The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  They walked down the hill. “What did you do in Combe?” Degbert asked. “You can’t have been farmers there.”

  “My husband was a boatbuilder,” Ma said. “The Vikings killed him.”

  Degbert crossed himself perfunctorily. “Well, we don’t need boats here. My brother, Dreng, has the ferry and there’s no room for two.”

  Edgar said: “Dreng needs a new vessel. That canoe is cracking. One day soon it will sink.”

  “Maybe.”

  Ma said: “We’re farmers now.”

  “Well, your land begins here.” Degbert stopped on the far side of the tavern. “From the water’s edge to the tree line is yours.”

  The farm was a strip about two hundred yards wide beside the river. Edgar studied the ground. Bishop Wynstan had not told them how narrow it was, so Edgar had not imagined that such a large proportion of the land would be waterlogged. As the ground rose away from the river it improved, becoming a sandy loam, with green shoots growing.

  Degbert said: “It goes west for about seven hundred yards, then there’s forest again.”

  Ma set off to walk between the marsh and the rising ground, and the others followed.

  Degbert said: “As you see, there’s a nice crop of oats coming up.”

  Edgar did not know oats from any other grain, and he had thought the shoots were plain grass.

  Ma said: “There’s as much weeds as there is oats.”

  They walked for less than half a mile and came to a pair of buildings at the crest of a rise. Beyond the buildings, the cleared land came to an end and the woods went down to the bank of the river.

  Degbert said: “There’s a useful little orchard.”

  It was not really an orchard. There were a few small apple trees and a cluster of medlar shrubs. The medlar was a winter-ripening fruit that was hardly palatable to humans, and was sometimes fed to pigs. The flesh was tart and hard, though it could be softened either by frost or by overripening.

  “The rent is four fat piglets, payable at Michaelmas,” Degbert said.

  That was it, Edgar realized; they had seen the whole farm.

  “It’s thirty acres, all right,” said Ma, “but they’re very poor acres.”

  “That’s why the rent is low.”

  Ma was negotiating, Edgar knew. He had seen her do this many times with customers and suppliers. She was good at it, but this was a challenge. What did she have to offer? Degbert would prefer the farm to be tenanted, of course, and he might want to please his cousin the bishop; but on the other hand he was clearly not much in need of the small rent, and he could easily tell Wynstan that Ma had refused to take on such an unpromising prospect. Ma was bargaining from a weak position.

  They inspected the house. Edgar noted that it had earth-set timber posts with wattle-and-daub walls between the posts. The reeds on the floor were moldy and smelled bad. Cwenburg had been right; there were holes in the thatched roof, but they could be patched.

  Ma said: “The place is a dump.”

  “A few simple repairs.”

  “It looks like a lot of work to me. We’ll have to take timber from the forest.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Degbert impatiently.

  Despite the peevish tone Degbert had made an important concession. They could fell trees, and there was no mention of payment. Free timber was worth a lot.

  The smaller building was in worse condition than the house. Ma said: “The barn is practically falling down.”

  Degbert said: “At the moment you have no need of a barn. You have nothing to store there.”

  “You’re right, we’re broke,” Ma said. “So we won’t be able to pay the rent come Michaelmas.”

  Degbert looked foolish. He could hardly argue. “You can owe me,” he said. “Five piglets at Michaelmas next year.”

  “How can I buy a sow? These oats will be barely enough to feed my sons this winter. I won’t have anything left over to trade.”

  “Are you refusing to take the farm?”

  “No, I’m saying that if the farm is to be viable you have to give me more help. I need a rent holiday, and I need a sow. And I need a sack of flour on credit—we have no food.”

  It was a bold set of demands. Landlords expected to be paid, not to pay out. But sometimes they had to help tenants get started, and Degbert had to know that.

  Degbert looked frustrated, but he gave in. “All right,” he said. “I’ll lend you flour. No rent this year. I’ll get you a female piglet, but you’ll have to owe me one from your first litter, and that’s on top of the rent.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to accept that,” said Ma. She spoke with apparent reluctance, but Edgar was pretty sure she had made a good bargain.

  “And I’ll have to get back to my dinner,” Degbert said grumpily, sensing that he had been defeated. He left, heading back to the hamlet.

  Ma called after him: “When do we get the piglet?”

  He answered without looking back. “Soon.”

  Edgar surveyed his new home. It was dismal, but he felt surprisingly good. They had a challenge to meet, and that was a lot better than the despair he had felt earlier.

  Ma said: “Erman, go into the forest and gather firewood. Eadbald, go to that alehouse and beg a burning stick from their fireplace—use your charm on that ferry girl. Edgar, see if you can make temporary patches for the holes in the roof—we’ve no time now to repair the thatch properly. Snap to it, boys. And tomorrow we’ll start weeding the field.”

  * * *

  Degbert did not bring a piglet to the farmhouse in the next few days.

  Ma did not mention it. She weeded the oats with Erman and Eadbald, the three of them bending double in the long, narrow field, while Edgar repaired the house and barn with timber from the forest, using the Viking ax and a few rusty tools left behind by the previous tenant.

  But Edgar worried. Degbert was no more trustworthy than his cousin Bishop Wynstan. Edgar feared that Degbert would see them settling in, decide that they were now committed, and go back on his word. Then the family would struggle to pay the rent—and once they defaulted it would be desperately difficult to catch up, as Edgar knew from observing the fate of improvident neighbors in Combe.

  “Don’t fret,” Ma said when Edgar voiced his concern. “Degbert can’t escape me. The worst of priests has to go to church sooner or later.”

  Edgar hoped she was right.

  When they heard the church bell on Sunday morning they walked the length of their farm to the hamlet. Edgar guessed they were the last to arrive, having the farthest to come.

  The church was nothing more than a square tower attached to a one-story building to the east. Edgar could see that the entire structure was leaning downhill: one day it would fall over.

  To enter they had to step sideways through an entrance that was partly blocked by the tree trunk supporting the round arch. Edgar could see why the arch was collapsing. The mortared joints between the stones of a round arch formed lines that should all point to the center of one imaginary circle, like the spokes of a well-made cart wheel, but in this arch they were random. That made the structure weaker, and it looked ugly, too.

  The nave was the ground floor of the tower. Its high ceiling made the place seem even more cramped. A dozen or so adults and a few small children stood waiting for the service to begin. Edgar nodded to Cwenburg and Edith, the only two he had met before.

  One of the stones making up the wall was carved with an inscription. Edgar could not read, but he guessed that someone was buried here, perhaps a nobleman who had built the church to be his last resting place.

  A narrow archway in the east wall led into the chancel. Edgar peered through the gap to see an altar bearing a wooden cross with a wall painting of Jesus behind it. Degbert was there with several more clergymen.

  The members of the congregation were mor
e interested in the newcomers than in the clergy. The children stared openly at Edgar and his family, while their parents sneaked furtive glances then turned away to talk in low voices about what they had observed.

  Degbert went through the service rapidly. It seemed hasty to the point of irreverence, Edgar thought, and he was not a particularly devout person. Perhaps it did not matter, for the congregation did not understand the Latin words anyway; but Edgar had been used to a more measured pace in Combe. In any event it was not his problem, so long as his sins were forgiven.

  Edgar was not much troubled by religious feelings. When people discussed how the dead spent their time in heaven, or whether the devil had a tail, Edgar became impatient, believing that no one would ever know the truth of such things in this life. He liked questions that had definite answers, such as how high the mast of a ship should be.

  Cwenburg stood near him and smiled. Evidently she had decided to be nice. “You should come to my house one evening,” she said.

  “I’ve no money for ale.”

  “You can still visit your neighbors.”

  “Maybe.” Edgar did not want to be unfriendly, but he had no desire to spend an evening in Cwenburg’s company.

  At the end of the service Ma determinedly followed the clergy out of the building. Edgar went with her, and Cwenburg followed. Ma accosted Degbert before he could get away. “I need that piglet you promised me,” she said.

  Edgar was proud of his mother. She was determined and fearless. And she had picked her moment perfectly. Degbert would not want to be accused of reneging on a promise in front of the entire village.

  “Speak to Fat Bebbe,” he said curtly and walked on.

  Edgar turned to Cwenburg. “Who’s Bebbe?”

  Cwenburg pointed to a fat woman squeezing herself around the tree trunk. “She supplies the minster with eggs and meat and other produce from her smallholding.”

  Edgar identified the woman to Ma, who approached her. “The dean told me to speak to you about a piglet,” she said.

  Bebbe was red-faced and friendly. “Oh, yes,” she said. “You’re to be given a weaned female piglet. Come with me and you can take your pick.”

  Ma went with Bebbe, and the three boys followed.

  “How are you getting on?” Bebbe asked kindly. “I hope that farmhouse isn’t too ruinous.”

  “It’s bad, but we’re repairing it,” Ma said.

  The two women were about the same age, Edgar thought. It looked as if they might get along. He hoped so: Ma needed a friend.

  Bebbe had a small house on a large lot. At the back of the building was a duck pond, a henhouse, and a tethered cow with a new calf. Attached to the house was a fenced enclosure where a big sow had a litter of eight. Bebbe was well off, though probably dependent on the minster.

  Ma studied the piglets intently for several minutes then pointed to a small, energetic one. “Good choice,” said Bebbe, and picked up the little animal with a swift, practiced movement. It squealed with fright. She drew a handful of leather thongs from the pouch at her belt and tied its feet together. “Who’s going to carry it?”

  “I will,” said Edgar.

  “Put your arm under its belly, and take care it doesn’t bite you.”

  Edgar did as instructed. The piglet was filthy, of course.

  Ma thanked Bebbe.

  “I’ll need those thongs back as soon as convenient,” Bebbe said. All kinds of string were valuable, whether hide, sinew, or thread.

  “Of course,” said Ma.

  They moved away. The piglet squealed and wriggled frantically as it was taken away from its mother. Edgar closed its jaws with his hand to stop the noise. As if in retaliation, the piglet did a stinking liquid shit all down the front of his tunic.

  They stopped at the tavern and begged Cwenburg to give them some scraps to feed the piglet. She brought an armful of cheese rinds, fish tails, apple cores, and other leftovers. “You stink,” she said to Edgar.

  He knew that. “I’ll have to jump in the river,” he said.

  They walked back to the farmhouse. Edgar put the piglet in the barn. He had already repaired the hole in the wall, so the little animal could not escape. He would put Brindle in the barn at night to guard it.

  Ma heated water on the fire and threw in the scraps to make a mash. Edgar was glad they had a pig, but it was another hungry mouth. They could not eat it: they had to feed it until it was mature then breed from it. For a while it would be just another drain on their scarce resources.

  “She’ll soon feed herself from the forest floor, especially when the acorns begin to fall,” Ma said. “But we have to train her to come home at night, otherwise she’ll be stolen by outlaws or eaten by wolves.”

  Edgar said: “How did you train your pigs when you were growing up on the farm?”

  “I don’t know—they always came to my mother’s call. I suppose they knew she might give them something to eat. They wouldn’t come to us children.”

  “Our piglet could learn to respond to your voice, but then she might not come to anyone else. We need a bell.”

  Ma gave a skeptical snort. Bells were costly. “I need a golden brooch and a white pony,” she said. “But I’m not going to get them.”

  “You never know what you might get,” said Edgar.

  He went to the barn. He had remembered something he had seen there: an old sickle, its handle rotted and its curved blade rusted and broken in two. He had thrown it into a corner with other odds and ends. Now he retrieved the broken-off end of the blade, a foot-long crescent of iron that was of no apparent use for anything.

  He found a smooth stone, sat down in the morning sunshine, and started to rub the rust off the blade. It was a strenuous and tedious task, but he was used to hard work, and he kept going until the metal was clean enough for the sun to glint off it. He did not sharpen the edge: he was not going to cut anything with it.

  Using a pliant twig as a rope, he suspended the blade from a branch, then struck it with the stone. It rang out, not with a bell-like tone but with an unmusical clang that was nevertheless quite loud.

  He showed it to Ma. “If you bang that before you feed the piglet every day, she will learn to come at the sound,” he said.

  “Very good,” Ma said. “How long will it take you to make the golden brooch?” Her tone was bantering, but there was a touch of pride in it. She thought Edgar had inherited her brains, and she was probably right.

  The midday meal was ready, but it was only flat bread with wild onions, and Edgar wanted to wash before he ate. He walked along the river until he came to a little mud beach. He took off his tunic and washed it in the shallows, rubbing and squeezing the woolen cloth to get rid of the stink. Then he spread it on a rock to dry in the sun.

  He immersed himself in the water, ducking his head to wash his hair. People said that bathing was bad for your health, and Edgar never bathed in winter, but those who never bathed at all stank all their lives. Ma and Pa had taught their sons to keep themselves fresh by bathing at least once a year.

  Edgar had been brought up by the sea, and he had been able to swim for as long as he could walk. Now he decided to cross the river, just for the fun of it.

  The current was moderate and the swim was easy. He enjoyed the sensation of the cool water on his bare skin. When he reached the far side he turned and came back. Near the shore he found his footing and stood up. The surface was at the level of his knees, and the water dripped from his body. The sun would soon dry him.

  At that moment he realized he was not alone.

  Cwenburg was sitting on the bank, watching him. “You look nice,” she said.

  Edgar felt foolish. Embarrassed, he said: “Would you please go away?”

  “Why should I? Anyone can walk along the bank of a river.”

  “Please.”

  She stood up a
nd turned around.

  “Thank you,” Edgar said.

  But he had misunderstood her intention. Instead of walking away, she pulled her dress over her head with a swift movement. Her naked skin was pale.

  Edgar said: “No, no!”

  She turned around.

  Edgar stared in horror. There was nothing wrong with her appearance—in fact some part of his mind noted that she had a nice round figure—but she was the wrong woman. His heart was full of Sunni, and no one else’s body could move him.

  Cwenburg stepped into the river.

  “Your hair’s a different color down there,” she said, with a smile of uninvited intimacy. “Sort of gingery.”

  “Keep away from me,” he said.

  “Your thing is all shriveled up with the cold water—shall I warm it up?” She reached for him.

  Edgar pushed her away. Because he was tense and embarrassed, he shoved her harder than he needed to. She lost her balance and fell over in the water. While she was recovering, he went past her and onto the beach.

  Behind him, she said: “What’s the matter with you? Are you a girlie-boy who likes men?”

  He picked up his tunic. It was still damp, but he put it on anyway. Feeling less vulnerable, he turned to her. “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “I’m a girlie-boy.”

  She was glaring angrily at him. “No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re making that up.”

  “Yes, I’m making it up.” Edgar’s self-control began to slip. “The truth is that I don’t like you. Now will you leave me alone?”

  She came out of the water. “You pig,” she said. “I hope you starve to death on this barren farm.” She pulled her dress on over her head. “Then I hope you go to hell,” she said, and she walked off.

  Edgar was relieved to be rid of her. Then, a moment later, he felt sorry that he had been unkind. It was partly her fault for being insistent, but he could have been gentler. He often regretted his impulses and wished he had more self-discipline.

  Sometimes, he thought, it was difficult to do the right thing.

  * * *