The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  Once again Aldred hesitated. Few clergymen could be indifferent to the prospect that was being held out to him. But he was struck by a new thought. “My lord,” he said, thinking aloud, “is it impossible that the seat of the diocese could be moved to King’s Bridge?”

  Alphage looked startled. Clearly it was a new thought to him, too. He spoke tentatively. “Certainly I have the power to do that. But you don’t have a big enough church here.”

  “I’m building a new one, much bigger. I’ll show you round the site.”

  “I noticed it as I rode in. But when will the church be ready?”

  “We can start using it long before it’s finished. I’ve already begun work on the crypt. We could be holding services there in five years.”

  “Who’s in charge of the design?”

  “I asked Edgar, but he turned me down. However, I want a Norman master mason. They’re the best.”

  Alphage looked doubtful. “In the interim, would you be willing to travel to Shiring for every major festival—Easter, Whitsun, Christmas—say six times a year?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I could give you a letter promising to make King’s Bridge the bishop’s seat as soon as you’re able to use the new church?”

  “Yes.”

  Alphage smiled. “You drive a hard bargain. Very well.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Aldred felt jubilant. Bishop of King’s Bridge! He was only forty-two.

  Alphage became thoughtful again. “I wonder what I am to do with Wynstan.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Locked up in Wigelm’s old hunting lodge.”

  Aldred frowned. “It looks bad, a bishop imprisoned.”

  “And there’s always the danger that Garulf or Degbert might try to break him out.”

  Aldred’s face cleared. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I know just the place for him.”

  * * *

  At the end of the evening Ragna stood on Edgar’s bridge, listening to the ever-present warble of the river, watching a red sun set downstream, remembering the day she had arrived here for the first time, cold and wet and muddy and miserable, and had looked with dismay at the settlement where she had to spend the night. What a change.

  A heron stood on the bank of Leper Island, as still as a tombstone, gazing with intense concentration into the water. As Ragna watched the bird, a vessel appeared, coming upstream fast. She squinted into the sun, trying to make it out. It was a boat with four oarsmen and a passenger standing forward. King’s Bridge had to be their destination: it was too late to go farther.

  The boat approached the beach in front of the alehouse. There was a black dog aboard, Ragna saw, sitting still in the prow, looking ahead, quiet but alert. Ragna recognized something familiar about the passenger, and her heart seemed to thud in her chest. He almost looked like Edgar. She could not tell: the sun was in her eyes. It might have been wishful thinking.

  She hurried along the bridge. As she descended the ramp to the shore she entered the long shadow of distant trees, and she was able to see the traveler more clearly. He jumped off the boat, followed by his dog, and bent to tie a rope to a post; and then she knew.

  It was him.

  In a flash of understanding so sweet that it hurt she recognized that broad-shouldered shape, the confident way he moved, the easy dexterity of those wide hands, the dip of his large head; and she felt so filled up with joy that she could hardly breathe.

  She moved toward him, resisting the impulse to break into a mad run. Then she stopped, struck by a terrible thought. Her heart was telling her that her lover had returned and all would be well—but her head said otherwise. She remembered the two King’s Bridge monks who had found Edgar in Normandy. The elder, William, had said: “People in the town where he’s living say he will marry the daughter of the master mason and eventually become master himself.” Had he done so? It was possible. And Ragna knew Edgar, knew for certain that he would not forsake a woman once he had married her.

  But if he was married, why had he come back?

  Now her heart pounded with fear, not joy. She resumed walking toward him. She saw that his cloak was made of a fine wool cloth, dyed an autumnal red, obviously costly. He had continued to prosper in Normandy.

  He finished roping the boat and looked up. She was close enough now to see the wonderfully familiar hazel color of his eyes. She watched his face as intently as the heron had watched the water. At first she saw anxiety, and realized that he had wondered, just as she had, whether their love could have survived three years of separation. Then he read her expression, and understood instantly how she felt; and at last he broke into a smile that lit up his whole face.

  In a trice she was in his arms. He hugged her so hard it hurt. She pressed her palms to his cheeks and kissed his mouth passionately, taking in the old familiar smell and taste of him. She held him tightly for a long time, savoring the ecstatic feeling of his body pressed hard against hers.

  At last she relaxed her hold to say: “I love you more than life.”

  He said: “I’m very glad.”

  * * *

  That night they made love five times.

  Edgar had not known it was possible, for him or anyone. They did it once, then a second time; then they dozed for a while and did it again. In the middle of the night Edgar’s mind wandered, and he thought about architecture and King’s Bridge and Wynstan and Wigelm; then he remembered that he was with Ragna at last and she was in his arms, and he wanted to make love again, and so did she, so they did it a fourth time.

  Then they talked in low voices, not to wake the children. Edgar told Ragna about Clothild, the daughter of the master mason. “I was unkind to her, though I never meant to be,” he said sadly. “I should have told her about you right at the start. I was never going to marry her, even if they offered me the job of king. But now and again I was foolish enough to pretend to myself that I might, and I looked at her fondly, and she took that to mean more than it did.” He studied Ragna’s face in the firelight. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that.”

  “We have to tell each other everything,” she said. “What made you come home?”

  “It was your father. He was so angry about Wigelm setting you aside. He raged at me as if I were responsible. I was just glad you were divorced.”

  “Why did it take you so long to get here?”

  “My ship was blown off course and I ended up in Dublin. I was afraid the Vikings would kill me for my cloak, but they took me for a wealthy man and tried to sell me slaves.”

  She hugged him hard. “I’m so glad they let you live.”

  Edgar noticed that it was getting light outside. “Aldred will disapprove of us. By his standards we’re fornicators.”

  “People sleeping in the same room aren’t necessarily having sex.”

  “No, but in our case neither Aldred nor anyone else in King’s Bridge will have the least doubt.”

  She giggled. “Do you think we’re that obvious?”

  “Yes.”

  She became serious again. “My beloved Edgar, will you marry me?”

  He laughed happily. “Yes! Of course. Let’s do it today.”

  “I want Ethelred’s approval. I don’t want to offend the king. I’m really sorry.”

  “Sending a message to him, and getting a reply, could take weeks. Are you saying we have to live apart? I can’t stand it.”

  “No, I don’t think so. If we’re promised to each other, and everyone knows it, no one will expect us to sleep apart, except for Aldred. He will still disapprove, but I don’t think he’ll make a fuss.”

  “Will the king say yes to your request?”

  “I think so, though it would help if you were a minor nobleman.”

  “But I’m a builder.”

  “You’re a wealthy man and a le
ading citizen, and I could grant you some lands with a compound so that you would be a thane. Thurstan of Lordsborough died recently, you could take his place.”

  “Edgar of Lordsborough.”

  “Do you like that idea?”

  “Not as much as I like you,” he said.

  Then they did it for the fifth time.

  CHAPTER 43

  January 1007

  he cathedral site was busy. Most of the men were digging foundations and stacking supplies. The craftsmen, hired by Edgar from England and Normandy and farther away, were building their lodges, makeshift huts in which they could shape timber and stones in all weather. They would start putting up walls on Lady Day, March 25, when there was little further danger of overnight frost freezing the mortar.

  Edgar had built his tracing floor. Parchment was too expensive for designs, but there was a cheap alternative. He had embedded planks in the ground to form a shallow box about twelve feet by six and filled the box with a bed of mortar. Scratches in the mortar showed white. With a straight edge, a sharp iron point, and a pair of compasses he could draw all the columns and arches he needed. The whiteness faded over time, so new drawings could be made over old, though the scratch marks remained for years.

  Edgar had built his own lodge over the tracing floor, just a wide roof on four posts, so that he could continue to work when it rained. He was kneeling there, staring at a window he had drawn, when Ragna appeared and interrupted him. “A messenger has arrived from King Ethelred,” she said.

  Edgar stood up, his heart pounding. “What does the king say to our marriage?”

  Ragna said: “He says yes.”

  * * *

  Aldred stood with Mother Agatha while the lepers were fed their midday meal. Sister Frith gave thanks for the food, then the disabled men and women crowded around the table with their wooden bowls. “No pushing, no shoving!” Frith cried. “There is food for everyone. The last gets the same as the first!” They took no notice.

  Aldred said: “How is he?”

  Agatha shrugged. “Filthy, miserable, and mad—the same as most of them.”

  When Aldred became bishop he had dismissed all of Wynstan’s clergy from Shiring Cathedral, including Archdeacon Degbert, who ended up a penniless village priest in Wigleigh. Aldred replaced Wynstan’s men with monks from King’s Bridge, under the supervision of Brother Godleof. On the way home, Aldred had picked up former bishop Wynstan from his prison at the hunting lodge and brought him back to Leper Island. Now Wynstan stood with the others, waiting for his meal.

  Wynstan was dressed in rags and dirty from his face to his bare feet. He was skinny and his shoulders were slumped. He must have felt cold, but he did not show it. The nun filled his bowl with a thick stew of oats and bacon, and he ate it all quickly, using his unclean fingers.

  When he had finished he raised his eyes, and with a flash of recognition, he looked at Aldred.

  He approached Aldred and Agatha. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said. “There has been a terrible mistake.”

  “No mistake,” Aldred said, not sure how much Wynstan could understand. “You committed dreadful sins—murder, forgery, fornication, kidnapping. You’re here because of your wrongdoing.”

  “But I’m the bishop of Shiring. I’m going to become the archbishop of Canterbury. It’s all planned!” He looked around wildly. “Where am I now? How did I get here? I can’t remember.”

  “I brought you here. And you’re not the bishop any longer. I am.”

  Wynstan began to cry. “It’s not fair,” he sobbed. “It’s not just.”

  “It is, though,” said Aldred. “It’s very just.”

  * * *

  Ragna and Edgar got married at Shiring.

  The party was hosted by Ealdorman Den. At this time of year there was little fresh food, so Den got in huge stocks of salt beef and beans and dozens of barrels of ale and cider.

  Every important man in the west of England showed up, and the whole town crowded into the compound at the top of the hill. Edgar moved through the throng, welcoming guests, accepting congratulations, greeting people he had not seen for years.

  All four of Ragna’s children were there. By the end of the day I’ll have a wife and four stepsons, he thought. It was strange.

  The buzz of talk changed, and he heard sounds of surprise and admiration. He looked toward the source and saw Ragna, and for a moment he could not breathe.

  She wore a dress in a rich dark yellow with flared sleeves finished in embroidered braid, and a sleeveless overdress of dark green wool. Her silk headdress was chestnut brown, her favorite color, the fabric interwoven with threads of gold. Her glorious red-gold hair swept down behind like a waterfall. At that moment Edgar knew she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

  She came to Edgar and took his hands in hers. He looked into Ragna’s sea-green eyes and felt unable to believe that she was his.

  He said: “I, Edgar of King’s Bridge and Lordsborough, take you, Ragna of Cherbourg and Shiring, to be my wife, and I vow to love you and care for you and be true to you for the rest of my days.”

  Ragna replied quietly, with a smile. “I, Ragna, daughter of Count Hubert of Cherbourg, and lord of Shiring, Combe, and the Vale of Outhen, take you, Edgar of King’s Bridge and Lordsborough, to be my husband, and I vow to love you and care for you and be true to you for the rest of my days.”

  Aldred, wearing his bishop’s robes and a large silver pectoral cross, spoke a blessing in Latin on their marriage.

  Next it was normal to kiss. Edgar had thought about this for years and he was not going to rush it. They had kissed before, but now for the first time they would do so as husband and wife, and it would be different, for they had promised to love each other forever.

  He looked at her for a long moment. She sensed what he was feeling—something that happened often—and she waited, smiling. He leaned slowly to her and brushed her lips with his own. There was a ripple of applause from the crowd.

  He put both arms around her and gently pulled her to himself, feeling her breasts against his chest. Still with his eyes open, he pressed his mouth to hers. They both parted their lips and touched tongues hesitantly, exploring as if for the first time, like adolescents. He felt her hips push toward his own. She reached around him with both arms and pulled him harder, and he heard the crowd laugh and shout encouragement.

  Edgar felt swamped with more passion than he could bear. He wanted to touch her with every inch of his body, and he could tell that she felt the same. For a moment he forgot about the audience, and kissed her as if they were alone; but that made the watchers increasingly raucous, and at last he broke the kiss.

  His gaze did not leave hers. He felt moved almost to weeping. Repeating the last words of the vow, he murmured: “For the rest of my days.”

  He saw tears come to her eyes, and she said: “And mine, my love, and mine.”

  Acknowledgments

  The Dark Ages left few traces. Not much was written down, there were few pictures, and nearly all buildings were made of wood that rotted away a thousand years ago or more. This leaves room for guesswork and disagreement, more so than with the preceding period of the Roman Empire or the subsequent Middle Ages. Consequently, while thanking my historical advisers, I must add that I have not always followed their advice.

  That said, I have been greatly helped by John Blair, Dave Greenhalgh, Nicholas Higham, Karen Jolly, Kevin Leahy, Michael Lewis, Henrietta Leyser, Guy Points, and Levi Roach.

  As usual my researches were assisted by Dan Starer of Research for Writers in New York City.

  On my research trips I was grateful for the kind help of: Raymond Armbrister at Saint Mary’s Church, Seaham; Véronique Duboc at Rouen Cathedral; Fanny Garbe and Antoine Verney at the Bayeux Museum; Diane James at Holy Trinity Minster Church, Great Paxton; Ellen Marie Naess at the Viking Ship Museum; and O
urdia Siab, Michel Jeanne, and Jean-François Campario at Fécamp Abbey.

  I particularly enjoyed meeting Jenny Ashby and the English Companions.

  My editors were Brian Tart, Cherise Fisher, Jeremy Trevathan, Susan Opie, and Phyllis Grann.

  Family and friends who commented on drafts of the book included John Clare, Barbara Follett, Marie-Claire Follett, Chris Manners, Charlotte Quelch, Jann Turner, and Kim Turner.

  About the Author

  Ken Follett is one of the world's best-loved authors, selling more than 170 million copies of his thirty-two books. Follett's first bestseller was Eye of the Needle, a spy story set in the Second World War. In 1989, The Pillars of the Earth was published and has since become Follett's most popular novel. It reached number one on bestseller lists around the world and was an Oprah's Book Club pick. Its sequels, World Without End and A Column of Fire, proved equally popular, and the Kingsbridge series has sold more than forty million copies worldwide. Follett lives in Hertfordshire, England, with his wife, Barbara. Between them they have five children, six grandchildren, and two Labradors.

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