The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  “I will never love you.” How much clearer could she make it? “You are all the bad things about Wilf and none of the good. I hate and loathe you, and that will never change.”

  “Bitch,” he muttered, and walked away.

  Ragna felt as if she had been in a fight. Wigelm’s proposal had been shocking and his persistence had been brutal. She felt battered and exhausted. She leaned against the side of her house and closed her eyes.

  Osbert started to cry. He had got mud in his eye. She picked him up and washed his face with her sleeve, and he was quickly pacified.

  She no longer felt shaky. It was strange how the needs of children swamped everything else—for women, at least. No crude English thane was as tyrannical as a baby.

  Her breathing returned to normal as she watched the children playing with the water. But once again she did not enjoy the peaceful moment for long. Bishop Wynstan appeared. “My brother Wigelm is very upset,” he said.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Ragna said impatiently. “Don’t pretend he’s lovelorn.”

  “We both know that love has nothing to do with this.”

  “I’m glad you’re not as stupid as your brother.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s not much of a compliment.”

  “Take care,” he said with suppressed anger. “You’re not in a strong position to insult me and my family.”

  “I’m the ealdorman’s widow, and nothing you can do will change that. My position is strong enough.”

  “But Wigelm is in control of Shiring.”

  “I’m still lord of the Vale of Outhen.”

  “Garulf went there yesterday.”

  Ragna was startled. She had not heard about this.

  Wynstan went on: “He told the villagers that Wigelm has made him lord of Outhen.”

  “They will never accept him. Seric, the headman—”

  “Seric is dead. Garulf made Dudda headman.”

  “Outhen is mine! It’s in the marriage contract that you negotiated!”

  “Wilf had no right to give it to you. It’s been in our family for generations.”

  “All the same he did give it to me.”

  “He obviously intended a lifetime gift. Wilf’s lifetime, not yours.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  Wynstan shrugged. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t have to do anything. King Ethelred will appoint the new ealdorman, not you.”

  “I thought you might be laboring under that illusion,” Wynstan said, and the seriousness of his tone chilled Ragna. “Let me explain to you what the king has on his mind today. The Viking fleet is still in English waters—they spent the winter at the Isle of Wight instead of returning home. Ethelred has now negotiated a truce with them—for which he must pay twenty-four thousand pounds of silver.”

  Ragna was shocked. She had never heard of such a large sum of money.

  “You may imagine,” Wynstan went on, “that the king is preoccupied with raising money. On top of that he is planning his wedding.”

  Ethelred had been married to Elfgifu of York, who had died giving birth to their eleventh child.

  Wynstan went on: “He is going to marry Emma of Normandy.”

  Ragna was surprised again. She knew Emma, the daughter of Count Richard of Rouen. Emma had been a child of twelve when Ragna left Normandy five years ago. She would now be seventeen. It occurred to Ragna that a young Norman woman marrying the English king could become an ally.

  Wynstan had a different agenda. “With all that to worry about, how much time do you think the king is going to spend deciding who is to be the new ealdorman of Shiring?”

  Ragna said nothing.

  “Very little,” said Wynstan, answering his own question. “He will look at who is in control of the region and simply ratify that person. The de facto ruler will become the de jure ealdorman.”

  If that were true, Ragna thought, you would not be so keen for me to marry Wigelm. But she did not say it, because she had been struck by another thought. What would Wynstan do when she steadfastly refused Wigelm’s proposal? He would cast about for an alternative solution. There might be several options open to him, but one stood out to Ragna.

  He could kill her.

  CHAPTER 33

  August 1002

  dgar had now killed two men. The first had been the Viking; the second Stiggy. It might be three, if Bada had died of his broken collarbone. Edgar asked himself whether he was a killer.

  Men-at-arms never had to ask themselves that question: killing was their role in life. But Edgar was a builder. Combat did not come naturally to a craftsman. Yet Edgar had defeated men of violence. Perhaps he should have felt proud: Stiggy had been a cold-blooded murderer. All the same Edgar was troubled.

  And the death of Stiggy had solved no problems. Garulf had taken control of Outhen, and undoubtedly was even now tightening his grip on the villagers.

  When Edgar reached Shiring he went straight to the ealdorman’s compound. He unsaddled Buttress, took her to the pond to drink, then turned her loose in the adjoining pasture with the other horses.

  As he approached Ragna’s house he wondered—foolishly, perhaps—whether she would look different now that she was a widow. He had known her for five years, and for all that time she had belonged to another man. Would there be a different look in her eye, a new smile on her face, an unaccustomed liberty to the way she walked? She was fond of him, he knew; but would she express that feeling more freely now?

  He found her at home. Despite the sunshine she was indoors, sitting on a bench, staring at nothing, brooding. Her three sons and Cat’s two daughters were taking their afternoon nap, supervised by Cat and Agnes. Ragna brightened a little when she saw Edgar, which pleased him. He handed her the leather bag of silver. “Your earnings from the quarry. I thought you might need money.”

  “Thank you! Wigelm took my treasury—I was penniless, until now. They want to steal everything from me, including the Vale of Outhen. But the king is responsible for aristocratic widows, and sooner or later he’ll have something to say about what Wigelm and Wynstan have done. And how are you?”

  He sat down on the bench next to her and spoke in an undertone so that the servants could not hear. “I was at Outhen. I saw Stiggy murder Seric.”

  Her eyes widened. “Stiggy died . . .”

  Edgar nodded.

  She mouthed a question soundlessly: “You?”

  He nodded again. “But nobody knows,” he whispered.

  She squeezed his wrist, as if to thank him silently, and he felt a tingle in the place where her skin touched his. Then she resumed a normal voice. “Garulf is mad with rage.”

  “Of course.” Edgar thought of the despondent expression he had seen on her face when he arrived, and he said: “But what about you?”

  “Wigelm wants to marry me.”

  “God forbid!” Edgar was appalled. He did not want Ragna to marry anyone, but Wigelm was a particularly repellent choice.

  “It’s not going to happen,” she added.

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “But what will they do?” Ragna’s face bore a look he had never seen before, of anxiety so desperate that Edgar wanted to take her in his arms and tell her that he would look after her. She went on: “I’m a problem they need to solve, and they aren’t going to leave it to King Ethelred—he doesn’t like them and he may not do what they want.”

  “But what can they do?”

  “They could kill me.”

  Edgar shook his head. “Surely that would cause an international scandal—”

  “They would say I fell ill and died suddenly.”

  “Dear God.” It had not occurred to Edgar that they might go so far. They were ruthless enough to kill Ragna, but it could get them into major tr
ouble. However, they were risk-takers. He was seriously alarmed. “We have to protect you, somehow!” he said.

  “I have no bodyguard now. Bern is dead and the men-at-arms switched their loyalty to Wigelm.”

  The two women servants could hear their conversation now, for they were speaking at normal volume, and Cat reacted to Ragna’s last remark. “Filthy beasts,” she said in Norman French. Bern had been her husband.

  Edgar said to Ragna: “You probably have to leave this compound.”

  “It would seem like giving up.”

  “This would be temporary, until you can put your case to the king. Which you can’t do if you’re dead.”

  “Where could I go?”

  Edgar considered. “What about Leper Island? There’s a sanctuary stool in the nuns’ church. Even Wigelm wouldn’t dare to murder a noblewoman there. Every thane in England would consider it a duty to kill him in revenge.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “That’s a clever idea.”

  “We should leave immediately.”

  “You would come with me?”

  “Of course. When could you leave?”

  She hesitated, then made up her mind. “Tomorrow morning.”

  Edgar felt it was sounding too easy, too good to be true. “They may try to stop you.”

  “You’re right. We’ll go before sunrise.”

  “You’ll have to be discreet until then.”

  “Yes.” Ragna turned to Cat and Agnes, who were both listening, wide-eyed. “You two, do nothing before supper—just carry on as normal. Then, when it’s dark, pack what we need for the children.”

  Agnes said: “We should take food. Shall I get some from the kitchen?”

  “No, that would give us away. Buy bread and ham in the town.” She gave Agnes three silver pennies from the purse Edgar had brought.

  Edgar said: “Don’t use your own horses. Sheriff Den will lend you mounts.”

  “Do I have to lose Astrid?”

  “I’ll come back for her later.” He stood up. “I’ll stay at Den’s place tonight. I’ll speak to him about borrowing horses. Will you let me know, later this evening, that everything is ready for the morning?”

  “Of course.” She took both his hands in hers, reminding him of their piercingly intimate conversation at his house in Dreng’s Ferry. Were there more intimate moments ahead? He hardly dared hope. “And thank you, Edgar, for everything. I’ve lost track of all you’ve done for me.”

  He wanted to tell her that it was done out of love, but not in front of Cat and Agnes, so he said: “You deserve it. More.”

  She smiled and released his hands, and he turned and left.

  * * *

  “We could just kill Ragna,” said Wigelm. “It would make everything simple.”

  “I’ve thought about it, believe me,” said Wynstan. “She stands in our way.”

  They were in the bishop’s residence, on the upper floor, drinking cider: it was thirsty weather.

  Wynstan recalled Sheriff Den’s threat to kill him if anything happened to Ragna. But he dismissed it. Many people would have liked to kill Wynstan. If he feared them, he would never step out the door.

  Wigelm said: “Without Ragna, I would have no rival for the ealdormanry.”

  “No very convincing one. Who is the king going to choose? Deorman of Norwood is half blind. Thurstan of Lordsborough is a ditherer who could hardly lead a singsong, let alone an army. All the other thanes are little more than wealthy farmers. No one has your experience and connections.”

  “So . . .”

  Wynstan often felt exasperated that he had to explain things to Wigelm more than once, but on this occasion he was also getting the problem straight in his own mind. “We just need to keep her under control,” he said.

  “How is that better than killing her? We could set it up so that someone else gets the blame, as we did with Wilf.”

  Wynstan shook his head. “It’s possible, but it would be pushing our luck. Yes, we got away with it once, just about, even though plenty of people still don’t believe Carwen killed Wilf. However, a second convenient murder so soon after the first would be highly suspicious. Everyone would assume we were guilty.”

  “King Ethelred might believe us.”

  Wynstan laughed scornfully. “He wouldn’t even pretend to. We’re usurping his prerogatives in two ways. First, we’re forcing a choice of ealdorman on him. Second, we’re interfering with the fate of a widow.”

  “Surely he’s more worried about raising his twenty-four thousand pounds?”

  “For now, yes, but once he’s got the money he’ll do whatever he wants.”

  “So we need to keep Ragna alive.”

  “If at all possible, yes. Alive, but under control.” Wynstan looked up to see Agnes entering. “And here is the little mouse that will help us do that.” He saw that she was carrying a basket. “Have you been shopping, my mouse?”

  “Supplies for a journey, my lord bishop.”

  “Come here, sit on my lap.”

  She looked surprised and embarrassed, but also thrilled. She put down her basket and sat on Wynstan’s knee, perching with a straight back.

  He said: “Now, what journey is this?”

  “Ragna wants to go to Dreng’s Ferry. It takes two days.”

  “I know how long it takes. But why does she want to go there?”

  “She thinks you might kill her when you realize she will never marry Wigelm.”

  Wynstan looked at Wigelm. This was the kind of thing he had feared. A good thing he had found out in advance. How clever he had been to place a spy in Ragna’s house. “What brought this on?” he said.

  “I’m not sure, but Edgar showed up with some money for her, and it was his idea. She will live in the nunnery and she thinks she will be safe from you there.”

  She was probably right, Wynstan thought. He did not want to make all England his enemy. “When will she leave?”

  “Tomorrow at sunrise.”

  Wynstan ran his hand over Agnes’s breasts, and she shuddered with desire. “You’ve done well, my little mouse,” he said warmly. “This is important information.”

  In a shaky voice she said: “I’m so glad to have pleased you.”

  He winked at his brother then put his hand up her dress. “So wet, already!” he said. “I seem to have pleased you, too.”

  She whispered: “Yes.”

  Wigelm laughed.

  Wynstan eased Agnes off his lap. “Kneel down, my little mouse,” he said. He lifted his tunic. “Do you know what to do with this?”

  She bent her head over his lap.

  “Ah, yes,” he sighed. “I see that you do.”

  * * *

  As darkness was falling Ragna slipped out of the compound. She pulled her hood over her head and hurried across the town. She was happy to be on her way to see Edgar. It was a familiar feeling, she realized. She had always been happy to see him. And he had been an unfailingly good friend to her ever since she came to England.

  She found Sheriff Den and his wife preparing to go to bed. Edgar was occupying an empty house in the compound, Den told her, and he took her there. The place was lit by a single rush light. Edgar stood by the fireplace, but there was no fire: the weather was warm.

  Den said briskly: “Your horses will be ready at first light.”

  “Thank you,” Ragna said. Some of the English were decent folk and others were pigs, she reflected; perhaps it was the same everywhere. “You’ve probably saved my life.”

  “I’m doing what I believe the king would wish,” he said, then he added: “And I’m glad to help you.” He looked at the two of them with a faint smile. “I’ll leave you to make final arrangements.” He went out.

  Ragna’s heart beat faster. She had seldom been alone with Edgar—so seldom in fact that she could cl
early recall each occasion. The first had been five years ago at Dreng’s Ferry when he had rowed her across to Leper Island. She remembered the darkness, the patter of the rain falling on the surface of the river, and the warmth of his strong arms as he carried her from the boat through the shallows to dry land. The second had been four years later, at Outhenham, in his house at the quarry, when she had kissed him, and he had almost died of embarrassment. And the third time had been at Dreng’s Ferry, when he had showed her the box he had made for the book she had given him, and she had as good as admitted that his love comforted her.

  This was the fourth time.

  She said: “Everything is ready.” She meant for the escape.

  “Here, too.” He looked ill at ease.

  “Relax,” she said. “I’m not going to bite you.”

  He gave a sheepish grin. “Worse luck.”

  Looking at him in the dim light, she wanted nothing more than to take him in her arms. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. She stepped closer. “I’ve realized something,” she said.

  “What?”

  “We’re not friends.”

  He understood right away. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re something else entirely.”

  She put her hands on his cheeks, feeling the soft hair of his beard. “Such a good face,” she said. “Strong, intelligent, and kind.”

  He dropped his eyes.

  She said: “Am I embarrassing you?”

  “Yes, but don’t stop.”

  She thought of Wilwulf, and wondered how she could have loved a warrior. It had been a girlish love, she thought. What she was feeling now was grown-up desire. But she could not say any of that, so she kissed him instead.

  It was a long, soft kiss, their lips exploring gently. She stroked his cheeks and his hair, and she felt his hands on her waist. After a long minute she broke the kiss, panting. “Oh, my,” she said. “Can I have some more of that?”