The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  He had spent too many years living like that, he thought. If he stayed in Normandy and married Clothild he would not be happy, but he might be tranquil.

  In the morning he told the monks he was staying.

  * * *

  Wigelm came to Ragna’s bed on a warm spring night when the trees were in bud. The opening of the door awakened her and her servants. She heard the maids shift in the rushes on the floor, and Grimweald, her bodyguard, grunted, but the children remained asleep.

  With no forewarning she did not have the chance to oil herself. Wigelm lay beside her and pushed her shift up around her waist. She hastily spat on her hand and moistened her vagina, then opened her legs obediently.

  She was resigned to this. It happened only a few times a year. She just hoped she would not become pregnant again. She loved Alain, but she did not want another child by Wigelm.

  But this time it was different. Wigelm shoved in and out but seemed unable to reach satisfaction. She did nothing to help him. She knew from female conversations that when there was no love, other women often pretended to be aroused, just to get it over faster; but she could not bring herself to play that role.

  Soon his erection softened. After a few more hopeless thrusts he withdrew. “You’re a cold bitch,” he said, and punched her face. She sobbed, expecting a beating and knowing that her bodyguard would do nothing to protect her; but Wigelm stood up and went out.

  In the morning the left side of her face was swollen and her upper lip felt huge. She told herself it could have been worse.

  Wigelm came into the house when the children were having their breakfast. She noticed that his big nose was now marked with wine-colored lines like a red spiderweb from drinking so much, an ugly feature she had not seen last night in the firelight.

  He looked at her and said: “I should have punched the other side to match.”

  A sarcastic remark came to her mind but she suppressed it. She sensed that he was in a dangerous mood. She felt a cold dread: perhaps her punishment was not over. She spoke in a neutral tone through her damaged mouth. “What do you want, Wigelm?”

  “I don’t like the way you’re raising Alain.”

  This was an old song, but she heard a new level of malice in his tone. She said: “He’s only two and a half years old—still a baby. There’s plenty of time for him to learn to fight.”

  Wigelm shook his head determinedly. “You want to give him womanish ways—reading and writing and such.”

  “King Ethelred can read.”

  Wigelm refused to be drawn into an argument. “I’m going to take charge of the boy’s upbringing.”

  What could that mean? Ragna said desperately: “I’ll get him a wooden sword.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  Much of what Wigelm said could normally be ignored. He uttered abuse and curses that meant little, and forgot what he had said within minutes. But now Ragna had a feeling that he was not just making empty threats. In a scared voice she said: “What do you mean?”

  “I’m taking Alain to live at my house.”

  The idea was so ludicrous that at first Ragna hardly took it seriously. “You can’t!” she said. “You can’t look after a two-year-old.”

  “He’s my son. I shall do as I please.”

  “Will you wipe his butt?”

  “I’m not alone.”

  Ragna said incredulously: “Are you talking about Meganthryth? You’re going to give him to Meganthryth to raise? She’s sixteen!”

  “Many girls of sixteen are mothers.”

  “But she’s not!”

  “No, but she will do as I say, whereas you completely ignore my wishes. Alain hardly knows he’s got a father. But I will have him raised according to my principles. He must become a man.”

  “No!”

  Wigelm moved toward Alain, who was sitting at the table, looking scared. Cat stepped between the two. Wigelm grabbed the front of her dress with both hands, lifted her off her feet, and threw her at the wall. She screamed, hit the timber planks, and crumpled to the floor.

  All the children were crying.

  Wigelm picked Alain up. The boy screamed in terror. Wigelm tucked him under his left arm. Ragna grabbed Wigelm’s arm and tried to detach Alain. Wigelm punched the side of her head so hard that momentarily she blacked out.

  She came to, lying on the floor. She looked up to see Wigelm going out, with Alain kicking and screaming under his arm.

  She struggled to her feet and staggered to the door. Wigelm was marching across the compound to his own house. Ragna was too dazed to run after him, and anyway she knew she would only be knocked down again.

  She turned back inside. Cat was sitting on the floor rubbing her head through her mop of black hair. Ragna said: “How badly are you injured?”

  “I don’t think anything’s broken,” Cat said. “What about you?”

  “My head hurts.”

  Grimweald spoke. “What can I do to help?”

  Ragna’s answer was sarcastic. “Just carry on protecting us, as usual,” she said.

  The bodyguard stamped out.

  The children were still wailing. The women began to comfort them. Cat said: “I can’t believe he’s taken Alain.”

  “He wants Meganthryth to raise the boy to be a stupid bully like his father.”

  “You can’t let him get away with this.”

  Ragna nodded. She could not let things stand. “I’m going to talk to him,” she said. “Perhaps I can get him to see sense.” She was not optimistic, but she had to try.

  She left the house and crossed to Wigelm’s place. As she approached, she could hear Alain crying. She went in without knocking.

  Wigelm and Meganthryth stood talking, Meganthryth holding Alain and trying to quiet him. As soon as the child saw Ragna he screamed: “Mudder!” That was what he had always called Ragna.

  Instinctively, Ragna went toward him, but Wigelm stopped her. “Leave him,” he said.

  Ragna stared at Meganthryth. She was short and plump, and would have been pretty but for a twist about her mouth that suggested greed. Still, she was a woman: would she really refuse to let a child go to his mother?

  Ragna stretched out her arms toward Alain.

  Meganthryth turned her back.

  Ragna was horrified that any woman could do such a thing, and her heart filled with loathing.

  With an effort, she turned from Alain and spoke to Wigelm, doing her best to use a calm, reasonable voice. “We need to discuss this,” she said.

  “No. I don’t discuss. I tell you what’s going to happen.”

  “Will you make a prisoner of Alain, and keep him locked in this house? That will turn him into a weakling, not a warrior.”

  “Of course I won’t.”

  “Then he will play in the compound with his brothers, and he will go with them when they come home, and every day you will have to do what you’ve just done. And when you’re not here, which is often, who is going to drag the little boy away from his family while he kicks and screams for his mother?”

  Wigelm looked baffled. Clearly he had thought of none of this. Then his face cleared and he said: “When I travel I’ll take him with me.”

  “And who will look after him on the road?”

  “Meganthryth.”

  Ragna glanced at her. She looked appalled. Clearly she had not been consulted. But she clamped her mouth shut.

  Wigelm went on: “I leave for Combe tomorrow. He can come with me. He’ll get to know about the life of an ealdorman.”

  “You’re going to take a two-year-old on a four-day journey.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “And when you come back?”

  “We’ll see. But he’s not going to live with you, not ever again.”

  Ragna could no longer control herse
lf, and she began to cry. “Please, Wigelm, I beg you, don’t do this. Forget about me, but take pity on your son.”

  “I pity him being raised by a gaggle of women and turned effeminate. If I allowed that to happen he would grow up to curse his father. No, he stays here.”

  “No, please—”

  “I’m not listening to any more of this. Get out.”

  “Just think, Wigelm—”

  “Do I have to pick you up and throw you through the door?”

  Ragna could not take any more beating. She hung her head. “No,” she sobbed. Slowly she turned and walked to the door. She looked back at Alain, still screaming hysterically and holding his arms out to her. With a huge effort she turned away and walked out.

  * * *

  The loss of her youngest child left a hole in Ragna’s heart. She thought about him constantly. Did Meganthryth keep him clean and fed? Was he well, or suffering from a childish ailment? Did he wake at night and cry for her? She had to force herself to put him out of her mind for at least part of the day, otherwise she would go mad.

  She had not given him up—she never would. So when the king and queen came to Winchester, Ragna went there to plead with them.

  By this time Ragna had not seen Alain for a month. Wigelm’s visit to Combe turned into a spring tour of his region, and he kept the child with him. Apparently he intended on staying away from Shiring for an extended period.

  Wynstan was still at Canterbury, for the tussle over who was to be the new archbishop was dragging out; so both brothers managed to miss the royal court, which encouraged Ragna.

  However, she preferred not to plead her cause in open court. She was distraught, but she could still strategize. Open court was unpredictable. The noblemen of the region might side with Wigelm. Ragna preferred to talk quietly to individuals.

  After the grand service in the cathedral on Easter Sunday, Bishop Alphage gave a dinner at his palace for the magnates gathered in Winchester. Ragna was invited, and saw her chance. Full of hope, she rehearsed again and again what she would say to the king.

  Easter was the most important festival of the Church year, and this was a royal occasion, too, so it was a great social event. People wore their finest clothes and most costly jewelry, and Ragna did the same.

  The bishop’s house was richly furnished with carved oak benches and colorful tapestries. Someone had put fragrant apple tree twigs on the fire to perfume the smoke. The table was set with silver-rimmed cups and bronze dishes.

  Ragna was greeted warmly by the royal couple, which gave her encouragement. She immediately told them that Wigelm had taken Alain from her. Queen Emma was a mother—she had given birth to a son and a daughter in the first four years of her marriage to Ethelred—so she would undoubtedly sympathize.

  But Ethelred interrupted Ragna before she had finished the first sentence of her prepared speech. “I know about this,” he said. “On our way here we happened to meet Wigelm and the child.”

  That was news to Ragna—bad news.

  Ethelred went on: “I discussed this problem with him.”

  Ragna despaired. She had been hoping her story would shock the king and queen and excite their compassion. But unfortunately Wigelm had got there first. Ethelred had already heard his version, which would have been distorted.

  Ragna would just have to combat that. As an experienced ruler, Ethelred must know not to believe everything he heard.

  She spoke emphatically. “My lord king, it can’t be right for a two-year-old to be torn from his mother.”

  “I think it’s very harsh, and I told Wigelm so.”

  Queen Emma said: “Quite right. The boy is the same age as our Edward, and if he were taken from me it would break my heart.”

  “I don’t disagree, my love,” said Ethelred. “But it’s not for me to tell my subjects how to order their families. The king’s responsibilities are defense, justice, and a sound currency. The raising of children is a private matter.”

  Ragna opened her mouth to argue. The king was a moral leader, too, and he had the right to reprove misbehaving magnates. But then she saw Emma give a quick shake of her head. Ragna closed her mouth. A moment’s reflection told her that Emma was right. When a ruler had spoken so decisively he would not be talked around. For her to persist would only alienate Ethelred. It was hard, but she controlled her disappointment and rage. She bowed her head and said: “Yes, my lord king.”

  How long would she be separated from Alain? Surely not forever?

  Someone else caught the attention of the royal couple, and Ragna turned aside. She tried not to cry. Her position seemed hopeless. If the king would not help her get her son back, who would?

  Wigelm and Wynstan had all the power, that was the curse. They could get away with just about anything. Wynstan was clever, Wigelm was thuggish, and both of them were willing to defy the king and the law. If she could have done something to weaken them, she would have. But it seemed nothing could stop them.

  Aldred approached her. She said: “Are your messengers back from Normandy yet?”

  “No,” he said.

  “They’ve been away months.”

  “They must be having trouble finding him. Builders often move around. They have to go where the work is.”

  He looked worried and distracted, she now saw. She said: “How are you?”

  “I understand that kings avoid conflict whenever they can,” he said angrily. “But sometimes a king should rule!”

  Ragna had exactly the same complaint, but such things should be said privately. She looked around uneasily. However, no one seemed to have heard. “What’s brought that on?”

  “Wynstan has stirred up everyone at Canterbury so that there’s now an anti-Alphage faction, and Ethelred is hesitating because he doesn’t want trouble with the monks.”

  “You want the king to put his foot down, announce that Wynstan is unfit to be archbishop, and impose Alphage regardless of the monks’ opinion.”

  “It strikes me that a king should take a moral stand!”

  “Those monks, living so far away from Shiring, simply don’t know what we all know about Wynstan.”

  “True.”

  Ragna suddenly recalled something that could damage Wynstan. She had almost forgotten it in her anguish about Alain. “What if . . .”

  She hesitated. She had decided to keep this secret, for fear of reprisals. But Wigelm had already done his worst. He had carried out the threat he had hinted at for so long. He had taken away Ragna’s child. And his cruelty had a consequence that undoubtedly he had not foreseen: he no longer had a hold over her.

  As she drank in this realization she felt liberated. From now on, she would do anything in her power to undermine Wigelm and Wynstan. It would still be dangerous, but she was prepared for risk. It was worth it to undermine the brothers.

  She said: “What if you could prove to the monks that Wynstan is unfit?”

  Aldred looked suddenly alert. “What do you mean?”

  Ragna hesitated again. She was eager to weaken Wynstan but at the same time afraid of him. She took her courage in both hands. “Wynstan has Whore’s Leprosy.”

  Aldred’s mouth fell open. “God save us! Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Hildi has seen a growth on his neck that is characteristic of the disease. And Agnes, his mistress, had the same kind of growth, and died.”

  “But this changes everything!” Aldred said eagerly. “Does the king know?”

  “No one knows except Hildi and me—and now you.”

  “Then you must tell him!”

  Fear made Ragna pause. “I’d rather Wynstan did not know that I had spread the news.”

  “Then I’ll tell the king, without mentioning your name.”

  “Hold on.” Aldred was in a rush, but R
agna was figuring out the best approach. “You have to be careful with a king. Ethelred knows you favor Alphage, and he might view your intervention as opposition to his will.”

  Aldred looked frustrated. “We have to use this information!”

  “Of course,” Ragna said. “But there might be a better way.”

  * * *

  Bishop Wynstan and Archdeacon Degbert often attended meetings in the chapter house, where the monks discussed the daily business of the monastery and the cathedral. It was not usual for visitors to take part, but Brother Eappa had suggested it, and Treasurer Sigefryth had become an ally of Wynstan’s. They went along to the first meeting after Easter.

  After the chapter had been read, Sigefryth, who chaired the meetings, said: “We have to decide what to do about the riverside pasture. Local people are using it for grazing, even though it belongs to us.”

  Wynstan had no interest in such a topic, but he put on an earnest expression. He had to pretend that anything affecting the monks was of concern to him.

  Brother Forthred, the medical monk, said: “We don’t use that field. You can’t blame them.”

  “True,” said Sigefryth, “but if we allow it to be treated as communal property, we may have trouble in the future when we need it for ourselves.”

  Brother Wigferth, who had just returned from Winchester, spoke up. “My brethren, forgive me for interrupting, but there is something much more important that I believe we should talk about right away.”

  Sigefryth could hardly refuse such a strong plea from Wigferth. “Very well,” he said.

  Wynstan perked up. He had agonized over whether to go to Winchester for Easter. He hated to miss a royal court so close to home. But in the end he had decided it was more important to keep his finger on the pulse here in Canterbury. Now he was eager to learn what had gone on.

  “I attended the Easter court,” Wigferth said. “Many people spoke to me about the question of who is to be the next archbishop of Canterbury.”