by Ken Follett
Ragna nodded. “The old Wilf would have bristled at orders from his wife. But he’s lost his aggression.”
Den said: “That makes it serious.”
Ragna went on: “For the most part people accept my explanations, but that can’t last. The shrewder men are already noticing a change, as Aldred and Den have, and before long people will talk of it openly.”
Den said: “A weak ealdorman offers an opportunity to an ambitious and unscrupulous thane.”
Aldred said: “What do you think might happen, sheriff?”
Den did not answer immediately.
Ragna said: “I think someone will kill him.”
Den gave the briefest of nods: it was what he had thought but hesitated to say.
There was a long silence.
Finally Modulf said: “But what can Aldred, Den, and I do about it?”
Ragna suppressed a sigh of satisfaction. She had won her point; she had convinced the bishop that there was a problem. Now she had to sell him her solution.
“I think there is one way to protect him,” she said. “He’s going to make a will. It will be in English, so that Wilf can read it.”
“And me,” said Den. Noblemen and royal officials could often read English but not Latin.
Modulf said: “And what will the deed say?”
“He will make our son Osbert heir to his fortune and the ealdormanry, with me to manage everything on Osbert’s behalf until he comes of age. Wilf will agree to it today, here in the church, and I’m asking you three dignitaries to witness his agreement and put your names to the document.”
Modulf said: “I’m not a worldly man. I’m afraid I don’t see how this protects Wilwulf from assassination.”
“The only motive for anyone to murder Wilf would be the hope of succeeding him as ealdorman. The will preempts that by making Osbert the successor.”
Den, who was the king’s man in Shiring, said: “Such a will would have no validity unless endorsed by the king.”
“Indeed,” said Ragna. “And when I have your names on the parchment I will take it to King Ethelred and beg his consent.”
“Will the king agree?” said Modulf.
Den said: “Inheritance is by no means automatic. It is the king’s prerogative to choose the ealdorman.”
“I don’t know what the king will say,” Ragna said. “I only know I have to ask.”
Aldred said: “Where is the king now—does anybody know?”
Den knew. “As it happens, he’s on his way south,” he said. “He’ll be at Sherborne in three weeks’ time.”
“I will see him there,” said Ragna.
* * *
Edgar knew that Ragna had arrived in Dreng’s Ferry, but he was not sure he would see her. She was with Wilwulf, and they had come for a meeting at the monastery that involved two other nobles whose identities were being kept secret. So he was surprised and overjoyed when she walked into his house.
It was like the sun coming from behind a cloud. He felt short of breath, as if he had been running uphill. She smiled, and he was the happiest man on earth.
She looked around his house, and suddenly he saw it through her eyes: the neat rack of tools on the wall, the small wine barrel and cheese safe, the cooking pot over the fire giving off a pleasant herby odor, Brindle wagging a greeting.
She pointed to the box on the table. “That’s beautiful,” she said. Edgar had made it, and carved a design of interlocking serpents to symbolize wisdom. “What do you keep in such a lovely container?” she asked.
“Something precious. A gift from you.” He lifted the lid.
Inside was a small book called Enigmata, a collection of riddles in poem form, a favorite of Ragna’s. She had given it to him when he learned to read. “I didn’t know you made a special box for it,” she said. “How nice.”
“I must be the only builder in England who owns a book.”
She gave him that smile again and said: “God didn’t make two like you, Edgar.”
He felt warm all over.
She said: “I’m so sorry about the burning of the bridge! I’m sure Wynstan had something to do with it.”
“I agree.”
“Can you rebuild it?”
“Yes, but what’s the point? It could be burned down again. He got away with it once, he may do so again.”
“I suppose so.”
Edgar was sick of talking about the bridge. To change the subject he asked her: “How are you?”
She seemed about to make a conventional reply, then appeared to change her mind. “To tell you the truth, I’m utterly miserable.”
Edgar was taken aback. It was an intimate confession. He said: “I’m so sorry. What’s happened?”
“Wilwulf doesn’t love me, and I’m not sure he ever did, not as I understand love.”
“But . . . you seemed so fond of each other.”
“Oh, he couldn’t get enough of me for a while, but that wore off. He treats me like one of his men friends now. He hasn’t come to my bed for a year.”
Edgar could not help feeling glad about that. It was an unworthy thought, and he hoped it did not show on his face.
Ragna appeared not to notice. “He prefers his slave girl at night,” she said with contempt in her voice. “She’s fourteen years old.”
Edgar wanted to express the sympathy he was feeling, but it was difficult to find words. “That’s shameful,” he said.
She let her anger show. “And it’s not what we promised when we made our vows! I never agreed to this kind of marriage.”
He wanted to keep her talking because he yearned to know more. “How do you feel about Wilf now?”
“For a long time I tried to go on loving him, hoped to win him back, dreamed that he would tire of others. But now something else has happened. The head injury he suffered last year has damaged his mind. The man I married is gone. Half the time I’m not sure he even remembers that he’s married to me. He treats me more like a mother.” Her eyes filled with tears.
Tentatively, Edgar reached for her. She did not move away. He took both her small hands in his, and was thrilled when he felt her answering grasp. He looked at her face and felt closer to contentment than he had ever been. He watched the tears overflow her eyes and run down her face, raindrops on rose petals. Her expression was a grimace of pain, but to him she had never been more beautiful. They stood still for a long time.
At last she said: “I’m still married, though.” And she withdrew her hands.
He said nothing.
She wiped her face with her sleeve. “May I have a sip of wine?”
“Anything.” He drew wine from the barrel into a wooden cup.
She drank it and handed back the cup. “Thank you.” She began to look more normal. “I have to cross the river to the nunnery.”
Edgar smiled. “Don’t let Mother Agatha kiss you too much.” Everyone liked Agatha, but she did have a weakness.
Ragna said: “Sometimes it’s a comfort to be loved.” She gave him a direct look, and he understood that she was talking about him as well as Agatha. He felt bewildered. He needed time to think about that.
After a moment she said: “How do I look? Will they know what we’ve been doing?”
And what have we been doing, Edgar wondered? “You look fine,” he said. What a stupid thing to say, he thought. “You look like a sad angel.”
“I wish I had the powers of an angel,” she said. “Think what I could do.”
“What would you do first?”
She smiled, shook her head, turned around, and left.
* * *
Once again Wynstan spoke to Agnes in a corner of the chancel, near the altar but out of sight of the nave. There was a Bible on the altar and, near his feet, a chest containing holy water and the sacramental bread. Wynstan had no q
ualms about conducting business in the holiest part of the church. He worshipped Jehovah, the Old Testament god who had ordered the genocide of the Canaanites. What needs to be done must be done, and God had no use for the squeamish, he believed.
Agnes was excited but nervous. “I don’t know the whole story, but I have to tell you anyway,” she said.
“You’re a wise woman,” he said. She was not, but he needed her to calm down. “Just tell me what happened, and leave me to figure out its significance.”
“Ragna went to Dreng’s Ferry.”
Wynstan had heard as much, but he did not know what to make of it. There was nothing for Ragna in that little hamlet. She had a soft spot for the young builder, but Wynstan felt sure she was not fucking him. “What did she do there?”
“She and Wilf met with Aldred and two other men. The identities of the others were supposed to be secret, but it’s a small place, and I saw them. They were Bishop Modulf of Norwood and Sheriff Den.”
Wynstan frowned. That was interesting, but it raised more questions than it answered. “Did you get any hint of the purpose of the meeting?”
“No, but I think they all witnessed a parchment.”
“A written agreement,” Wynstan mused. “I don’t suppose you caught a glimpse of it.”
She smiled. “What would such a thing mean to me?” She could not read, of course.
“I wonder what that French bitch is up to,” Wynstan said, mainly to himself. Most documents were about land being sold, leased, or gifted. Had Ragna persuaded Wilf to transfer land to Prior Aldred or Bishop Modulf, a pious gift? But that would not have needed a secret meeting. Marriage contracts might be written, if property was to change hands, but it seemed no marriage had taken place at Dreng’s Ferry. Births were not recorded, even royal births, but deaths were—and wills were written. Had someone made a will? Ragna might have persuaded Wilf to do so. Wilf had not recovered fully from his head wound, and might yet die of it.
The more Wynstan thought about it, the more sure he felt that the purpose of Ragna’s clandestine meeting was to get the ealdorman’s will secretly written and witnessed.
The problem with that was that a nobleman’s will meant little. The king had control of every dead nobleman’s property, including that of widows. No will had any force unless is was ratified in advance by the king.
Wynstan asked Agnes: “Was anything said about going to see King Ethelred?”
“How did you know that?” she said. “You’re so clever! Yes, I heard Bishop Modulf say he would see Ragna at Sherborne when the king is there.”
“That’s it,” said Wynstan decisively. “She’s written Wilf’s will, it’s been witnessed by a bishop, a sheriff, and a prior, and now she’s going to ask for royal approval.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She thinks Wilf is going to die, and she wants her son to inherit.” Wynstan thought further. “She will have got Wilf to designate her to rule as regent for Osbert until he comes of age, I’m sure.”
“But Garulf is also Wilf’s son, and he’s twenty. Surely the king would prefer him to a child.”
“Unfortunately Garulf’s a fool, and the king knows it. Last year Garulf lost most of the Shiring army in one injudicious battle, and Ethelred was furious about the waste of all those fighting men. Ragna is a woman, but she’s as clever as a cat, and the king would probably rather have her in charge of Shiring than Garulf.”
“You understand everything,” Agnes said admiringly.
She was gazing at him in adoration, and he wondered whether he should gratify her evident desire, but he decided it was better to keep her hoping. He touched her cheek, as if he were about to whisper an endearment, but what he said was: “Where would Ragna keep such a document?”
“At the house, in the locked chest with her money,” Agnes said in an ardent whisper.
He kissed her lips. “Thank you,” he said. “You’d better go.”
He watched her walk away. She had a nice trim figure. Maybe one day he would give her what her heart desired.
But the news she had brought him was no light matter. It could mean the final demise of his powerful family. He had to talk to his younger brother about it. Wigelm happened to be in Shiring, and staying at the bishop’s residence, but Wynstan wanted to have a plan of action worked out before he opened the conversation. He remained in the cathedral, alone, glad of the chance to think without interruption.
As he brooded, it became clear to him that his troubles would never be over until he had destroyed Ragna. The problem was not just the will. As the wife of a disabled ealdorman Ragna had power, and she was sufficiently intelligent and determined to make the most of it.
Whatever Wynstan decided, he had to act quickly. If Ethelred endorsed the will its provisions would be set in stone: nothing Wynstan could do thereafter would change anything. Ragna must not be allowed even to show it to the king.
Ethelred was due in Sherborne in eighteen days’ time.
Wynstan left the cathedral and crossed the market square to his residence. He found Wigelm on the upstairs floor, sitting on a bench, sharpening a dagger on a stone. He looked up and said: “What’s made you glum?”
Wynstan shooed a couple of servants out and closed the door. “In a minute you’re going to be glum, too,” he said, and he told Wigelm what Agnes had reported.
“King Ethelred must never see that will!” said Wigelm.
“Obviously,” said Wynstan. “It’s a knife at my throat, and yours.”
Wigelm thought for a minute, then said: “We have to steal the will and destroy it.”
Wynstan sighed. Sometimes it seemed he was the only person who understood anything. “People make copies of documents to guard against that sort of thing. I imagine that all three witnesses took away duplicates from the meeting at Dreng’s Ferry. In the unlikely event that there are no copies, Ragna could just write another will and get it witnessed again.”
Wigelm’s face took on a familiar petulant look. “Well, what can we do, then?”
“We can’t let the situation continue.”
“I agree.”
“We have to destroy Ragna’s power.”
“I’m in favor of that.”
Wynstan led Wigelm step-by-step. “Her power depends on Wilf.”
“And we don’t want to take that away from him.”
“No.” Wynstan sighed. “I hate to say it, but all our problems will be solved if Wilf dies soon.”
Wigelm shrugged. “That’s in God’s hands, as you priests like to say.”
“Perhaps.”
“What?”
“His demise could be hastened.”
Wigelm was baffled. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s only one answer.”
“Well, come on, spit it out, Wynstan.”
“We have to kill Wilf.”
“Ha, ha!”
“I mean it.”
Wigelm was shocked. “He’s our brother!”
“Half brother. And he’s losing his mind. He’s more or less under control of the cow from Normandy, something that would shame him if he wasn’t too demented to know that it’s happening. It will be a kindness to end his life.”
“Still . . .” Wigelm lowered his voice, even though the room was empty but for the two of them. “To kill a brother!”
“What needs to be done must be done.”
“We can’t,” said Wigelm. “It’s out of the question. Think of something else. You’re the great thinker.”
“And I think you’ll hate it when you’re replaced as reeve of Combe by someone who hands over taxes to the ealdorman without skimming a fifth off the top.”
“Would Ragna replace me?”
“In a heartbeat. She’d have done it already, except that no one would believe Wilf had agreed to
it. Once he’s gone . . .”
Wigelm looked thoughtful again. “King Ethelred wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Why not?” said Wynstan. “He did the same thing himself.”
“I’ve heard some such story.”
“Twenty-four years ago, Ethelred’s older half brother, Edward, was king. Ethelred was living with his mother, Elfryth, who was stepmother to the king. Edward went to visit them and was murdered by their men-at-arms. Ethelred was crowned the following year.”
“Ethelred must have been about twelve years old.”
Wynstan shrugged. “Young? Yes. Innocent? God knows.”
Wigelm made a skeptical face. “We can’t kill Wilf. He has a squad of bodyguards, commanded by Bern the Giant, who is a Norman and a longtime servant of Ragna’s.”
One day, Wynstan thought, I won’t be here to do all the thinking for my family. I wonder if then they will just stand still and do nothing, like an ox team when the ploughman walks away.
He said: “The killing itself is easy. It’s the management of the aftermath we have to worry about. We’ll need to move into action the minute he’s dead, while Ragna is still stunned with shock. We don’t want to eliminate Wilf only to find that she takes charge anyway. We have to become masters of Shiring before she recovers her composure.”
“How do we do that?”
“We need a plan.”
* * *
Ragna was not sure about the feast.
Gytha had come to her with a reasonable request. “We should celebrate Wilf’s recovery,” she said. “Let everyone know that he’s fit and well again.”
He was not, of course, but the pretence was important. However, Ragna did not like him to drink to excess: he became even more fuddled than a normal drunk. “What kind of celebration?” she said, prevaricating.
“A feast,” said Gytha. “The way he likes,” she added pointedly. “With dancing girls, not poets.”
He was entitled to some fun, Ragna thought guiltily. “And a juggler,” she said. “And a jester, perhaps?”
“I knew you’d agree,” Gytha said quickly, nailing it down.