The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  “I can’t keep anyone away. All I can do is follow Wilf’s orders. He will see whomever he wants, of course.”

  Garulf, Wilf’s twenty-year-old son by Inge, said: “That’s not right. You could tell us to do anything, and pretend the orders came from him.”

  That was exactly what Ragna intended.

  She had expected someone to make this point, and she was glad it came from a lad rather than a respected older man: this made it easier to dismiss.

  Garulf went on: “He might be dead. How would we know?”

  “By the smell,” Ragna said crisply. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

  Gytha spoke up. “Why did you refuse to let Father Godmaer perform the trepanning operation?

  “Because Wilf’s skull already has a hole. You don’t need two holes in your arse and Wilf doesn’t need two in his head.”

  The men laughed, and Gytha shut up.

  Ragna said: “Wilf has briefed me on the military situation.” It had been Bada, but this sounded better. “The fighting has been inconclusive so far. Wilwulf wants the army to regroup, rearm, go back and finish the job—but he can’t lead you. So the main task of the court this morning is to appoint a new commander. Wilf did not express a wish, but I assume his brother Wigelm must be the preferred candidate.”

  Bada spoke up. “He can’t do it—he can’t ride.”

  Ragna pretended ignorance. “Why not?”

  Garulf said: “He’s got a sore arsehole.”

  The men chuckled.

  Bada said: “He has piles—very badly.”

  “So he really can’t get on a horse?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Ragna said, as if thinking on her feet; “the next choice would have to be Sheriff Den.”

  As agreed, Den pretended reluctance. “Perhaps a nobleman would be better, my lady.”

  “If the thanes can agree on one of their number . . .” Ragna said dubiously.

  Wynstan stood up from the bench where he had been sitting and stepped forward, making himself the center of attention. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he said, spreading his arms in a gesture of appeal and looking around the group.

  Ragna’s heart sank. He’s got a plan, she thought, and I didn’t foresee it.

  Wynstan said: “The commander should be Wilf’s son.”

  Ragna said: “Osbert is two years old!”

  “I mean his eldest son, of course.” Wynstan paused, smiling. “Garulf.”

  “But Garulf is only—” Ragna stopped, realizing that although she thought of Garulf as a lad he was in fact twenty, with a man’s muscular body and a full beard. He was old enough to lead an army.

  Whether he was wise enough was another question.

  Wynstan said: “Everyone here knows Garulf to be a brave man!”

  There was general agreement. Garulf had always been popular with the men-at-arms. But did they really want him to decide strategy?

  Ragna said: “And do we feel that Garulf has the brains to lead the army?”

  She probably should not have said it. The question would have come better from one of the thanes, a fighting man. They were predisposed to scorn anything a woman might say on such a subject. Her intervention shored up support for Garulf.

  Bada said: “Garulf is young, but he has the aggressive spirit.”

  Ragna saw the men nodding. She tried one more time. “The sheriff is more experienced.”

  Wynstan said: “At collecting taxes!”

  They all laughed, and Ragna knew she had lost.

  * * *

  Edgar was not used to failure. When it came, it bowled him over.

  He had tried to build a bridge across the river at Dreng’s Ferry, but it had proved impossible.

  He sat with Aldred on the bench outside the alehouse, listening to the sound of the river and staring at the ruins of his plan. He had succeeded, with great difficulty, in building a foundation on the riverbed for one of the pillars of the bridge, a simple box filled with stones to hold the base of the column firmly in place. He had fashioned a mighty beam of heart of oak, stout enough to bear the weight of people and carts as they crossed. But he could not insert the pillar into its socket.

  It was evening, and he had been trying in the hot sun all day. At the end almost everyone in the village had been helping. The pillar had been held in place by long ropes, made at high cost by the newcomer Regenbald Roper. People on both banks had hauled on the ropes to keep the timber stable. Edgar and several others had stood on his raft in midstream trying to maneuver the enormous beam.

  But everything moved: the water, the raft, the ropes, and the pillar. The timber itself insisted on rising to the surface.

  At first it had been like a game, and there was laughter and banter as they all struggled. Several people had fallen into the water, to general hilarity.

  To keep the pillar under water and at the same time position it in its socket should have been possible, but they had not done it. They had all become frustrated and bad-tempered. In the end Edgar had given up.

  Now the sun was sinking, the monks had returned to the monastery, the villagers had returned to their homes, and Edgar was defeated.

  Aldred was not yet willing to abandon the project. “It can be done,” he said. “We need more men, more ropes, more boats.”

  Edgar did not think that would work. He said nothing.

  Aldred said: “The problem was that your raft kept shifting. Whenever you pushed the pillar into the water, the raft would move away from the foundation.”

  “I know.”

  “What we really need is a whole row of boats, stretching out from the bank, tied together so that they can’t move so much.”

  “I don’t know where we’d get that many boats,” Edgar said gloomily; but he could picture what Aldred was suggesting. The boats could be roped or even nailed together. The whole row would still move, but more slowly, more predictably, less capriciously.

  Aldred was still fantasizing. “Maybe two rows, one on each side of the river.”

  Edgar was so weary and downhearted that he was reluctant to entertain new ideas, but despite his mood he was intrigued by Aldred’s notion. It would provide a much more stable setup for the awkward task. All the same it might not be enough. However, something else was nagging at him as he pictured the two rows of boats growing out of the banks and reaching out into midstream. They would be steady, they would provide a sturdy platform on which to stand . . .

  He said suddenly: “Perhaps we could build the bridge on the boats.”

  Aldred frowned. “How?”

  “The roadbed of the bridge could rest on boats, instead of on the riverbed.” He shrugged. “Theoretically.”

  Aldred snapped his fingers. “I’ve seen that!” he said. “When I was traveling in the Low Countries. A bridge built on a row of boats. They called it a pontoon bridge.”

  Edgar felt bemused. “So it can be done!”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never seen such a thing.” But Edgar was already designing it in his head. “They would have to be firmly braced at the shoreline.”

  Aldred thought of a snag. “We can’t block the river. There’s not much traffic, but there is some. The ealdorman would object, and so would the king.”

  “There can be a gap in the line of boats, spanned by the roadbed but wide enough for any normal riverboat to pass through.”

  “Do you think you could build that?”

  Edgar hesitated. Today’s experience had undermined his confidence. All the same, he thought a pontoon bridge was a possibility. “I don’t know,” he said with newfound caution. “But I think so.”

  * * *

  The summer was over, the harvest had been gathered in, and the nip of autumn was in the breeze when Wynstan rode with Garulf to join forces with the men of Devon.
<
br />   Priests were not supposed to shed blood. This rule was often broken, but Wynstan normally found it a convenient excuse to avoid the discomfort and danger of war.

  However, he was no coward. He was bigger and stronger than most men, and he was well armed. As well as the spear carried by everyone, he had a sword with a steel blade, a helmet, and a sort of sleeveless shirt of mail.

  He was riding with the army, breaking his usual habit, in order to stay close to Garulf. He had connived to have Garulf made commander in chief because it was the only way to keep control of the army in the family’s hands. But it would be a disaster if Garulf were to die in battle. With Wilf so ill, Garulf had become important. While Ragna’s children were small, Garulf had a chance of inheriting Wilf’s fortune and his title. He could be the means by which the family kept its hold not just on the army, but on Shiring.

  The road was a track through forested hills. One day before they were due at their rendezvous, they emerged from a wood and looked up a long valley. At the far, narrower end the river was a fast stream hurrying toward them. Then it widened and ran shallow over rocky falls, and finally consolidated into a deeper, slower waterway.

  Six Viking ships were moored just below the falls, tied to the near bank, making a neat line. They were about two miles upstream from where Wynstan and the Shiring army stood staring out from among the trees.

  This was the army’s first encounter with the enemy since Garulf became leader. Wynstan felt his stomach clench in anticipation. A man who did not suffer a spasm of fear before a battle was a fool.

  The Vikings had made a small encampment on the mud beach, with a scatter of makeshift tents and numerous cooking fires giving up wisps of smoke. About a hundred men were visible.

  Garulf’s army was three hundred strong, fifty mounted noblemen and two hundred and fifty foot soldiers.

  “We outnumber them!” Garulf said excitedly, seeing an easy victory.

  He might have been right, but Wynstan was not so sure. “We outnumber the ones we can see,” he said cautiously.

  “Who else do we need to worry about?”

  “Each of those ships could carry fifty men, more if crowded. At least three hundred came to England in them. Where are the rest?”

  “What does it matter? If they’re not here, they can’t fight!”

  “We might do better to wait until we’ve met up with the men of Devon—we’d be much stronger. And they’re only a day away, if that.”

  “What?” said Garulf scornfully. “We outnumber the Vikings three to one, yet you want to wait until it’s six to one?”

  The men laughed.

  Encouraged, Garulf went on: “That seems timid. We must seize our opportunity.”

  Perhaps he’s right, Wynstan thought. Anyway, the men were eager for action. The enemy seemed weak and they smelled blood. Coolheaded logic did not impress them. And perhaps logic did not win battles.

  Nevertheless, Wynstan said warily: “Well, then, let’s take a closer look before we make a final decision.”

  “Agreed.” Garulf looked around. “We’ll go back into the woods and tie up the horses. Then we’ll get behind that ridge and stay out of sight while we approach nearer.” He pointed into the distance. “When we reach that bluff, we’ll spy out the enemy from close up.”

  All that sounded right, Wynstan thought as he tied his horse to a tree. Garulf understood tactics. So far, so good.

  The army moved through the woods and crossed the gentle crown of the ridge, hidden by trees. On the far side they turned, moving parallel with the valley in an upstream direction. The men bantered, making jokes about bravery and cowardice, keeping their courage up. One said it was a shame there would be no one to rape after the battle; another said they could rape the Viking men; a third said that was a matter of personal taste, and everyone guffawed. Did they know from experience that they were too far away from the Vikings to be heard, Wynstan wondered—or were they just careless?

  Wynstan soon lost track of how much ground they had covered, but Garulf showed no such uncertainty. “This is far enough,” he said eventually, his voice quieter now. He turned uphill, walked a few yards, then dropped to a crawl to approach the summit of the ridge.

  Wynstan saw that they were indeed close to the bluff Garulf had indicated earlier. The thanes wriggled on their bellies to the vantage point, keeping their heads low to avoid being spotted by the enemy below. The Vikings were going about their casual business, stoking fires and fetching water from the river, unaware that they were being watched.

  Wynstan felt queasy. He could see their faces and hear their desultory talk. He could even make out a few words: their language was similar to English. He was nauseated by the thought that he was here to cut these men with his sharp blade, to shed their blood and chop off their limbs and pierce their living, beating hearts, to make them fall helpless to the earth screaming in agony. People saw him as a cruel man—which he was—but what was about to happen was a different kind of brutality.

  He looked up and down the river. On the far bank the ground rose to a low hill. If there were more Vikings in the area, they were probably farther upstream, having passed the falls on foot and gone on in search of a village or a monastery to raid.

  Garulf wriggled backward on his belly, and the others followed suit. When they were well behind the ridge they stood up. Without speaking, Garulf beckoned them to follow him. They all remained silent.

  Wynstan expected that they would withdraw for a further discussion, but that did not happen. Garulf moved a few yards farther, remaining behind the ridge, then turned down a ravine that led to the beach. The thanes followed, with the rest of the men close behind.

  They were now in full view of the Vikings. It had happened with a suddenness that took Wynstan by surprise. As the men of Shiring moved downhill over the scrubby ground they remained quiet, gaining a few extra seconds of surprise. But soon one of the Vikings happened to glance up, saw them, and let out a cry of warning. With that the army broke its silence. Whooping and yelling, they ran pell-mell down the ravine, brandishing their weapons.

  Wynstan took his sword in one hand and his spear in the other and joined the pack.

  The Vikings realized immediately that they could not win. They abandoned their fires and their tents and dashed to the boats. They splashed through the shallows, severed the ropes with knives, and began to scramble aboard; but as they did so the English reached the beach, raced across it in a few moments, and caught up.

  The two sides met at the edge of the river. A tidal wave of bloodlust swamped all lesser emotions, and Wynstan waded into the water, possessed by nothing but the overwhelming hunger for slaughter. He plunged his spear into the chest of a man who turned to face him, then swiped with his sword, left-handed, at the neck of another who tried to flee. Both men fell into the water. Wynstan did not wait to see whether they were dead.

  The English had the advantage of always being in slightly shallower water, therefore freer to move. The thanes in the lead thrust with spears and swords and quickly killed dozens of Vikings. Wynstan saw that the enemy were mostly older men and poorly armed—some appeared to have no weapons, perhaps having left them on the beach when fleeing. He guessed that the best fighters in this group had been chosen for the raiding party.

  After the initial explosion of hatred he managed to regain enough self-possession to stay close to Garulf.

  Some of the Vikings made it to the ships, but then they were not able to go anywhere. To move six ships off their moorings and into midstream was a complex maneuver even when the ships each had a full complement of oarsmen. With just a few men aboard each, and too much panic for coordination, the vessels merely drifted and collided. The men standing up in the ships were also easy targets for a handful of English archers, who were standing back from the fray and shooting over the heads of their comrades.

  The battle began t
o turn into a massacre. With all the Shiring men engaged there were three English to kill each Viking. The river became dark with blood and swollen with dead and dying men. Wynstan stood back, breathing hard, holding his bloodstained weapons. Garulf had been right to seize this chance, he thought.

  Then he looked across the river, and cold dread seized him.

  Hundreds of Vikings were coming. The raiding party must have been just out of sight over that hill. They were running down to the river and crossing the falls, jumping from stone to stone and splashing through shallow water. In a few moments they were on the beach, weapons held high, eager for battle. The dismayed English turned to meet them.

  With a stab of pure fear Wynstan saw that it was now the English who were outnumbered. Worse, the Viking newcomers were well armed with long spears and axes, and they seemed younger and stronger than the men they had left behind to guard their encampment. They dashed along the bank and fanned out across the beach, and Wynstan guessed they hoped to surround the English and drive them into the water.

  Wynstan looked at Garulf and saw a bewildered look on his face. “Tell the men to fall back!” Wynstan yelled. “Along the bank, downstream—otherwise we’ll get trapped!”

  But Garulf seemed unable to think and fight at the same time.

  I was so wrong, Wynstan thought in a whirlwind of desperation and fear. Garulf can’t command, he just hasn’t got the intelligence. That mistake could cost me my life today.

  Garulf was defending himself vigorously against a big red-bearded Viking. As Wynstan looked, Garulf took a glancing blow to his right arm, dropped his sword, fell to one knee, and was hit on the head by a hammer wildly swung by a berserk Englishman, who then smashed it into the red beard.

  Wynstan put his regrets aside, fought down panic, and thought fast. The battle was lost. Garulf was in danger of being killed or taken prisoner and enslaved. Retreat was the only hope. And those who retreated first were most likely to survive.

  The red-bearded Viking was occupied with the berserk Englishman. Wynstan had a few seconds of respite. He sheathed his sword and stuck his spear into the mud. Then he bent down, picked up the unconscious Garulf, and slung the limp body over his left shoulder. He grabbed his spear in his right hand, turned, and moved away from the battle.