The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  “Where would we get the stone?”

  “Outhenham. The lady Ragna will probably give it to us free, as a pious donation, but we’ll have to employ a quarryman.”

  “There’s a lot to be done.”

  “Indeed—so the sooner we begin, the better.”

  “Who’s going to design the church? It’s not like building a house, is it?”

  “I know.” Aldred’s heart beat faster. “We need to get Edgar back.”

  “We don’t even know where he is.”

  “He can be found.”

  “By whom?”

  Aldred was tempted to lead the search himself. However, that was impossible. The priory was thriving, but he was the leader. If he absented himself for the weeks or months that a trip to Normandy would take, all kinds of things could go wrong. “Brother William could go,” he said. “He was born in in Normandy and lived there until he was twelve or thirteen. And I’ll send young Athulf with him, because Athulf is always restless.”

  “Today is not the first time you’ve thought about this.”

  “True.” Aldred did not want to admit how often he had daydreamed of bringing Edgar home. “Let’s go and talk to William and Athulf.”

  As they walked downhill to the monastery, Aldred noticed a man in monk’s robes riding across the bridge. The figure looked familiar, and as he came closer Aldred recognized Wigferth of Canterbury.

  He welcome Wigferth and took him to the kitchen for bread and hot ale. “This is early for you to be collecting your Christmas rents,” he said.

  “They sent me ahead of time to get rid of me,” Wigferth said sourly.

  “Who wanted to get rid of you?”

  “The bishop of Shiring.”

  “Wynstan? What’s he doing in Canterbury?”

  “Trying to be made archbishop.”

  Aldred was horrified. “But it’s supposed to be Alphage of Winchester!”

  “I still hope it will be Alphage. But Wynstan has cleverly ingratiated himself with the monks, and in particular with Sigefryth, the treasurer. A lot of them are now opposed to Alphage. And a discontented body of monks can be a frightful nuisance. King Ethelred may appoint Wynstan just for the sake of a quiet life.”

  “Heaven forbid!”

  “Amen,” said Wigferth.

  * * *

  A fresh fall of snow gave Ragna the chance to teach the children some letters. She gave each boy a stick and said: “What letter starts Osbert’s name?”

  “I know, I know!” said Osbert.

  “Can you draw it?”

  “Easy.” Osbert drew a large, uneven circle in the snow.

  “The rest of you, draw the letter that starts Osbert. See, it’s round, like the shape of your lips when you say the beginning of his name.”

  The twins managed rough circles. Alain had trouble, but he was only two, and Ragna’s main purpose was to teach them that words were made of letters.

  “What letter starts Hubert?” she said.

  “I know, I know!” Osbert said again, and he drew a passable H in the snow. The twins copied it, more or less. Alain’s effort looked like three random sticks, but she praised it anyway.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Ragna saw Wigelm. She cursed under her breath.

  “What’s going on here?” Wigelm said.

  Ragna invented something on the spur of the moment. Pointing at the circles she said: “The English are here, on these hills. And all around them . . .” She indicated the other scrawls. “The Vikings. What happens next, Wigelm?”

  He looked at her with suspicion. “The Vikings attack the English,” he said.

  Ragna said: “And who wins, boys?”

  “The English!” they all shouted.

  If only that were true, Ragna thought.

  Then Alain gave the game away. Pointing at the rough circle Osbert had drawn he said: “That’s Osbert’s name.” He smiled proudly, and looked to his father for praise.

  It was not forthcoming. Wigelm gave Ragna a hard look. “I’ve warned you.”

  Ragna clapped her hands. “Let’s go inside and have breakfast,” she said.

  The boys ran indoors and Wigelm stalked off.

  Ragna followed the boys more slowly. How was she going to educate Alain? Living so close to Wigelm made it hard to deceive him. Twice now he had hinted that he would hand over the raising of Alain to someone else. Ragna cold not bear that. But neither could she bring Alain up to be an ignoramus, especially when his brothers were learning.

  As they were finishing breakfast Prior Aldred came in. He had probably arrived from King’s Bridge yesterday and spent the night at Shiring Abbey. He accepted a cup of warm ale and sat on a bench. “I’m going to build a new church,” he said. “The old one is too small.”

  “Congratulations! The priory must be prospering for you to plan such a project.”

  “I think we’ll be able to afford it, God willing. But it would be a great help if you would continue to let us take stone from Outhenham free of charge.”

  “I’ll be glad to.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But who will be your master builder?”

  Aldred lowered his voice so that the servants could not hear. “I’ve sent messengers to Normandy to beg Edgar to come back.”

  Ragna’s heart leaped. “I hope they can find him.”

  “They’ll sail to Cherbourg and start by speaking to your father. Edgar told me he would ask Count Hubert where he might find work.”

  Hope filled Ragna’s heart. Would Edgar really come home? He might not want to. She shook her head sadly. “He left because I married Wigelm—and I’m still married to Wigelm.”

  Aldred said brightly: “I’m trusting that the prospect of designing and building his own church from scratch will be enough to tempt him.”

  “It might be—he’d love that,” Ragna said with a smile. Then she thought of another possibility. “He might have met a girl there.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “He might even be married by now,” she said dismally.

  “We must wait and see.”

  “I hope he comes,” Ragna whispered.

  “So do I. I’ve kept his house empty for him.”

  Aldred loved him too, Ragna knew—and with even less expectation than she had.

  Aldred’s tone became brisk, as if he had read her thoughts and wanted to change the subject. “There’s something else I need to ask you—another favor.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The archbishop of Canterbury is dying, and Wynstan is making a bid to succeed him.”

  Ragna shuddered. “The idea of Wynstan as the moral leader of the entire south of England is just obscene.”

  “Would you say that to Queen Emma? You know her, she likes you, she would listen to you more than to anyone.”

  “You’re right, she’d listen to me,” Ragna said. And there was something Aldred did not know. Ragna could tell the queen that Wynstan had a disease that would slowly drive him mad. That would certainly be enough to prevent his being made archbishop.

  But Ragna would never do it. She could not pass her information to Emma or anyone else. Wynstan would easily find out what had blocked his appointment, and there would be reprisals. Wigelm would take Alain away from Ragna, knowing that was the most severe punishment he could inflict.

  She looked at Aldred and felt sad. His face showed optimism and determination. He was a good man, but she could not give him what he needed. The evil men always seemed to get their way, she thought: Dreng, Degbert, Wigelm, Wynstan. Perhaps it would always be so, on this earth.

  “No,” she said. “I’m too scared of what Wynstan and Wigelm would do to me in revenge. I’m sorry, Aldred, I can’t help you.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Spring 1006

  he
craftsmen working on the new stone church stopped for a break at midmorning. The master mason’s daughter, Clothild, brought her father a pot of ale and some bread. Giorgio, a builder from Rome, soaked his bread in ale to soften it before eating.

  Edgar was the master’s deputy, and during the break he usually went to the lodge, a lean-to hut, to discuss what orders should be given for the rest of the day. After more than two years of speaking nothing but Norman French, Edgar was now fluent.

  Clothild had got into the habit of bringing ale and bread for Edgar, too. Edgar gave some of the bread to his new dog, Coalie, who was black with a whiskered muzzle.

  The church was being built on a site that sloped down from west to east, which presented a challenge in itself. In order to keep the floor level throughout, a deep crypt with massive squat pillars would provide a platform to hold up the east end.

  Edgar was thrilled by Giorgio’s design. The nave would have two parallel rows of huge semicircular arches supported by mighty pillars, so that people in the side aisles could see the entire width of the church, and a large congregation could watch the Mass. Edgar had never imagined such a bold design, and he was pretty sure no one else in England had either. The French workers were equally startled: this was something brand new.

  Giorgio was a thin, grumpy man in his fifties, but he was the most skilled and imaginative builder Edgar had ever known. He sat drawing in the dirt with a stick, explaining how the voussoirs, the stones in the arches, would be carved with molding in such a way that, when they were set side by side, they would look like a series of concentric rings. “Do you understand?” he said.

  “Yes, of course,” Edgar said. “It’s extremely clever.”

  “Don’t say you understand unless it’s true!” Giorgio said with irritation.

  Giorgio often expected to spend a long time explaining things that Edgar grasped immediately. It reminded Edgar of conversations with his father. “You describe things so clearly,” he said, smoothing Giorgio’s feathers.

  Clothild handed him a platter with bread and cheese, and he ate hungrily. She sat opposite him. As he continued to discuss the shape of voussoirs with Giorgio, she crossed and uncrossed her knees repeatedly, showing him her strong brown legs.

  She was attractive, with an easygoing personality and a trim figure, and she had made it clear that she liked Edgar. She was twenty-one, just five years younger than he. She was lovely, except that she was not Ragna.

  He had long ago realized that he did not love as most men did. He seemed to become almost blind to all women but one. He had remained faithful to Sungifu for years after her death. Now he was being true to a woman who had married another man—two other men, in fact. At times he wished he had been made differently. Why should he not marry this likable girl? She would be kind and affectionate to him, as she was with her father. And Edgar would be able to lie between those strong brown legs every night.

  Giorgio said: “We draw a half circle on the ground the same size as the arch, draw a radius from the center to the circumference, then place a stone on the circumference so that it is square to the radius. But the sides of the stone, where it butts onto the neighboring voussoirs, must be slightly angled.”

  “Yes,” said Edgar. “So we draw two more radii, one on each side, and they give us the correct slant for the edges of the stone.”

  Giorgio stared at him. “How did you know that?” he said tetchily.

  Edgar needed to be careful not to offend Giorgio by knowing too much. Builders jealously guarded what they called the “mysteries” of their craft. “You told me, awhile ago,” Edgar lied. “I remember everything you tell me.”

  Giorgio was mollified.

  Edgar saw two monks walking across the site. They were looking around openmouthed, probably never having seen a church as large as this one would be. Something about them made Edgar think they were English. But the older one spoke Norman French. “Good day to you, master mason,” he said courteously.

  “What do you want?” said Giorgio.

  “We’re looking for an English builder called Edgar.”

  Messengers from home, Edgar thought, and he felt a mixture of excitement and fear. Would it be good news or bad?

  He noticed that Clothild looked dismayed.

  “I’m Edgar,” he said, speaking in the now-unfamiliar language of English.

  The monk slumped with relief. “It has taken us a long time to find you,” he said.

  Edgar said: “Who are you?”

  “We’re from King’s Bridge Priory. I’m William and this is Athulf. May we have private words with you?”

  “Of course.” Neither man had been at the monastery when Edgar left. The place must be expanding, he realized. He led them across the site to the timber stack, where there was less noise. They sat on the piles of planks. “What’s happened?” Edgar said. “Did someone die?”

  “Our news is different,” William said. “Prior Aldred has decided to build a new stone church.”

  “Halfway up the slope? Opposite my house?”

  “Exactly where you planned it.”

  “Has work begun?”

  “When we left, the monks were clearing tree stumps from the site, and we were starting to receive deliveries of stone from Outhenham quarry.”

  “Who will design the church?”

  William paused and said: “You, we hope.”

  So that was it.

  “Aldred wants you to come home,” William went on, verifying Edgar’s deduction. “He has kept your house empty for you. You will be the master builder. He has ordered us to find out how much a master is paid here in Normandy and to offer you the same wages. And anything else you care to demand.”

  There was really only one thing Edgar wanted. He hesitated to bare his heart to these two strangers, but probably everyone in Shiring knew the story. After a moment he just blurted it out. “Is the lady Ragna still married to Ealdorman Wigelm?”

  William looked as though he had expected this question. “Yes.”

  “She still lives with him at Shiring?”

  “Yes.”

  The flicker of hope in Edgar’s heart died away. “Let me think about this. Do you two have somewhere to lodge?”

  “There is a monastery nearby.”

  “I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.”

  “We will pray for your agreement.”

  The monks moved away, and Edgar stayed where he was, thinking, staring at a muscular woman stirring a mountain of mortar with a wooden paddle, hardly seeing her. Did he want to go back to England? He had left because he could not bear to see Ragna married to Wigelm. If he returned, he would meet them often. It would be torture.

  On the other hand, he was being offered the top job. He would be the master. Every detail of the new church would be for him to decide. He could create a magnificent building in the radical new style Giorgio had shown him. It might take ten years, perhaps twenty, possibly more. It would be his life.

  He got up from his perch on the wood pile and went back to his work. Clothild had gone. Giorgio was working on a sample voussoir, and had drawn the circle and radii he had described earlier. Edgar was about to resume his current task, which was to make the wooden support, called formwork, that would hold the stones in place while the mortar hardened, but Giorgio detained him.

  “They asked you to go home,” Giorgio said.

  “How did you know?”

  Giorgio shrugged. “Why else would they come from England?”

  “They want me to build a new church.”

  “Will you go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  To Edgar’s surprise, Giorgio put down his tools. “Let me tell you something,” he said. His tone changed, and suddenly he seemed vulnerable. Edgar had never seen him like this. “I married late,” Giorgio said, as if reminiscing. “I was thirty w
hen I met Clothild’s mother, rest her soul.” He paused, and for a moment Edgar thought he might weep; then Giorgio shook his head and carried on. “Thirty-five when Clothild was born. Now I’m fifty-six. I’m an old man.”

  Fifty-six was not ancient, but this was not a moment to quibble.

  Giorgio said: “I get pains in my stomach.”

  That would account for the bad temper, Edgar thought.

  “I can’t keep food down,” Giorgio said. “I live on sops.”

  Edgar had thought Giorgio soaked his bread because he liked it that way.

  “I probably won’t die tomorrow,” Giorgio went on. “But I may have only a year or so.”

  I should have known, Edgar thought. All the clues were there. I could have guessed. Ragna would have figured it out long ago. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I hope it doesn’t come true.”

  Giorgio dismissed that possibility with a wave of his hand. “As I think about the life to come, I realize that two things on earth are precious to me,” he said. He looked around the site. “One is this church.” His gaze came back to Edgar. “The other is Clothild.”

  Giorgio’s face changed again, and Edgar saw naked emotion. The man was revealing his soul.

  Giorgio said: “I want someone to take care of them both when I’m gone.”

  Edgar stared, thinking: He’s offering me his job and his daughter.

  “Don’t go home,” Giorgio said. “Please.”

  It was a heartfelt appeal, and hard to resist, but Edgar managed to say: “I have to think about this.”

  Giorgio nodded. “Of course.” The moment of intimacy was over. He turned away and resumed his work.

  Edgar thought about it for the rest of the day and most of the night.

  It never rains but it pours, he thought. To be a master builder was the summit of his ambition, and he had been offered two such posts in one day. He could be master mason here or at home. Both would give him profound satisfaction. But the other half of the choice was what kept him awake: Clothild or Ragna?

  It was not a real choice. Ragna might be married to Wigelm for the next twenty years. Even if Wigelm died young, she might again be forced to remarry to a nobleman chosen by the king. As dawn approached, Edgar realized that back in England he might well spend the rest of his life longing for someone he could never have.