by Ken Follett
“Don’t be disgusting.”
She looked at the men and women around her. They were watching the scene avidly. They knew this was about who was going to rule them after Wilf. She had planted in their minds the suspicion that Wigelm had killed Wilf. For now she could do no more.
Wigelm said: “The slave killed Wilf.” He walked around Ragna and out through the door.
Garulf and Stiggy released Ragna.
She looked again at Agnes and Cat and the children, and realized there was no one left in her home. Her treasury, containing Wilf’s will, was unguarded. She hurried out, leaving Cat and Agnes to follow her.
She crossed the compound quickly and entered her house. She went to the corner where the treasury was kept. The blanket that normally covered it had been cast aside, and the chest had gone.
She had lost everything.
CHAPTER 32
July 1002
agna arrived at Sheriff Den’s compound an hour before dawn. The men, and a few women, were already gathering for the hue and cry, milling around in the dark, talking excitedly. The horses sensed the mood and stamped and snorted impatiently. Den finished saddling his black stallion then invited Ragna into his house so that they could talk in private.
Ragna’s panic was over and she had postponed her grief. She now knew what she had to do. She realized she was under attack by utterly ruthless people, but she was not defeated, and she was going to fight back.
And Den would be her principal ally—if she handled him right.
She said to him: “The slave Carwen knows exactly what happened in Wilf’s house tonight.”
“You don’t think it’s obvious,” he commented without surprise.
Good, she thought; he hasn’t prejudged the matter. “On the contrary, I think the obvious explanation is the wrong explanation.”
“Tell me why.”
“Firstly, Carwen did not seem to be unhappy. She was well fed, no one beat her, and she was sleeping with the most attractive man in town. What could she have been running from?”
“She may simply have been homesick.”
“True, though she showed no sign of it. But secondly, if she wanted to escape she could have gone at any time—she was never closely guarded. She could have left without killing Wilf or anyone else. Wilf slept heavily, especially after drink. She could have slipped away.”
“And if the guards happened to be awake?”
“She just would have said she was going to Gytha’s house, which is where she slept when Wilf didn’t want her. And then her absence might not have been noticed for a day or more.”
“All right.”
“But thirdly, and most importantly, I don’t believe that little girl could have killed either Wilf or Bern, let alone both. You saw the wounds. They were done with a strong arm by someone who had the confidence and the power to overcome two big men, both of whom were accustomed to violence. Carwen is fourteen.”
“It would be surprising, I agree. But if not her, who?”
Ragna had a strong suspicion, but she did not state it right away. “It must have been someone Bern knew.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“Because Bern let the murderer enter the house. If it had been a stranger, Bern would have been on his guard. He would have stopped the visitor, questioned him, refused him entry, and fought with him—all outside the house, where the noise would have awakened the guards. And Bern’s body would have been found outside the house.”
“The killer could have dragged it inside.”
“The sound of the fight would have awakened Wilf, who would have got out of bed and attacked the intruder. Clearly that didn’t happen, for Wilf died in his bed.”
“So someone known to Bern appeared and was ushered into the house. As soon as they were inside, the unsuspecting Bern was surprised and killed quickly and silently. Then the visitor killed Wilf, and persuaded the slave to run away so that she would be blamed.”
“That’s what I think happened.”
“And the reason for the murder?”
“The key to that lies in two things that happened in the confusion immediately after the bodies were discovered. When everyone else was shocked and bewildered, Wigelm calmly made off with Wilf’s treasury.”
“Really?”
“And then someone stole mine.”
“This changes everything.”
“It means Wigelm is making a bid for power.”
“Yes—but that doesn’t prove he was the murderer. His power grab might be opportunistic. He could be taking advantage of something he didn’t instigate.”
“Possibly, but I doubt it. Wigelm is not sufficiently quick-thinking. This whole thing seems to me to have been carefully planned.”
“You may be right. It smells of Wynstan.”
“Exactly.” Ragna was pleased and relieved. Den had questioned her closely but had ended up coming around to her point of view. She moved on quickly. “If I am to defeat this coup, I need Carwen to tell her story at the shire court.”
“She may not be believed. The word of a slave . . .”
“Some people will believe her, especially when I explain what drove Wynstan to do this.”
Den did not comment on that. He said: “Meanwhile, you’re penniless. Your treasury has been stolen. You can’t win a power battle without money.”
“I can get more. Edgar will have money for me from the sale of stone at my quarry. And in a few weeks I’ll have my rents from Saint-Martin.”
“Presumably Wilf’s will was in the same chest?”
“Yes—but you have a copy.”
“However, the will has no force without the king’s approval.”
“All the same I’ll read it out in court. Wilf’s intentions prove Wynstan’s motive. The thanes will be influenced by that: they all want their dying wishes to be respected.”
“True.”
Ragna returned her attention to the day’s challenges. “None of this will matter unless you can catch Carwen.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“But don’t lead the hue and cry yourself. Send Wigbert.”
Den was surprised. “He’s reliable . . .”
“And as mean as a starving cat. But I need you here. They’ll do a lot of things, but they won’t actually murder me if you’re in town. They know you’d go after them, and you’re the king’s man.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Wigbert is more than capable of leading a hue and cry. He’s done it many times.”
“Where might Carwen have gone?”
“West, presumably. I imagine she wants to go home to Wales. Assuming she left here around midnight, she will have walked at least ten miles along the Glastonbury road by now.”
“She might take shelter somewhere near Trench, perhaps?”
“Exactly.” He glanced through the open door. “First light. Time for them to get started.”
“I hope they find her.”
* * *
Wynstan was satisfied with the progress. His plan had gone not perfectly but well enough. It had been a nasty shock to find Bern outside Wilf’s door, alert and sober, but Wynstan had reacted quickly and Wigelm had known what to do; and after that everything had happened as intended.
The story that Carwen had killed both Bern and Wilf was a good deal less plausible than Wynstan’s original, which was that she had cut Wilf’s throat while he slept; but people were fools and they seemed to believe it. They were all frightened of their slaves, Wynstan thought: the slaves had every reason to hate their owners, and if they had the chance, why would they not kill the people who had stolen their lives? A slave owner never slept easy. And all that stored-up fear burst like a boil when a slave was accused of murdering a nobleman.
Wynstan was hoping that the hue and cry would fail to find Carwen. He
did not want her to tell her story in court. He would deny everything she said, and swear an oath, but a few might believe her rather than him. Much better if she vanished. Runaway slaves were usually caught, betrayed by their ragged clothes and their foreign accents and their pennilessness. However, Carwen had good clothes and some money, so she had a better-than-average chance.
Failing that, he had a contingency plan.
He was at the house of his mother, Gytha, with his brother, Wigelm, and their nephew Garulf late in the afternoon, waiting for the search party to return, when Sheriff Den appeared. With mock courtesy Wynstan said: “It’s an honor to receive a visit from you, sheriff, and all the more prized for its rarity.”
Den was impatient with facetious banter. A gray-haired man of about fifty, he had probably seen too much violence to be baited by mere jeering. He said: “You understand, don’t you, that not everyone is fooled?”
“I have no idea what you can be talking about,” said Wynstan with a smile.
“You think you’re clever, and you are, but there’s a limit to what you can get away with. And I’m here to tell you that you’re now perilously close to that limit.”
“It’s kind of you.” Wynstan continued to make fun of Den, but in fact he was paying close attention. This kind of threat from a sheriff to a bishop was unusual. Den was serious and he was not without power. He had authority, he had men-at-arms, and he had the ear of the king. Wynstan was only pretending not to care.
But what had prompted this display of menace? Not just the murder of Wilf, Wynstan thought.
In the next second he found out.
Den said: “Keep your hands off the lady Ragna.”
So that was it.
Den went on: “I want you to understand that if she should die, I will come after you, Bishop Wynstan.”
“How dreadful.”
“Not your brother or your nephew or any of your men—you. And I will never give up. I will bring you all the way down. You will live as a leper and die, as lepers do, in misery and filth.”
Despite himself Wynstan was chilled. He was thinking up a sarcastic riposte when Den simply turned around and left the house.
Wigelm said: “I should have ripped his guts open, the arrogant fool.”
Wynstan said: “He’s not a fool, unfortunately. If he was, we could ignore him.”
Gytha commented: “The foreign cat has got her claws into him.”
It was partly that, Wynstan had no doubt—Ragna had the ability to enchant most men—but there was something else. Den had long wanted to restrain the power of Wynstan’s family, and the murder of Ragna might provide him with a strong enough pretext, especially if it followed quickly after a power grab by Wynstan.
His ruminations were interrupted by Garulf’s bone headed friend Stiggy, who burst in, breathing hard, excited. He had gone with the hue and cry, under instructions from Wynstan, who had told him to race home ahead of the group if Carwen should be recaptured, a task so simple that even Stiggy could hardly fail to understand it.
“They got her,” he said now.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Shame.” It was time for the contingency plan. Wynstan got to his feet, and Wigelm and Garulf did the same. “Where was she?”
“In the woods this side of Trench. The dogs sniffed her out.”
“Did she say anything?”
“A lot of Welsh cursing.”
“How far behind you are they now?”
“At least an hour.”
“We’ll meet them on the road.” Wynstan looked at Garulf. “You know the plan.”
“I do.”
They went to the stables and saddled four horses, one each for Wynstan, Wigelm, and Garulf, plus a fresh mount for Stiggy; then they set out.
Half an hour later they came upon the hue and cry, now relaxed and triumphant. Wigbert, the sheriff’s quick-tempered captain, led the group, with Carwen stumbling along behind his horse, roped to his saddle, hands tied behind her back.
Wynstan said quietly: “All right, men, you know what you have to do.”
The four horsemen spread across the road in a line and reined in, forcing the hue and cry to halt. “Congratulations, everyone,” Wynstan said heartily. “Well done, Wigbert.”
“What do you want?” Wigbert said suspiciously, then added as an afterthought: “My lord bishop.”
“I will take charge of the prisoner now.”
There was a mutter of resentment from the group. They had captured the miscreant and they were looking forward to returning to the city in triumph. They would receive the congratulations of the citizenry and free drinks all evening in the alehouses.
Wigbert said: “My orders are to hand the prisoner over to Sheriff Den.”
“Your orders have been changed.”
“You must speak to the sheriff about that.”
Wynstan knew he was going to lose this argument, but he continued anyway, because it was merely a distraction. “I have already spoken to Den. His instructions are that you must hand over the prisoner to the victim’s brothers.”
“I can’t accept that from you, my lord bishop.” This time there was a distinct irony in the way he said my lord bishop.
Suddenly Garulf seemed to lose it. He yelled: “She killed my father!” then drew his sword and spurred his horse forward.
Those on foot scattered out of his way. Wigbert snarled a curse and drew his sword, but too late: Garulf was already past him. Carwen gave a cry of terror and cowered back, but she was roped to Wigbert’s saddle and unable to get away. Garulf was on her in a flash. Her hands were tied and she was defenseless. Garulf’s sword gleamed in the sunlight as he stabbed her in the chest. The momentum of man and horse drove the blade deep into her and she screamed. For a moment Wynstan thought Garulf would lift the girl and carry her away spitted on his weapon, but as his horse passed her she fell on her back and he was able to pull the sword out of her slender body. Blood spurted from the wound in her chest.
Amid howls of protest from the hue and cry, Garulf turned his horse, came back to where Wynstan was, and reined in, facing the crowd with his bloodstained sword held upright as if ready for more carnage.
Wynstan spoke loudly and insincerely. “You fool, you should not have killed her!”
“She stabbed my father in the heart!” Garulf shouted hysterically. Wynstan had instructed him to say these words, but his grief-stricken rage seemed genuine—which was strange, for Wynstan had told him who had really killed Wilf.
“Go!” said Wynstan. In a low voice he added: “Not too slow, not too fast.”
Garulf turned his horse then looked back. “Justice has been done!” he cried. He left at a trot, heading back toward Shiring.
Wynstan adopted a calming tone. “This should not have happened,” he said, although in fact all had gone exactly as he intended.
Wigbert was furious, but all he could do was protest. “He has murdered the slave!”
“Then he will be prosecuted in the shire court, and will pay the appropriate fine to the slave’s owner.”
Everyone looked at the girl bleeding to death on the ground.
Wigbert said angrily: “She knew what happened last night in Wilwulf’s house.”
“So she did,” said Wynstan.
* * *
Edgar’s canal was a success. It ran dead straight from the Outhenham quarry to the river, and was three feet deep for its entire length. Its clay sides were firm and slightly sloped.
He was working in the quarry today, using a hammer that had a short handle for accuracy and a heavy iron head for impact. He placed an oak wedge into a crack in the stone then hammered it with quick, powerful strokes, forcing the wedge deeper, widening the crack until a slab of stone fell away. It was a warm summer day, and he had taken off his tunic and wrapped it ar
ound his waist to be cooler.
Gab and his sons were working nearby.
Edgar was still mulling over Ragna’s visit to Dreng’s Ferry. “Sometimes it’s a comfort to be loved,” she had said, and he was sure she was speaking of his love for her. She had let him hold her hands. And afterward, she had said: “Will they know what we’ve been doing?” and he had asked himself what, exactly, they had been doing.
So she knew that he loved her, and she was glad that he loved her, and she felt that in holding hands they had done something that she would not like others to know about.
What did all this add up to? Could it possibly be that she returned his love? It was unlikely, almost impossible, but what else could it mean? He was not sure, but just thinking about it gave him a warm glow.
Edgar had won a large order for stone from Combe Priory, where the monks had royal permission to defend the town with an earth rampart and a stone barbican. Instead of carrying each stone half a mile to the river, Edgar had to transport it only a few yards to the head of the canal.
The raft was now almost completely loaded. Edgar had laid the heavy stones one deep on the deck, in order to spread the load and keep the vessel stable. He had to be careful not to overload the raft, otherwise it would sink below the surface.
He added one last stone and was getting ready to leave when he heard the distant drumbeat of fast horses. He looked to the north of the village. The roads were dry and he could see a cloud of dust approaching.
His mood changed. The arrival of a large number of men on horseback was rarely good news. Thoughtfully, he hooked his iron hammer into his belt, then locked the door of his house. He left the quarry and walked briskly to the village. Gab and his family followed.
Many others had the same idea. Men and women left the weeding of their fields and returned to the village. Others emerged from their houses. Edgar shared their curiosity but was more cautious. As he approached the center he ducked between two houses and took cover, creeping between the henhouses and the apple trees and the dunghills, progressing from one backyard to the next, listening.