then turned it again to look in the other ear. Hildi frowned anxiously and Ragna said: “Gently, please, Father.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Godmaer said haughtily, but he became a little less rough. He opened Wilf’s mouth and peered in, then pushed up his eyelids, and finally sniffed his breath.

  He stood up. “The problem is an excess of black bile, especially in the head,” he announced. “This is causing fatigue, dullness, and memory loss. The treatment will be trepanning, to let the bile out. Pass me the bow drill.”

  His young companion handed him the tool, which was used by carpenters to drill small holes. The sharpened iron bit was twisted into the string of the bow so that, when the bit was held firmly against a plank and the shaft of the bow moved to and fro, the point spun fast and pierced the wood.

  Godmaer said: “I will now drill a hole in the patient’s skull to allow the accumulated choler to escape.

  Hildi made an exasperated sound.

  Ragna said: “Just a minute. There is already a hole in his skull. If there was an excess of any fluid it would surely have come out by now.”

  Godmaer looked taken aback, and Ragna realized that he had not lifted the loose skin and therefore did not know about the crack in the skull. But he recovered quickly, squared his shoulders, and looked indignant. “I trust you’re not questioning the judgments of a medically trained man.”

  Ragna could play that game. “As the wife of the ealdorman I question the judgment of everyone except my husband. I thank you for your attendance, Father, even though I did not invite you, and I will bear your advice in mind.”

  Gytha said: “I invited him because he is the leading medical practitioner in Shiring. You have no right to deny the ealdorman the recommended treatment.”

  “I’ll tell you something, stepmother-in-law,” said Ragna angrily. “I’ll make a hole in the throat of anyone who tries to make another hole in my husband’s head. Now take your pet priest out of my house.”

  Godmaer gasped. Ragna realized she had gone too far—referring to Godmaer as “your pet priest” was close to sacrilege—but she hardly cared. Godmaer was arrogant, which made him dangerous. Medically trained priests rarely cured anyone, in her experience, but they often made sick people worse.

 
Gytha murmured something to Godmaer, who nodded, lifted his head, and stalked out, still carrying the bow drill. His assistant followed.

  There were still too many people standing around uselessly. “Everyone except my servants please leave now,” Ragna said. “The ealdorman needs peace and quiet to get well.”

  They all went out.

  Ragna bent over Wilf again. “I will take care of you,” she said. “I will do as I have for the last half a year, and govern your territory as you would govern it.”

  There was no response.

  She said: “Do you think you can answer one more question?”

  He opened his eyes, and his lips twitched in the ghost of a smile.

  “What is the most important thing you need me to do now, as your deputy?”

  She thought she saw a look of intelligence come over his face. He said: “Appoint a new commander for the army.” Then he closed his eyes.

  Ragna sat on a cushioned stool and looked thoughtfully at him. He had given her a clear instruction in a moment of lucidity. From it she deduced that the army’s work was not yet done, and the Vikings had not been driven off. The men of Shiring needed to regroup and attack again. And for that they needed a new leader.

  Wynstan would want his brother Wigelm to be in charge. Ragna dreaded that: the more power Wigelm acquired, the more likely he was to challenge her authority. Her choice would be Sheriff Den, an experienced leader and fighter.

  In the shire court, where most decisions were reached by consensus, she could often get her way by force of personality, but with this decision she foresaw a problem. The men would have strong views and they would be quick to dismiss the opinion of a woman, who could not know much about warfare. She would have to be sly.

  It was evening. The hours had gone by quickly. Ragna said to Agnes: “Go to Sheriff Den and ask him to come to me now. Don’t walk with him—I don’t want people to know I summoned him. It must look as if he heard the news and came to see the ealdorman, like everyone else.”

  “Very well,” said Agnes, and she left.

  Ragna said to Cat: “Let’s see if Wilf will drink some soup. Warm, not hot.”

  There was a pot of mutton bones simmering over the fire. Cat ladled some of the juice into a wooden bowl, and Ragna inhaled the fragrance of rosemary. She broke a few morsels of bread from the inside of a loaf and dropped them in the soup, then knelt beside Wilf with a spoon. She took a piece of soaked bread, blew on it to cool it, and put it to his lips. He swallowed it with some sign of relish and opened his mouth for another.

  By the time Ragna had finished feeding him, Agnes was back, and Den followed a few minutes later. He looked at Wilf and shook his head pessimistically. Ragna reported what Hildi had said. Then she told him of Wilf’s instruction to appoint a new army commander. “It’s you or Wigelm, and I want you,” she finished.

  “I’d be better than Wigelm,” he said. “And he can’t do it anyway.”

  Ragna was surprised. “Why not?”

  “He’s indisposed. He hasn’t taken part in any action for two weeks. That’s why he’s not here—he stayed down near Exeter.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Piles—hemorrhoids—exacerbated by months of campaigning. They hurt so much that he can’t sit on a horse.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been talking to the thanes.”

  “Well, that makes it easy,” said Ragna. “I’ll pretend to favor Wigelm, then, when his debility is revealed, you will reluctantly agree to step into the gap.”

  Den nodded. “Wynstan and his friends will oppose me, but most of the thanes will support me. I’m not their favorite person, of course, because I make them pay their taxes, but they know I’m competent.”

  Ragna said: “I will hold court tomorrow morning after breakfast. I want to make it clear from the start that I’m still in charge.”

  “Good,” said Den.

  * * *

  The next day was warm, even first thing in the morning, but the cathedral was as cool as ever when Wynstan celebrated early Mass. He went through the ceremony with maximum solemnity. He liked to do what was expected of a bishop: it was important to maintain appearances. Today he prayed for the souls of the men who had died fighting the Vikings, and he begged for the healing of those wounded, especially Ealdorman Wilwulf.

  All the same his mind was not on the liturgy. Wilwulf’s incapacity had upset the balance of power in Shiring, and Wynstan was desperate to learn Ragna’s intentions. This could be a chance to weaken her position or even get rid of her altogether. He had to be alert to all possibilities, and he needed to find out what she was up to.

  The congregation was larger than usual for a weekday, swollen by the bereaved families of the men who had not returned from the fighting. Looking into the nave, Wynstan noticed Agnes among them, a small, thin woman in the drab clothes of a housemaid. She looked unremarkable, but her eyes met Wynstan’s with a clear message: she was here to see him. His hopes rose.

  It was half a year since Ragna had condemned Agnes’s husband to death, half a year since Agnes had agreed to be Wynstan’s spy in Ragna’s house. In that time she had brought him no useful information. Nevertheless he had continued to speak to her at least once a month, feeling sure that one day she would justify his efforts. Fearing that her desire for revenge might fade, he had engaged Agnes emotionally, treating her as an intimate rather than a servant, speaking to her in conspiratorial tones, thanking her for her loyalty. He was subtly taking the place of her late husband, being affectionate but dominant, expecting to be obeyed without question. His instinct told him this was the way to control her.

  Today he might be rewarded for his patience.

  When the service was over Agnes lingered, and as soon as the other worshippers had gone Wynstan beckoned her into the chancel, put his arm around her bony shoulders, and drew her into a corner. “Thank you for coming to see me, my dear,” he said, making his voice quiet but intense. “I was hoping you would.”

  “I thought you’d like to know what she’s planning.”

  “I would, I would.” Wynstan tried to sound keen but not needy. “You are my pet mouse, creeping on silent feet into my room at night, lying on my pillow, and whispering secrets into my ear.”

  She flushed with pleasure. He found himself wondering what she would do if he put his hand up her skirt right there in the church. He would do no such thing, of course: she was driven by desire for what she could not have, the strongest of all human motives.

  She stared at him for a long moment, and he felt the need to break the spell. “Tell me,” he said.

  She collected herself. “Ragna will hold court today, after breakfast.”

  “Moving fast,” Wynstan said. “Characteristic. But what’s her agenda?”

  “She will appoint a new commander for the army.”

  “Ah.” He had not thought of that.

  “She will say she wants Wigelm.”

  “He can’t ride at the moment. That’s why he’s not here.”

  “She knows that, but she will pretend to be surprised.”

  “Crafty.”

  “Then someone will say that the only alternative is Sheriff Den.”

  “Her strongest ally. Dear God, with her running the court and Den commanding the army, Wilf’s family would be practically impotent.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “But now I’m forewarned.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He would not have confided in her in any case. “But I’ll think of something, thanks to you.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “This is a dangerous time. You must tell me everything she does from now on. It’s really important.”

  “You can count on me.”

  “Go back to the compound and ke
ep listening.”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you, my little mouse.” He kissed her lips then ushered her out.

  * * *

  The court formed a small group. This was not one of the regular meetings, and there had been no more than an hour’s notice. But the most important thanes had arrived with the army. Ragna held court in front of the great hall, sitting on the cushioned stool usually occupied by Wilwulf. Her choice of seat was deliberate.

  However, she stood up to speak. Her height was an advantage. Leaders needed to be smart, not tall, she believed; but she had noticed that men were readier to defer to a tall person, and as a woman she used any weapon that came to hand.

  She was wearing a brown-black dress, dark for authority, a bit loose so that her figure was not accentuated. All her jewelry today was chunky: pendant, bangles, brooch, rings. She had on nothing feminine, nothing dainty. She was dressed to rule.

  The morning was her preferred time for meetings. The men were more sensible, less boisterous, having drunk only a cup of weak ale with their breakfast. They could be much more difficult after the midday meal.

  “The ealdorman is seriously wounded, but we have every hope that he will recover,” she said. “He was fighting a Viking when he slipped in the riverside mud, and his horse kicked him in the head.” Most of them would know that already, but she said it to show them that she was not ignorant of the haphazard nature of battle. “You all know how easily something like that can happen.” She was gratified to see nods of approval. “The Viking died,” she added. “His soul is now suffering the agonies of hell.” Once again she saw that they approved of her words.

  “In order to recover, Wilf needs peace and quiet and, most importantly, he must lie still so that his skull can mend. That is why my door is barred from the inside. When he wants to see someone, he will tell me, and I will summon the person. No one will be admitted unless invited.”

  She knew that this news would be unwelcome, and she was expecting some opposition.

  Sure enough, Wynstan pushed back. “You can’t keep the ealdorman’s brothers away.”