The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  He judged that he had prayed long enough to impress the monks with his piety and respect. He got to his feet and suddenly felt dizzy. He put his arm out and managed to lay his hand on a stone pillar to steady himself. He felt angry: he hated to show weakness. All his adult life he had been the strong man, the one others feared. And the last thing he wanted was for the Canterbury monks to think he was in poor health. They would not want a sick archbishop.

  After a minute his head cleared and he was able to turn and walk away with reverent slowness.

  Canterbury Cathedral was the largest building Wynstan had ever seen. Made of stone, it was cross-shaped, with a long nave, side transepts, and a short chancel. The tower over the crossing was topped by a golden angel.

  Shiring Cathedral would have fitted inside it three times.

  Wynstan met his cousin Degbert, archdeacon of Shiring, in Canterbury’s north transept. Together they went out into the cloisters. A cold rain lashed the green of the quadrangle. A group of monks sheltering under the roof fell respectfully silent as they approached. Wynstan pretended first not to notice them then to be startled out of his meditations.

  He spoke in the tones of one devastated by grief. “The soul of my old friend seems reluctant to leave the church he loved.”

  There was a moment of silence, then a lanky young monk said: “Elfric is a friend of yours?”

  “But of course,” said Wynstan. “Forgive me, brother, what’s your name?”

  “I’m Eappa, my lord bishop.”

  “Brother Eappa, I got to know our beloved archbishop when he was the bishop of Ramsbury, which is not far from my cathedral at Shiring. When I was a young man, he took me under his wing, so to speak. I was infinitely grateful for his wisdom and guidance.”

  None of this was true. Wynstan despised Elfric and the feeling was probably mutual. But the monks believed Wynstan. He was often amazed at how easy it was to fool people, especially if you had some kind of status. Men who were so gullible deserved everything that was coming to them.

  Eappa said: “What sort of thing did he say to you?”

  Wynstan made something up on the spur of the moment. “He said that I should listen more and speak less, because you learn while you’re listening but not when you’re speaking.” Enough of that, he thought. “Tell me, who do you think will be the next archbishop?”

  Another monk spoke up. “Alphage of Winchester,” he said.

  The man was familiar. Wynstan looked more closely. He had seen that round face and brown beard before. “We know each other, don’t we, brother?” he said warily.

  Degbert interrupted. “Brother Wigferth visits Shiring regularly. Canterbury owns property in the West Country, and he comes to collect rents.”

  “Yes, of course, Brother Wigferth, it’s good to see you again.” Wynstan remembered that Wigferth was a friend of Prior Aldred’s, and resolved to be cautious. “Why do people assume that Alphage will succeed to the archbishopric?”

  “Elfric is a monk, and so is Alphage,” Wigferth replied. “And Winchester is our senior cathedral after Canterbury and York.”

  “Very logical,” said Wynstan, “although perhaps not decisive.”

  Wigferth persisted. “And Alphage ordered the building of the famous church organ at Winchester. They say you can hear it a mile away!”

  Wigferth was clearly an admirer of Alphage’s, Wynstan thought—or perhaps he was simply against Wynstan, being a friend of Aldred’s.

  Wynstan said: “According to the Rule of Saint Benedict, the monks have the right to elect their abbot, don’t they?”

  “Yes, but Canterbury doesn’t have an abbot,” Wigferth said. “We’re led by the archbishop.”

  “Or, to put it another way, the archbishop is the abbot.” Wynstan knew that the monks’ privileges were not clear. The king claimed the right to appoint the archbishop, and so did the pope. As always, the rules did not matter as much as the men. There would be a struggle, and the strongest and smartest would win.

  Wynstan went on: “In any case, it will take a great man to live up to the example set by Elfric. From all I hear, he has ruled wisely and fairly.” He left the hint of a question at the end of his sentence.

  Eappa took the bait. “Elfric has strict ideas about bedding,” he said, and the others laughed.

  “How so?”

  “He thinks a monk should be denied the luxury of a mattress.”

  “Ah.” Monks often slept on boards, sometimes without any kind of cushion. The bony Eappa must have found that uncomfortable. “I’ve always believed that monks need their sleep, so that they can be fully alert when they perform their devotions,” said Wynstan, and the monks nodded eagerly.

  A monk called Forthred, who had medical knowledge, disagreed. “Men can sleep perfectly well on boards,” he said. “Self-denial is our watchword.”

  Wynstan said: “You’re right, brother, though there is a balance to be struck, is there not? Monks should not eat meat every day, of course, but beef once a week helps to build up their strength. Monks should not indulge themselves by having pets, but sometimes a cat is needed to keep down the mice.”

  The monks murmured their approval.

  Wynstan had done enough for one day to establish himself as a lenient leader. Any more and they might begin to suspect that he was merely currying favor—which was the truth. He turned back into the church.

  “We need to do something about Wigferth,” he murmured to Degbert as soon as they were out of earshot. “He might become the leader of an anti-Wynstan faction.”

  “He has a wife and three children in Trench,” Degbert said. “The peasants there don’t know he’s a monk, they think he’s a regular priest. If we revealed his secret here in Canterbury that would undermine him.”

  Wynstan reflected for a moment then shook his head. “Ideally Wigferth should be absent from Canterbury when the monks make their decision. I’ll have to think about that. Meanwhile, we should talk to the treasurer.”

  Treasurer Sigefryth was the most senior monk under the archbishop, and Wynstan needed to get him on his side.

  “He has the timber house just outside the west end of the church,” Degbert said.

  They walked down the nave and passed through the great west doorway. Wynstan pulled his hood over his head to keep the rain off. They hurried across the muddy ground to the nearest building.

  The treasurer was a small man with a large bald head. He greeted Wynstan warily but without fear. Wynstan said: “There’s no change in the condition of our beloved archbishop.”

  Sigefryth said: “Perhaps we may be blessed with his presence a little longer.”

  “Not much, sadly,” Wynstan said. “I think the monks here are thankful to God that you are here, Sigefryth, to watch over the affairs of Canterbury.”

  Sigefryth acknowledged the compliment with a nod.

  Wynstan smiled and spoke in a light tone. “I always think a treasurer has an impossible job.”

  Sigefryth looked intrigued. “How so?”

  “He is supposed to make sure there is always enough money, but he has no control over the spending of it!”

  Sigefryth at last permitted himself a smile. “That is true.”

  Wynstan went on: “I think an abbot—or prior, or whoever fulfills the role—should consult the treasurer about expenditure, not just about income.”

  “It would prevent a lot of problems,” Sigefryth said.

  That was enough, Wynstan thought again. He needed to ingratiate himself, but in a way that was not too obvious. Now to deal with Wigferth. “This year of all years a treasurer has reason to look anxious.” There had been a poor harvest, and people had starved.

  “Dead men pay no rent.”

  An unsentimental man, Wynstan thought. I like that. He said: “And the bad weather is continuing. There’s flooding all over southern
England. On my way here I kept having to make long diversions.” This was much exaggerated. There had been heavy rain, but it had not delayed him more than a few days.

  Sigefryth tutted sympathetically.

  “And it seems to be getting worse. I hope you’re not planning a journey.”

  “Not for a while. We’ll have rents to collect at Christmas, from those of our tenants who are still alive. I’ll be sending Brother Wigferth to your neighborhood.”

  “If you want Wigferth to get there by Christmas, send him soon,” said Wynstan. “It’s going to take him a long time.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Sigefryth. “Thank you for the warning.”

  So gullible, Wynstan thought with satisfaction.

  Wigferth left the next day.

  * * *

  Ragna’s sons were having a snowball fight. The twins, four years old, were ganging up on Osbert, who was six. Alain, two years old and toddling, was screaming with laughter.

  Ragna’s small household watched with her: Cat, Gilda, Winthryth, and Grimweald, the bodyguard. Grimweald was no use: as one of Wigelm’s men-at-arms, he probably would not protect Ragna from the person most likely to attack her.

  However, this was a happy moment. All four boys were in good health. Osbert was already learning to read and write. This was not the life Ragna had wanted, and she yearned for Edgar still, but she had things to be thankful for.

  When Wigelm became ealdorman he no longer wanted to be bothered with the detailed administration of Combe, so Ragna deputized, and in practice she was reeve of Combe and of Outhen; although Wigelm still visited and held court.

  Wigelm appeared now, accompanied by a young concubine, Meganthryth. They stood beside Ragna, watching the boys play. Ragna did not speak to Wigelm or even look at him. Her loathing of him had only deepened in the two years they had been husband and wife. He was both cruel and stupid.

  Fortunately she did not have to be with him much. Most nights he got drunk and was carried to bed. When sober enough he spent the night with Meganthryth, who nevertheless had borne him no children. Occasionally the old desire overcame him and he visited Ragna. She did not resist him, but closed her eyes and thought about something else until he had finished. Wigelm enjoyed sex against the woman’s will, but he disliked indifference, and Ragna’s apparent apathy helped to discourage him.

  Osbert threw a large snowball wildly and it hit Alain full in the face. The little boy was shocked, and he burst into tears and ran to Ragna. She wiped his cheeks with her sleeve and comforted him.

  Wigelm said: “Don’t be a crybaby, Alain. It’s only snow, it doesn’t hurt.”

  His harsh tone made Alain sob harder.

  Ragna muttered: “He’s only two.”

  Wigelm did not like arguments: he was better at fights. “Don’t mollycoddle the boy,” he said. “I don’t want a namby-pamby son. He’s going to be a warrior, like his father.”

  Ragna prayed every day that Alain would grow up to be as different as possible from his father. But she said no more: discussion with Wigelm was profitless.

  “Don’t you start teaching him to read,” Wigelm added. Wigelm himself could not read. “That’s for priests and women.”

  We’ll see about that, Ragna thought, but she said nothing.

  “You raise him right,” Wigelm said. “Or else.” He walked away, and his concubine trailed after him.

  Ragna felt chilled. What did he mean by or else?

  She saw Hildi the midwife approaching across the snowy compound. Ragna was always pleased to speak to her. She was a wise old woman, and her medical skill extended much beyond childbirth.

  Hildi said: “I know you don’t like Agnes.”

  Ragna stiffened. “I liked her well enough until she turned traitor.”

  “She’s dying, and she wants to beg your forgiveness.”

  Ragna sighed. Such a request was hard to refuse, even when it came from the woman who had ruined Ragna’s life.

  She told Cat to watch the boys, and left with Hildi.

  In the town the pure white of the snow had already been defiled by garbage and muddy footsteps. Cat led the way to a small house behind the bishop’s palace. The place was dirty and smelled bad. Agnes lay in the straw on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. On her cheek, beside her nose, was a hideous red lump with a scabbed crater in its center.

  Her gaze roamed around the room as if she did not know where she was. Her eyes fell on Ragna and she said: “I know you.”

  It was an odd thing to say. Agnes had lived with Ragna for more than a decade, but she spoke as if they were distant acquaintances.

  Hildi said: “She gets confused. It’s part of the illness.”

  “I’ve got a terrible headache,” Agnes said.

  Hildi addressed her. “You asked me to bring the lady Ragna to see you so that you could tell her how sorry you are.”

  Agnes’s face changed. Suddenly she appeared to have all her mental faculties. “I did a wicked thing,” she said. “My lady, can you ever forgive me for betraying you?”

  The plea was irresistible. “I forgive you, Agnes,” Ragna said sincerely.

  Agnes said: “God is punishing me for what I did. Hildi says I’ve got Whore’s Leprosy.”

  Ragna was shocked. She had heard of this disease. It was spread by sexual contact, hence the name. Starting with headaches and dizziness, it caused mental deterioration and eventually drove the sufferer mad. In a quiet tone she said to Hildi: “Is it fatal?”

  “In itself, no, but the sufferer is so weakened and accident prone that death comes soon from other causes.”

  Ragna raised her voice and spoke to Agnes. “Did Offa have it?” she asked incredulously.

  Hildi shook her head. “Agnes didn’t get it from her husband.”

  “Who, then?”

  Agnes said: “I sinned with the bishop.”

  “Wynstan?”

  Hildi said: “Wynstan has the disease. It’s progressing more slowly with him than it did with Agnes, so he doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve seen the signs. He’s tired all the time and he gets dizzy spells. And he has a lump on his throat. He tries to hide it under his cloak, but I’ve seen it, and it’s just like the one on Agnes’s face.”

  Ragna said: “If he finds out, he’ll keep it deadly secret.”

  “Yes,” said Hildi. “If people knew he was going mad he might lose his power.”

  “Exactly,” said Ragna.

  “I will never tell anyone. I’m too frightened.”

  “Me, too,” said Ragna.

  * * *

  Aldred felt a little dazed as he looked at the stacks of silver pennies on the table.

  Brother Godleof was the treasurer of King’s Bridge Priory, and he had brought the money chest from the safe in Cuthbert’s old workshop and placed it on the table. Together they had counted out the silver coins. They could have weighed them faster, but they did not have a scale.

  Until now they had not needed one.

  “I thought we would be short of money this year, after the famine,” Aldred said.

  “The upside of that was it caused the Vikings to go home,” said Godleof. “We earned less than usual, but still plenty. We have the tolls from the bridge, the rents from stallholders in the marketplace, and donations from pilgrims. And don’t forget that we’ve received four grants of substantial lands in the past year, and we’re now collecting rents from them.”

  “Success breeds success. But we must have spent a lot, too.”

  “We have fed starving people from miles around. But we’ve also built a schoolhouse, a scriptorium, a refectory, and a dormitory for all the new monks who have joined us.”

  It was true. Aldred was well on the way to achieving his dream of a center of learning and scholarship.

  Godleof went on: “Most of them are timber buildin
gs, so they didn’t cost much.”

  Aldred stared at the money. He had worked hard to strengthen the priory’s finances, but now he found himself feeling uncomfortable about so much wealth. “I took a vow of poverty,” he said, half to himself.

  “It’s not your money,” said Godleof. “It belongs to the priory.”

  “True. Still, we can’t just sit and gloat over it. Jesus told us not to store up treasure on earth, but in heaven. This was given to us for a purpose.”

  “What purpose?”

  “Perhaps God wants us to build a bigger church. We certainly need it. We have to hold three separate Masses on Sundays now, and the church is packed for each one. Even on weekdays the pilgrims sometimes queue for hours to see the bones of the saint.”

  “Whoa,” said Godleof. “What you see in front of you is not enough to pay for a stone church.”

  “But more money will continue to come in.”

  “I certainly hope so, but we can’t see the future.”

  Aldred smiled. “We must have faith.”

  “Faith isn’t money.”

  “No, it’s much better than money.” Aldred stood up. “Let’s lock all this away, then I’ll show you something.”

  They put the chest back in the safe, left the monastery, and walked up the hill. There were new houses on both sides of the street—all of which were paying rent to the monastery, Aldred recalled. They drew level with Edgar’s house. Aldred should have rented it to a new tenant, but he had sentimentally kept it empty.

  Opposite Edgar’s house was the marketplace. Today was not a market day, but nevertheless a handful of hopeful traders were there, despite the cold weather, offering fresh eggs, sweet cakes, woodland nuts, and homemade ale. Aldred led Godleof across the square.

  On the far side the forest began, but here much of it had been cut down for timber. “This is where the new church will stand. Edgar and I made a town plan, years ago.”

  Godleof stared at the jungle of bushes and tree stumps. “All this will have to be properly cleared.”

  “Of course.”