by Ken Follett
Garulf was a big lad, densely muscled, but Wynstan was strong, and not yet forty years old. He carried Garulf without undue effort, but he could not move fast with such a weight, and he broke into a stumble that was half walking, half running. He headed up the ravine.
He glanced back and saw one of the newly arrived Vikings break away from the battle on the beach and run after him.
He found the strength to move faster, and began to breathe hard as the upward slope became steeper. He could hear the pounding footsteps of his pursuer. He kept glancing back, and the man was closer every time.
At the last possible moment he turned, went down on one knee, slid Garulf off his shoulder onto the ground, and sprang forward with his spear uptilted. The Viking raised his ax over his head for the fatal blow, but Wynstan got under his guard. He thrust the sharpened iron point of his spear into the Viking’s throat and pushed with all his might. The blade penetrated the soft flesh, sliced through muscles and tendons, passed through the brain, and came out at the back of the head. The man died without a sound.
Wynstan picked Garulf up and went on up the ravine. At the top he turned and looked back. Now the English were surrounded, and the beach was carpeted with their dead. A few had broken away and fled along the bank in the downstream direction. They might be the only other survivors.
No one was looking at Wynstan.
He crossed the ridge, went downhill until he felt sure he was out of sight, then turned and trudged along the hillside toward the woods where the horses waited.
* * *
During one of Wilf’s lucid moments, Ragna told him about the battle. “Wynstan brought Garulf home, without serious injuries,” she said in conclusion. “But almost the entire army of Shiring was wiped out.”
Wilf said: “Garulf is a brave lad, but he’s no leader. He should never have been put in command.”
“It was Wynstan’s idea. He’s virtually admitted he was wrong.”
“You should have stopped it.”
“I tried, but the men wanted Garulf.”
“They like him.”
This was just like old times, Ragna thought; Wilf and her talking as equals, each interested in the other’s opinion. They were together more than they had ever been. She was with him day and night, taking care of every need, and she ruled the ealdormanry in his place. He seemed grateful for everything. His injury had made them close again.
This had happened against her deepest wishes. She would never feel about him as she once had. But suppose he wanted to resume their former passionate relationship? How would she react?
She did not have to decide just yet. They could not have sex now—Hildi had stressed that any sudden movement could be harmful—but when he was recovered he might want to go back to the passionate lovemaking of their early years. His brush with death might have brought him to his senses. Perhaps he would forget Carwen and Inge and cling to the woman who had nursed him back to health.
She would have to go along with whatever he wished for, she knew. She was his wife, she had no choice. But it was not what she wanted.
She took up the conversation again. “And now the Vikings have left as suddenly as they came. I suppose they got bored.”
“It’s their way: sudden attack, random raiding, instant success or failure, then home.”
“In fact they seem to have gone to the Isle of Wight. Apparently they show every sign of spending the winter there.”
“Again? It’s becoming a permanent base.”
“But I’m afraid they may come back.”
“Oh, yes,” said Wilf. “That’s one thing you can be sure of with the Vikings. They will be back.”
CHAPTER 30
February 1002
our bridge is a marvel,” said Aldred.
Edgar smiled. He was extremely pleased, especially after his initial failure. “It was your idea,” he said modestly.
“And you made it happen.”
They were standing outside the church, looking down the slope to the river. Both wore heavy cloaks against the winter cold. Edgar had a fur hat, but Aldred made do with his monkish hood.
Edgar studied the bridge with pride. As Aldred had envisaged, on each side of the river was a row of boats sticking out into the water like twin peninsulas. Each row was linked to a stout riverside mooring by ropes that allowed the bridge a small degree of movement. Edgar had built flat-bottomed boats, low-sided near the banks and rising in height toward the center. They were linked by oak beams bearing a framework that supported the timber roadbed above. There was a gap in the middle, where the span was highest, to allow river traffic to pass.
He wanted Ragna to see it. It was her admiration he craved. He imagined her looking at him with those sea-green eyes and saying How marvelous, you’re so clever to know how to do that, it looks perfect, and a sensation of warmth spread though his body, as if he had drunk a cup of mead.
Looking over Dreng’s Ferry, he recalled the rainy day when she had arrived here with all the grace of a dove curving down to a branch. Had he fallen in love with her right away? Perhaps just a little bit, even then.
He wondered when Ragna would come here again.
Aldred said: “Who are you thinking about?”
Edgar was startled by Aldred’s perception. He did not know what to say.
“Someone you love, obviously,” Aldred said. “It shows on your face.”
Edgar was embarrassed. “The bridge will need maintenance,” he said. “But if it’s looked after, it will last a hundred years.”
Ragna might never return to Dreng’s Ferry, of course. It was not an important place.
“Look at the people crossing,” said Aldred. “It’s a triumph.”
The bridge was already much used. People came to buy fish and to attend services. More than a hundred had crowded into the church at Christmas, and had witnessed the elevation of Saint Adolphus.
Everyone who crossed paid a farthing, and another farthing to go back. The monks had an income, and it was growing. “You did this,” Aldred said to Edgar. “Thank you.”
Edgar shook his head. “It’s your persistence. You’ve been through one setback after another, mostly due to the malice of evil men, and yet you never give up. Every time you’re knocked to the ground you just get up and start again. You amaze me.”
“My goodness,” said Aldred, looking inordinately pleased. “High praise.”
Aldred was in love with Edgar, and Edgar knew it. Aldred’s love was hopeless, for Edgar would never reciprocate. He would never fall in love with Aldred.
Edgar felt the same way about Ragna. He was in love with her, and it would never come to anything. She would never fall in love with him. There was no hope.
There was a difference, though. Aldred seemed reconciled with the way things were right now. He could feel sure he would never sin with Edgar, because Edgar would never want it.
By contrast, Edgar yearned with all his heart to consummate his love for Ragna. He wanted to make love to Ragna, he wanted to marry her, he wanted to wake up in the morning and see her head sharing his pillow. He wanted the impossible.
There was nothing to be gained by brooding on it. He said conversationally: “The tavern is busy.”
Aldred nodded. “That’s because Dreng isn’t there to be rude to everyone. The place always gets more customers when he’s away from home.”
“Where did he go?”
“Shiring. I don’t know why, some nefarious purpose, I expect.”
“He’s probably protesting about the bridge.”
“Protesting? To whom?”
“Good point,” said Edgar. “Wilwulf is still ill, apparently, and Dreng won’t get much sympathy from Ragna.”
Edgar was glad the village was busy. He shared Aldred’s affection for the place. They both wanted it to prosper. It had been a dump j
ust a few years ago, a scatter of poor houses supporting two lazy and venal brothers, Degbert and Dreng. Now it had a priory, a fish shop, a saint, and a bridge.
That led Edgar’s thoughts to another topic. He said: “Sooner or later we’re going to need to build a wall.”
Aldred looked dubious. “I’ve never felt in danger here.”
“Every year the Vikings raid deeper into the west of England. And if our village continues to prosper, before long we’ll be worth raiding.”
“They always attack up rivers—but there’s an obstacle at Mudeford, that shallow stretch.”
Edgar remembered the wrecked Viking vessel on the beach at Combe. “Their ships are light. They can be dragged over the shallows.”
“If that happened, they would attack us from the river, not from land.”
“So first we would need to fortify the riverbank all the way around the bend.” Edgar pointed upstream, to where the river turned a right angle. “I’m talking about an earth rampart, possibly revetted with timber or stone in places.”
“Where would you put the rest of the wall?”
“It should start at the waterfront just beyond Leaf’s brewhouse.”
“Then your brothers’ farm would be outside.”
Edgar cared about his brothers more than they cared about him, but they were not in serious danger. “The Vikings don’t raid isolated farms—there’s not enough to steal.”
“True.”
“The wall would run uphill at the back of the houses: Bebbe’s place, then Cerdic and Ebba, then Hadwine and Elfburg, then Regenbald Roper, Bucca Fish, and me. Past my place it would turn right and go all the way to the river, to enclose the site of the new church, just in case we ever get to build it.”
“Oh, we’ll build it,” said Aldred.
“I hope so.”
“Have faith,” said Aldred.
* * *
Ragna watched as Hildi the midwife examined Wilf carefully. She made him sit upright on a stool, then brought a candle close to look at his head wound.
“Take that away,” he said. “It hurts my eyes.”
She moved it behind him so that it did not shine in his face. She touched the wound with her fingertips and nodded with satisfaction. “Are you eating well?” she said. “What did you have for breakfast?”
“Porridge with salt,” he replied glumly. “And a flagon of weak ale. A poor meal for a nobleman.”
Hildi met Ragna’s eye. “He had smoked ham and wine,” said Ragna quietly.
“Don’t contradict me,” Wilf said irritably. “I know what I had for breakfast.”
Hildi said: “How are you feeling?”
“I get headaches,” he replied. “Otherwise I’m fine—never better.”
“Good,” she said. “I think you’re ready to resume normal life. Well done.” She stood up. “Step outside with me for a moment, Ragna,” she said.
The bell was ringing for the midday meal as Ragna followed her out. “He has recovered physically,” Hildi said. “The wound has healed and he no longer needs to stay in bed. Let him have dinner in the great hall today. He can ride again as soon as he wants to.”
Ragna nodded.
“Sex, too,” Hildi said.
Ragna said nothing. She had lost all desire for sex with Wilf, but if he wanted it she would of course permit it. She had had a lot of time to think about it, and she was reconciled to a future of intimacy with a man she no longer loved.
Hildi went on: “But you must have noticed that his mind is not what it was.”
Ragna nodded. Of course she had.
“He can’t bear bright light, he’s bad-tempered and downhearted, and his memory is poor. I have seen several men with head injuries since the renewal of Viking raids, and his condition is typical.”
Ragna knew all that.
Hildi looked apologetic, as if she might be to blame for what she was reporting. “It’s been five months, and there are no signs of improvement.”
Ragna sighed. “Will there ever be?”
“No one can tell. It’s in God’s hands.”
Ragna took that as a no. She gave Hildi two silver pennies. “Thank you for being gentle with him.”
“I’m at your service, my lady.”
Ragna left Hildi and went back inside the house. “She says you can have your dinner in the great hall,” Ragna said to Wilf. “Would you like to?”
“Of course!” he said. “Where else would I have it?”
He had not dined in the great hall for almost a year, but Ragna did not correct him. She helped him get dressed then took his arm and walked him the short distance across the compound.
The midday meal was already under way. Ragna noticed that both Bishop Wynstan and Dreng were at the table. As Wilf and Ragna entered, the sound of talk and laughter quietened and then stopped as people stared in surprise: no one had been forewarned of Wilf’s reappearance. Then there was applause and cheering. Wynstan stood up, clapping, and finally everyone stood.
Wilf smiled happily.
Ragna took him to his usual chair, then sat beside him. Someone poured him a cup of wine. He drank it down and asked for more.
He ate heartily and guffawed at all the usual jokes the men made, seeming like his old self. Ragna knew this was an illusion that would not survive any attempt at serious conversation, and she found herself trying to protect him. When he said something foolish she laughed, as if he were just being amusing; and if it was extremely foolish she hinted that he was drinking too much. It was amazing how much idiocy could be passed off as men’s drunken humor.
Toward the end of the meal he became amorous. He put his hand under the table and stroked her thigh through the wool of her dress, moving slowly higher.
Here it comes, she thought.
Even though she had not held a man in her arms for almost a year, she was dismayed by the prospect. But she would do it. This was her life now, and she had to get used to it.
Then Carwen came in.
She must have slipped away from the dinner table and gone to change her clothes, Ragna thought, for now she was wearing a black dress that made her look older and red shoes that would have suited a whore. She had washed her face, too, and now she glowed with youthful health and vigor.
She caught Wilf’s eye immediately.
He smiled broadly, and then looked puzzled, as if trying to remember who she was.
Standing in the doorway she smiled back, then turned to leave, and with a slight motion of her head invited him to follow.
Wilf looked unsure. So he should, Ragna thought. He is sitting next to the wife who has cared for him constantly for the last five months; he can hardly walk away from her to chase a slave girl.
Wilf stood up.
Ragna stared at him with her mouth open, horrified. She could not conceal her distress: this was too much. I can’t bear it, she thought.
“Sit down, for God’s sake,” she hissed. “Don’t be a fool.”
He looked at her and seemed surprised; then he looked away and addressed the assembled diners. “Unexpectedly,” he began, and they all started to laugh. “Unexpectedly, I find I am called away.”
No, Ragna thought; this can’t be happening.
But it was. She struggled to hold back tears.
“I shall return later,” Wilf said, walking to the exit.
At the door he paused and turned back, with the instinctive feeling for dramatic timing that he had always had.
He said: “Much later.”
The men roared with laughter, and he went out.
* * *
Wynstan, Degbert, and Dreng left Shiring quietly, in the dark, leading their horses until they were outside the town. Only a few trusted servants knew they were leaving, and Wynstan was determined that no one else should find out. They had a packhorse
loaded with a small barrel and a sack as well as food and drink, but they took no men-at-arms with them. Their mission was a dangerous secret.
They were careful not to be recognized on the road. Even with no entourage, anonymity was not easy. Degbert’s bald head was conspicuous, Dreng had a distinctive reedy voice, and Wynstan was one of the best-known men in the region. So they wrapped up in heavy cloaks, buried their chins in the folds, and shrouded their faces by pulling forward their hoods—none of which was unusual in the cold, wet February weather. They hurried past other travelers, spurning the usual exchanges of information. Rather than seek hospitality at an alehouse or monastery where they would have had to reveal their faces, they spent the first night at the home of a family of charcoal burners in the forest—surly, unsociable people who paid Wynstan a fee for the license to follow their occupation.
The nearer they got to Dreng’s Ferry, the greater the danger that they would be recognized. They had a mile or two to go on the second day when they suffered a tense moment. They met a group coming in the opposite direction: a family on foot, the woman holding a baby, the man with a bucket of eels that he must have bought from Bucca Fish, and two more children trailing behind. Dreng murmured: “I know that family.”
“So do I,” said Degbert.
Wynstan kicked his horse into a trot, and his companions did likewise. The family scattered to the sides of the road. Wynstan and the others rode past without speaking. The family were too busy getting out of the way of the flying hooves to take a good look at the riders. Wynstan thought they had got away with it.
Soon afterward, they turned off the road onto a near-invisible track through the trees.
Now Degbert took the lead. The woods thickened, and they had to dismount and walk the horses. Degbert found his way to an old ruined house, probably once the home of a forester, long abandoned. Its broken walls and half-collapsed roof would provide some shelter for their second night.