The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  “I have to leave for Sherborne on the first day of July,” Ragna said. “Let’s do it on the night before.”

  That morning she made her plans and packed her bags. She was ready to depart next day, but first she had to sit through tonight’s feast.

  Gytha donated a barrel of mead to the festivities. Made from fermented honey, mead was both sweet and strong, and men could get drunk on it quickly. Ragna would have forbidden it if she had been asked, but now she did not want to seem a killjoy, so she made no objection. She could do no more than hope that Wilf would not drink too much. She spoke to Bern and ordered him to remain sober, so that he could look after Wilf if necessary.

  Wilf and his brothers were in a convivial mood, but to her relief they seemed to be drinking moderately. Some of the men-at-arms were not so judicious, perhaps because for them mead was a rare treat, and the evening became raucous.

  The jester was very funny, and came dangerously close to lampooning Wynstan, pretending to be a priest and blessing a dancing girl then grabbing her breasts. Happily, Wynstan was not in a mood to take offense, and he laughed as heartily as anyone.

  Darkness fell, the lamps were lit, the table was cleared of dirty bowls, and the drinking continued. Some people became sleepy or amorous, or both. Adolescents flirted, and married women giggled when their friends’ husbands took minor liberties. If major liberties were taken it happened outside, in the dark.

  Wilf began to look tired. Ragna was about to suggest that Bern help him to bed, but his brothers took charge: Wynstan and Wigelm held an arm each and escorted him out.

  Carwen followed close behind.

  Ragna summoned Bern. “The bodyguards are all more or less drunk,” she said. “I want you to stand guard with them all night.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Bern.

  “You can sleep tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good night, Bern.”

  “Good night, my lady.”

  * * *

  Wynstan and Wigelm went to Gytha’s house and sat up into the small hours, talking in desultory fashion, making sure they did not fall asleep.

  Wynstan had explained the plan to Gytha, and she had been shocked and horrified at the idea that her sons wanted to murder her stepson. She had challenged Wynstan’s deduction about the document written at Dreng’s Ferry: could he be sure it was Wilf’s last will and testament? As it happened, Wynstan was able to reassure her, for he had received confirmation of his speculation. Bishop Modulf had indiscreetly confided in his neighbor Thane Deorman of Norwood, and Deorman had told Wynstan.

  Gytha had agreed to Wynstan’s plan, as he had known she would in the end. “What needs to be done must be done,” she had said. All the same she looked troubled.

  Wynstan was tense. If this went seriously wrong and the plot was revealed, both he and Wigelm would be executed for treason.

  He had tried to envisage every possible obstacle in his way and plan how to overcome each one, but there were always unexpected snags, and that thought kept him stressed.

  When he judged the time was right he stood up. He picked up a lamp, a leather strap, and a small cloth bag, all of which he had got ready earlier.

  Wigelm got to his feet and nervously touched the long-bladed dagger in its sheath at his belt.

  Gytha said: “Don’t make Wilf suffer, will you?”

  Wigelm replied: “I’ll do my best.”

  “He’s not my son, but I loved his father. Remember that.”

  Wynstan said: “We’ll remember it, mother.”

  The two brothers left the house.

  Here we go, Wynstan thought.

  There were always three bodyguards outside Wilf’s house: one at the door and one at each of the two front corners of the building. Wigelm had spent two nights observing them, partly through cracks in Gytha’s walls and partly by going outside to piss frequently. He had found that all three bodyguards spent most of the night sitting on the ground with their backs to the walls of the house, and they often dozed off. Tonight they were probably in a drunken stupor and would not even know that two murderers were entering the house they were guarding. However, Wynstan had a story ready in case they were wide awake.

  They were not, but he was taken aback to find Bern standing in front of Wilf’s door.

  “God be with you, my lord bishop, and you, Thane Wigelm,” said Bern in his French accent.

  “And with you.” Wynstan recovered quickly from the shock and implemented the fallback plan he had devised in case the bodyguards were not asleep. “We have to wake Wilf,” he said, speaking low but clearly. “It’s an emergency.” He glanced at the other two guards, who slept on. Improvising, he said to Bern: “Come inside with us—you need to hear this.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Bern looked puzzled, as well he might—how would the brothers have learned of this emergency, in the middle of the night, when no one appeared to have entered the compound to bring news? But though he frowned, he opened the door. His task was to protect Wilf, but it would not occur to him that the ealdorman was in danger from his own brothers.

  Wynstan knew exactly what had to happen now to counteract the surprise interference of Bern—it was obvious to him—but would Wigelm figure it out? Wynstan could only hope.

  Wynstan went in, walking quietly on the straw. Wilf and Carwen were asleep on the bed, wrapped in blankets. Wynstan put the lamp and the cloth bag on the table but kept hold of the strap. Then he turned to look back.

  Bern was closing the door behind him. Wigelm reached for his dagger. Wynstan heard a noise from the bed.

  He looked at the two in bed and saw that Carwen was opening her eyes.

  He grasped the ends of the strap and stretched a length of about a foot between his two hands. At the same time, he went down on one knee beside the slave girl. She came awake quickly, sat up, looked terrified, and opened her mouth to shout. Wynstan dropped the belt over her head, drew it into her open mouth like a horse’s bit, and pulled it tight. Thus gagged, she could make only desperate gargling sounds. He twisted the belt tighter, then looked behind him.

  He saw Wigelm cut Bern’s throat with a powerful slash of his long dagger. Well done, Wynstan thought. Blood spurted and Wigelm jumped out of the way. Bern fell. The only noise was the thud his body made as it hit the ground.

  That’s it, Wynstan thought; now there’s no turning back.

  He turned to see Wilf waking up. Carwen’s grunting took on fresh urgency. Wilf’s eyes opened wide. Even with his reduced mental capacity he could grasp what was happening in front of him. He sat bolt upright and reached for the knife beside his bed.

  But Wigelm was quicker. He reached the bed in two strides and fell on Wilf just as Wilf grasped his weapon. Wigelm brought his knife hand down in a long overhand swing, but Wilf raised his left arm and knocked aside Wigelm’s blow. Then Wilf thrust at Wigelm, but Wigelm dodged.

  Wigelm lifted his arm for another slash, but suddenly Carwen moved, surprising Wynstan, who did not have her restrained as tightly as he had thought. Still gagged, she jumped on Wigelm, pummeling him and trying to scratch his face, and it took Wynstan a moment to tug on the belt and jerk her back. He jumped on her, landing with both knees. Keeping hold of the belt with his right hand, he drew his own dagger with his left.

  Wilf and Wigelm were still grappling and it seemed neither had struck a telling blow. Wynstan saw Wilf open his mouth to yell for help. That would have been disastrous: the plan required a silent murder. Wynstan leaned over as a roar began in Wilf’s throat. Using all the force he could muster in his left arm, he plunged the dagger into Wilf’s mouth and thrust it as hard as he could down Wilf’s throat.

  The roar was cut off almost before it began.

  Wynstan suffered a moment of paralyzed horror. He saw the panic of extreme pain in Wilf’s eyes. He jerked the knife out, as if that would so
mehow mitigate the atrocity.

  Wilf gave a strangled grunt of agony and blood poured out of his mouth. He writhed in pain, but he did not die. Wynstan had been in battle, and he knew that men with fatal wounds might suffer a long time before they died. He needed to put Wilf out of his misery, but he could not bring himself to do it.

  Then Wigelm administered the coup de grâce, plunging his knife into the left side of Wilf’s chest, aiming accurately for the heart. The blade sunk in deep and stilled Wilf in an instant.

  Wigelm said: “May God forgive us both.”

  Carwen began to cry.

  Wynstan listened hard. He could hear nothing from outside the house. The killing had been done quietly and the guards had not been disturbed from their drunken slumbers.

  He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. “That’s only the beginning,” he said.

  He climbed off Carwen, still holding the gag tightly, and pulled her to her feet. “Now you listen to me carefully,” he said.

  She stared at him with terrified eyes. She had seen two men stabbed to death and she thought she might be next.

  “Nod if you understand me,” Wynstan said.

  She nodded with frantic energy.

  “Wigelm and I are going to swear that you murdered Wilf.”

  She shook her head from side to side vigorously.

  “You could deny it. You could tell everyone the truth about what happened here tonight. You could accuse me and Wigelm of cold-blooded murder.”

  He could tell by her expression that she was bewildered.

  He said: “But who will believe you? The oath of a slave is worthless—doubly so against that of a bishop.”

  He saw understanding dawn in her eyes, followed by despair.

  “You see the position you’re in,” he said with satisfaction. “But I’m going to offer you a chance. I’m going to let you escape.”

  She stared at him incredulously.

  “In two minutes’ time you’re going to leave the compound and walk out of Shiring by the Glastonbury road. Travel by night and hide in the woods by day.”

  She looked at the door, as if making sure that it was there.

  Wynstan did not want her to be recaptured, so he had prepared some things that would help her. “Take that bag on the table beside the lamp,” he said. “It contains bread and ham, so that you won’t need to find food for a couple of days. It also contains twelve silver pennies, but don’t spend them until you’re a long way away.”

  He could see from her eyes that she understood.

  “Tell anyone you meet that you’re going to Bristol to find your husband, who is a sailor. In Bristol you can get a boat across the estuary to Wales, and then you’ll be safe.”

  She nodded again, slowly this time, taking in his meaning and thinking about it.

  He held his knife to her throat. “Now I’m going to take this gag out of your mouth, and if you scream it will be the last sound you ever make.”

  She nodded again.

  He released the strap.

  She swallowed and rubbed her cheeks where the leather had left red marks.

  Wynstan noticed that Wigelm had splashes of blood on his hands and face. He assumed that his own body showed similar telltale signs. There was a bowl of water on a table and he quickly washed himself and gestured to Wigelm to do the same. They probably had blood on their clothes, too, but Wigelm was wearing brown and Wynstan was in black so it showed only as unidentifiable stains that told no particular story.

  The water in the bowl was now pink so Wynstan emptied it onto the floor.

  Then he said to Carwen: “Put on your shoes and cloak.”

  She did as she was told.

  He handed her the bag.

  “We’re going to open the door. If the remaining two guards are awake, Wigelm and I will kill them. If they’re asleep we will tiptoe past them. Then you will walk, briskly but quietly, to the gate of the compound and silently let yourself out.”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s go.”

  Wynstan opened the door softly and peeped out.

  Both bodyguards were slumped against the wall. One was snoring.

  Wynstan stepped out, waited for Carwen and Wigelm, then closed the door.

  He gestured to Carwen and she walked away, quickly and silently.

  He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Her flight would be seen by everyone as proof of guilt.

  Wynstan and Wigelm walked to Gytha’s house. At her door, Wynstan looked back. The guards had not moved.

  He and Wigelm went into their mother’s house and shut the door.

  * * *

  Ragna had been sleeping badly for months. She had too many worries: Wilf, Wynstan, Carwen, Osbert and the twins. When at last she fell asleep she often had bad dreams. Tonight she dreamed that Edgar had murdered Wilf, and she was trying to protect the builder from justice, but every time she said something her voice was drowned out by shouting from outside. Then she realized that she was dreaming but the shouting was real, and she woke quickly and sat upright, her heart pounding.

  The cries were urgent. Two or three men were calling out, and a woman was speaking in a high-pitched scream. Ragna jumped up and looked for Bern, who normally slept just inside her door; then she remembered that she had assigned him to guard Wilf.

  She heard Agnes say: “What’s that?” in a frightened voice.

  Then Cat said: “Something’s happened.”

  Their fearful voices woke the children, and the twins began to cry.

  Ragna pulled on her shoes, snatched up her cloak, and went out.

  It was still dark, and she saw immediately that there were lights in Wilf’s house, and his door was wide open. Her breath caught in her throat. Had something happened to him?

  She ran across the short distance to his door and stepped inside.

  At first she could not make sense of the scene in front of her. Men and women were milling around, all speaking at the tops of their voices. There was a metallic smell in the air, and she saw blood on the floor and on the bed, lots of blood. Then she made out Bern, lying in a congealed puddle, his throat horribly slashed, and she gasped with horror and dismay. At last her gaze went to the bed. In among the red-stained blankets was her husband.

  She let out a scream, and cut it short with a fist in her mouth. He was horribly wounded, his mouth full of dried black blood. His eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. A knife lay on the bed beside his open fist: he had tried to defend himself.

  There was no sign of Carwen.

  Staring at the ruin of Wilf, she remembered the tall, fair-haired man in a blue cloak who had walked off a ship in Cherbourg harbor and said in bad French: “I have come to speak with Count Hubert.” She began to cry, but even while she wept she had to ask a question, and she forced the words out: “How did this happen?”

  She was answered by Wuffa, the head groom. “The bodyguards were asleep,” he said. “They must die for their negligence.”

  “They will,” Ragna said, dashing the tears from her eyes with her fingers. “But what do they say happened?”

  “They woke up and noticed that Bern was gone. They searched for him, eventually looked inside the house, and saw”—he spread his arms—“this.”

  Ragna swallowed and made her voice calmer. “No one else here?”

  “No. Obviously the slave did it and fled.”

  Ragna frowned. Carwen would have to be stronger than she looked to kill two such big men with a knife, she thought, but she set the suspicion aside for the moment. “Fetch the sheriff,” she told Wuffa. “He must start the hue and cry as soon as dawn breaks.” Whether Carwen was the killer or not, she must be recaptured, for her testimony would be crucial.

  “Yes, my lady.” Wuffa hurried away.

  As he went out, Agnes came
in carrying the twins. Just over a year old, the children did not understand what they were looking at, but Agnes screamed and they began to bawl.

  Cat entered holding three-year-old Osbert by the hand. She stared at the corpse of Bern, her husband, in horrified disbelief. “No, no, no,” she said, and she let go of Osbert’s hand and knelt beside the body, shaking her head, sobbing.

  Ragna struggled to think straight. What did she need to do next? Although she had thought about Wilf’s death and feared that he might be murdered, the actual event had rocked her so hard that she could hardly digest what had happened. She knew she should react quickly and decisively but she was too shocked and bewildered.

  She listened to her sons crying and realized they should not be here. She was about to tell Agnes to take them away when she was distracted by the sight of Wigelm moving toward the door with a heavy oak chest in his arms. She recognized it at Wilf’s treasury, the box in which he kept his money.

  She stood in front of Wigelm and said: “Stop!”

  Wigelm said: “Get out of my way or I’ll knock you down.”

  The room went quiet.

  Ragna said: “That’s the treasury of the ealdormanry.”

  “It was.”

  Ragna let her voice express the contempt and loathing she felt. “Wilf’s blood isn’t dry yet, and you’re already stealing his money.”

  “I’m taking charge of it, as his brother.”

  Ragna realized that Garulf and Stiggy had moved to stand on either side of her, trapping her. She spoke defiantly. “I will decide who takes charge of the treasury.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I am the ealdorman’s wife.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re his widow.”

  “Put the box down.”

  “Get out of the way.”

  Ragna slapped Wigelm’s face hard.

  She expected him to drop the box, but he restrained himself and nodded to Garulf.

  The two young men seized Ragna, taking one arm each. She knew she could not escape from their grasp, so she maintained her dignity and did not struggle. She looked at Wigelm with narrowed eyes. “You’re not quick-thinking,” she said. “Therefore you must have planned this. It’s a coup. Did you murder Wilf so that you could take over?”