The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  Aldred went on: “We now know for sure that Ragna never went to Cherbourg. Count Hubert has confirmed that to us and has sent a formal complaint to King Ethelred. Wynstan and Wigelm lied.”

  Den’s response was cautious. “I’d like to see Ragna safe and well, and I believe King Ethelred would, too,” he said. “But a king has multiple needs, and the different pressures on him sometimes conflict with one another.”

  Den’s wife, Wilburgh, a middle-aged woman with gray hair under her cap, had a more trenchant opinion. “The king should put that devil Wigelm in a prison.”

  Aldred agreed with her, but took a more practical line. “Will the king hold court in the West Country?”

  “He must,” said Den. “Everywhere he goes, his subjects come to him with demands, accusations, pleas, proposals. He cannot help but hear them, and then people want decisions.”

  “In Shiring?”

  “If he comes here, yes.”

  “Here or elsewhere, he must do something about Ragna, surely!”

  “Sooner or later. His authority has been defied, and he can’t let that stand. But the timing is another matter.”

  Every answer was maybe, Aldred thought with frustration, but perhaps that was normal with royalty. In a monastery, by contrast, a sin was a sin, and there was nothing to dither about. He said: “Ethelred’s new wife, Queen Emma, will surely be a strong ally to Ragna. They’re both Norman aristocrats, they knew each other when younger, they both married powerful English noblemen. They must have experienced similar joys and sorrows in our country. Queen Emma will want Ethelred to rescue Ragna.”

  “And Ethelred would do so, were it not for Swein Forkbeard. Ethelred is gathering armies to do battle, and as always he relies on the thanes to muster men from the towns and villages. It’s a bad time for him to quarrel with powerful magnates such as Wigelm and Wynstan.”

  Which boiled down to another maybe, Aldred thought. “Is there anything that could sway the decision?”

  Den thought for a moment, then said: “Ragna herself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Ethelred meets her he will do anything she asks. She is beautiful and vulnerable, and a noble widow. He will not be able to find it in himself to refuse justice to an alluring woman who has been ill-treated.”

  “But that’s our problem. We can’t bring her before him because we can’t find her.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So anything could happen.”

  “Yes.”

  “By the way,” said Aldred, “while I was on my way here, Wigelm passed me on the road, going in the opposite direction, with a small group of men-at-arms. You don’t know where he was headed, do you?”

  “Wherever he was going, his route must have led through Dreng’s Ferry, for there’s no other place of note on that stretch.”

  “I hope he wasn’t intending to make trouble for me.”

  Aldred rode home with a worried mind, but when he arrived Brother Godleof told him that in fact Wigelm had not visited Dreng’s Ferry. “He must have changed his mind on the road and turned back, for some reason,” Godleof said.

  Aldred frowned. “I suppose so,” he said.

  * * *

  Aldred heard the army when they were still a mile or more away from Dreng’s Ferry. At first he did not know what he was listening to. It was a noise something like the sound of Shiring city center on market day: the cumulative result of hundreds of people, perhaps thousands, talking and laughing, shouting orders, cursing, whistling, and coughing, plus horses braying and whinnying, and carts creaking and bumping. He could also hear the destruction of foliage on either side of the mud road, men and horses treading down plants, carts rolling over bushes and saplings. It could only be an army.

  Everyone knew that King Ethelred was on his way, but his route had not been announced, and Aldred was surprised that he would choose to cross the river at Dreng’s Ferry.

  When Aldred heard the din he was at work in the monastery’s new building, a stone edifice housing the school, the library, and the scriptorium. Resting a sheet of parchment on a board on his knees, he was painstakingly copying Saint Matthew’s Gospel in the insular miniscule script used for literature in English. He worked prayerfully, for this was a holy task. Writing out a part of the Bible had a double purpose: it created a new book, of course, but it was also a perfect way to meditate on the deeper meaning of the Holy Scriptures.

  He had a rule that worldly developments should never be allowed to interrupt spiritual work—but this was the king, and he stopped.

  He closed Saint Matthew’s book, put the stopper back into his inkhorn, rinsed the nib of his quill in a bowl of clean water, blew on his parchment to dry the ink, then put everything back into the chest where such costly articles were kept. He did so methodically, but his heart was racing. The king! The king was the hope of justice. Shiring had become a tyranny, and only Ethelred could change that.

  Aldred had never seen the king. He was called Ethelred the Misled, for people said that his fault was to follow bad advice. Aldred was not sure he believed that. Saying that the king was ill-advised was usually a way of attacking the monarch without seeming to.

  Anyway, Aldred was not convinced that Ethelred’s decisions were disastrous. He had become king when he was twelve years old, and despite that he had reigned for twenty-five years so far—an achievement in itself. True, Ethelred had failed to inflict a decisive defeat on the marauding Vikings, but they had been raiding England for something like two hundred years, and no other king had done much better against them.

  Aldred reminded himself that Ethelred might not be in company with the approaching troops today. He might have diverted on some errand, arranging to rejoin the army later. Kings were not the servants of their own plans.

  By the time Aldred stepped outside, the first soldiers were visible on the far bank of the river. Most were boisterous young men carrying homemade weapons, mainly spears with a few hammers and axes and bows. There was a sprinkling of graybeards and a few women, too.

  Aldred walked down to the riverside. Dreng was there, looking bad-tempered.

  Blod was already poling the ferry across. A few men swam the river immediately, impatient to get across, but most people could not swim; Aldred himself had never learned. One man led his horse into the water and clung to the saddle while the mount swam across, but most of the horses were heavily laden pack animals. Soon a waiting crowd gathered. Aldred wondered how many men there were in total, and how long it would take for them all to cross the river.

  The time could have been halved if Edgar had been here with his raft, but he had gone to Combe, where he was helping the monks build town defenses. These days Edgar seized on any excuse to travel, so that he could continue his search for Ragna. He never gave up.

  Blod landed on the far side and announced the fare. The soldiers ignored her demand and crowded onto the boat, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. They had little sense of how many the vessel could hold safely, and Aldred saw Blod argue fiercely with several before they reluctantly got off to wait for the next shuttle. When she had fifteen aboard she poled away.

  As they reached the near bank, Dreng shouted: “Where’s the money?”

  “They say they haven’t got any money,” Blod replied.

  The soldiers disembarked, shoving Blod aside.

  Dreng said: “You shouldn’t have let them board if they wouldn’t pay.”

  Blod looked at Dreng with contempt. “You go across and see if you do any better.”

  One of the soldiers was listening to the interchange. He was an older man armed with a good sword, so he was probably some kind of captain. He said to Dreng: “The king doesn’t pay tolls. You’d better ferry the men across. Otherwise we’ll probably burn this entire village.”

  Aldred said: “There will be no need for violence. I’m Aldred, prior of the
monastery.”

  “I’m Cenric, one of the quartermasters.”

  “How many men in your army, Cenric?”

  “About two thousand.”

  “This one slave girl will not be able to ferry them all across. It’s going to take a day or two. Why don’t you operate the boat yourselves?”

  Dreng said: “What business is this of yours, Aldred? It’s not your boat!”

  Aldred said: “Be quiet, Dreng.”

  “Who do you think you are?”

  Cenric said to Dreng: “Shut up, you stupid oaf, or I’ll cut out your tongue and stuff it down your gullet.”

  Dreng opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to realize that Cenric was not making an empty threat, but meant exactly what he said. Dreng changed his mind and quickly closed his mouth.

  Cenric said: “You’re right, prior, it’s the only way. We’ll make a rule: last man aboard poles the boat back then across again. I’ll stand here for an hour and make sure they do it.”

  Dreng looked over his shoulder and saw some of the soldiers entering the tavern. In a frightened voice he said: “Well, they’ll have to pay for their ale.”

  “Then you’d better go and serve them,” said Cenric. “We’ll try to make sure the men don’t expect free drinks.” Sarcastically he added: “As you’ve been so helpful about the ferry.”

  Dreng hurried inside.

  Cenric spoke to Blod. “One more trip, slave girl, then the men will take over from you.”

  Blod stepped into the boat and poled off.

  Centric said to Aldred: “We’ll want to buy any stores you monks have of food and drink.”

  “I’ll see what we can spare.”

  Cenric shook his head. “We’re going to buy them whether you can spare them or not, Father Prior.” His tone was without malice but brooked no opposition. “The army doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  And they would set the prices of everything they bought, Aldred thought, and no haggling.

  He asked the question that had been on his mind all through the conversation. “Is King Ethelred with you?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s near the front of the horde, with the senior noblemen. He’ll be here shortly.”

  “Then I’d better prepare a meal for him at the monastery.”

  Aldred left the riverside and walked up the hill to the home of Bucca Fish, where he bought all the fresh fish on the slab, promising to pay later. Bucca was glad to sell, fearing that otherwise his stocks might be commandeered or stolen.

  Aldred returned to the monastery and gave orders for dinner. He told the monks that any quartermasters who demanded stores should be told that everything was earmarked for the king. They began to lay the table, putting out wine and bread, nuts and dried fruit.

  Aldred opened a locked box and took out a silver cross on a leather thong. He put it around his neck and relocked the box. The cross would indicate to all the visitors that he was the senior monk.

  What was he going to say to the king? After years of wishing that Ethelred would come and set matters right in the semilawless region of Shiring, suddenly Aldred found himself searching for the words he needed. The wrongs committed by Wilwulf, Wynstan, and Wigelm made a long and complicated story, and many of their crimes could not easily be proved. He considered showing the king his copy of Wilwulf’s will; but that told only part of the story, and anyway the king might be offended to be shown a will he had not authorized. Aldred really needed a week to write it all down—and then the king probably would not read it: many noblemen were literate but reading was not usually their favorite occupation.

  He heard cheering. That must be for the king. He left the monastery and hurried down the hill.

  The ferry was approaching. A soldier was poling it, and on board was only one man, standing at the forward end of the boat, and a horse. The man wore a patterned red tunic with gold-colored embroidery and a blue cloak with silk edging. His cloth leggings were secured by narrow leather binding straps, and he had laced boots of soft leather. A long sword in a scabbard hung from a yellow silk sash. This was undoubtedly the king.

  Ethelred was not looking toward the village. His head was turned to the left and he was staring at the scorched ruins of the bridge, the blackened beams still disfiguring the waterfront.

  As Ethelred led his horse off the ferry onto dry land, Aldred saw that he was in a fury.

  Ethelred addressed Aldred, knowing by the cross that he was in authority here. “I expected to cross by a bridge!” he said accusingly.

  That explains why he chose to come this way, Aldred thought.

  “What the devil happened?” the king demanded.

  “The bridge was burned down, my lord king,” said Aldred.

  Ethelred narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “You didn’t say it burned, you said it was burned. By whom?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “But you suspect.”

  Aldred shrugged. “It would be foolish to make accusations that cannot be substantiated—especially to a king.”

  “I would suspect the ferryman. What’s his name?”

  “Dreng.”

  “Of course.”

  “But his cousin, Bishop Wynstan, swore that Dreng was at Shiring on the night the bridge burned.”

  “I see.”

  “Please come with me to our humble monastery and take some refreshment, my lord king.”

  Ethelred left his horse for someone else to deal with and walked up the slope beside Aldred. “How long is it going to take for my army to cross this cursed river?”

  “Two days.”

  “Hell.”

  They went inside. Ethelred looked around in some surprise. “Well, you said ‘humble,’ and you meant it,” he said.

  Aldred poured him a cup of wine. There was no special chair, but the king sat on a bench without complaint. Aldred guessed that even a king could not be too fastidious when on the road with his army. Studying his face surreptitiously, Aldred realized that although Ethelred was not yet forty years old, he looked nearer fifty.

  Aldred still had not figured out how best to broach the large issue of tyranny in Shiring, but the conversation about the bridge had given him a new idea, and he said: “I could build a new bridge, if I had the money.” This was disingenuous, for the old one had cost him nothing.

  “I can’t pay for it,” said Ethelred immediately.

  Aldred said thoughtfully: “But you could help me pay for it.”

  Ethelred sighed, and Aldred realized that he probably heard similar words from half the people he met. “What do you want?” said the king.

  “If the monastery could collect tolls, and hold a weekly market and an annual fair, the monks would get their money back, and also be able to pay for the maintenance of the bridge in the long term.” Aldred was thinking on his feet, improvising. He had not anticipated this conversation but he knew he had an opportunity and he was determined to seize it. This might be the only time in his life that he talked to the king.

  Ethelred said: “What’s stopping you?”

  “You’ve seen what happened to our bridge. We’re monks, we’re vulnerable.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “A royal charter. At present we’re just a cell of Shiring Abbey, formed when the old minster was closed for corruption—they were forging coins here.”

  Ethelred’s face darkened. “I remember. Bishop Wynstan denied all knowledge.”

  Aldred did not want to get into that. “We have no guaranteed rights, and that makes us weak. We need a charter that says the monastery is independent, and is entitled to build a bridge and charge a toll and hold markets and a fair. Then predatory noblemen would hesitate to attack us.”

  “And if I give you this charter you will build me a bridge.”

  “I will,” said Aldred, silently hoping
that Edgar would be as helpful as previously. “And fast,” he added optimistically.

  “Then consider it done,” said the king.

  Aldred would not consider it done until it was done. “I will have the charter drawn up immediately,” he said. “It can be witnessed before you leave here tomorrow.”

  “Good,” said the king. “Now, what have you got for me to eat?”

  * * *

  Wigelm said to Wynstan: “The king is on his way. We don’t know exactly where he is, but he will be here in a matter of days.”

  “Very likely,” said Wynstan anxiously.

  “And then he will confirm me as ealdorman.”

  They were in the ealdorman’s compound. Wigelm was acting ealdorman, though he had never received the king’s blessing. The two brothers were standing in front of the great hall, looking east, at the road that led into the town of Shiring, as if Ethelred’s army might appear there at any moment.

  So far there was no sign, though a single rider was approaching at a trot, his horse’s breath steaming in the cold air.

  Wynstan said: “There’s still a chance he might nominate little Osbert, with Ragna acting as the boy’s regent.”

  Wigelm said: “I’ve mustered four hundred men already and more are coming in every day.”

  “Good. If the king attacks us, the army can defend us, and if he doesn’t they can fight the Vikings.”

  “Either way, I will have proved my ability to raise an army, and therefore to be ealdorman of Shiring.”

  “I bet Ragna could muster armies equally well. But fortunately the king doesn’t know what she’s like. With luck, he’ll think that if he wants his troops he has to have your help.”

  Wynstan himself should have been the one to claim the title of ealdorman. But it was too late for that, too late by about thirty years. Wilwulf had been the elder brother, and their mother had set Wynstan firmly on the second-best route to power, the Church. But no one could see the future, and the unforeseen consequence of his mother’s careful planning had been that the mulish youngest brother, Wigelm, was now playing the role of ealdorman.