by Ken Follett
Edgar turned his attention to the purchasers. They put ten stones on their cart then stopped. That was probably as much weight as the oxen could pull. They began to put the beasts into the shafts, ready to leave.
Gab finished what he was doing, coughed, looked at the sky, and appeared to decide it was time to stop work. He went to the oxcart and conferred with the two buyers for a few moments, then one of the men handed over money.
Then they cracked a whip over the oxen and left.
Edgar went to Gab. The quarryman had picked up a trimmed branch from a pile and was carefully marking it with a neat row of notches. This was how craftsmen and traders kept records: they could not afford parchment, and if they had any they would not know how to write on it. Edgar guessed that Gab had to pay taxes to the lord of the manor, perhaps the price of one stone in five, and so needed a record of how many he had sold.
Edgar said: “I’m Edgar from Dreng’s Ferry. Ten years ago you sold us stones for the repair of the church.”
“I recollect,” said Gab, putting the tally stick in his pocket. Edgar noticed that he had cut only five notches, although he had sold ten stones: perhaps he was going to finish it later. “I don’t remember you, but then you would have been a small child.”
Edgar studied Gab. His hands were covered with old scars, no doubt from his work. He was probably wondering how he could exploit this ignorant youth. Edgar said firmly: “The price was two pence per stone delivered.”
“Was it, now?” Gab said with pretended skepticism.
“If it’s still the same, we want about two hundred more.”
“I’m not sure we can do it for the same price. Things have changed.”
“In that case, I have to return and speak with my master.” Edgar did not want to do this. He was determined to go back and report success. But he could not allow Gab to overcharge him. Edgar mistrusted Gab. Perhaps the man was only negotiating, but Edgar had a feeling he might be dishonest.
The quarryman coughed. “Last time we dealt with Degbert Baldhead, the dean. He didn’t like spending his money.”
“My master, Dreng, is the same. They’re brothers.”
“What’s the stone for?”
“I’m building a brewhouse for Dreng. His wife makes the ale and she keeps burning the wooden buildings down.”
“You’re building it?”
Edgar lifted his chin. “Yes.”
“You’re very young. But Dreng wants a cheap builder, I suppose.”
“He wants cheap stone, too.”
“Did you bring the money?”
I may be young, Edgar thought, but I’m not stupid. “Dreng will pay when the stones arrive.”
“He’d better.”
Edgar guessed the quarrymen would carry the stones, or transport them in a cart, as far as the river, then load them on a raft for the journey downstream to Dreng’s Ferry. It would take them several trips, depending on the size of the raft.
Gab said: “Where are you spending the night? In the tavern?”
“I told you, I’ve no money.”
“You’ll have to sleep here, then.”
“Thank you,” said Edgar.
* * *
Gab’s wife was Beaduhild but he called her Bee. She was more welcoming than her husband, and invited Edgar to share the evening meal. As soon as his bowl was empty, he realized how tired he was after his long walk, and he lay down on the floor and fell asleep immediately.
In the morning he said to Gab: “I’m going to need a hammer and chisel like yours, so that I can shape the stones to my needs.”
“So you are,” said Gab.
“May I look at your tools?”
Gab shrugged.
Edgar picked up the wooden hammer and hefted it. It was big and heavy, but otherwise simple and crude, and he could easily make one like it. The smaller, iron-headed hammer was more carefully made, its handle firmly wedged to the head. Best of all was the iron chisel, with a wide, blunt blade and a spreading top that looked like a daisy. Edgar could forge a copy in Cuthbert’s workshop. Cuthbert might not like sharing his space, but Dreng would get Degbert to insist, and Cuthbert would have no choice.
Hanging on pegs next to the tools were several sticks with notches. Edgar said: “I suppose you keep a tally stick for each customer.”
“What business is that of yours?”
“Sorry.” Edgar did not want to appear nosy. However, he could not help noticing that the newest stick had only five notches. Could it be that Gab recorded only half the stones he sold? That would save him a lot in taxes.
But it was no business of Edgar’s if Gab was cheating his lord. The Vale of Outhen was part of the ealdormanry of Shiring, and Ealdorman Wilwulf was rich enough already.
Edgar ate a hearty breakfast, thanked Bee, and set out to walk home.
From Outhenham he thought he could find his way easily, having already made the journey in the opposite direction, but to his dismay he got lost again. Because of the delay it was near dark when he arrived home, thirsty and hungry and weary.
In the alehouse they were getting ready to go to sleep. Ethel smiled at him, Leaf gave a slurred welcome, and Dreng ignored him. Blod was stacking firewood. She stopped what she was doing, straightened up, put her left hand on the back of her hip, and stretched her body as if easing an ache. When she turned around, Edgar saw that she had a black eye.
“What happened to you?” he said.
She did not answer, pretending not to understand. But Edgar could guess how she had got it. Dreng had been more and more angry with her in the last few weeks, as her time approached. There was nothing unusual about a man using violence on his family, of course, and Edgar had seen Dreng kick Leaf’s backside and slap Ethel’s face, but he had a special malice toward Blod.
“Is there any supper left?” Edgar asked.
Dreng said: “No.”
“But I’ve been walking all day.”
“That’ll teach you not to be late.”
“I was on an errand for you!”
“And you get paid, and there’s nothing left, so shut your mouth.”
Edgar went to bed hungry.
Blod was up first in the morning. She went to the river for fresh water, always her first chore of the day. The bucket was made of wood with iron rivets, and it was heavy even when empty. Edgar was putting his shoes on when she came back. He saw that she was struggling, and he moved to take the bucket from her, but before he could do so, she stumbled over Dreng, lying half asleep, and water sloshed from the bucket onto his face.
“You dumb cunt!” he roared.
He jumped up. Blod cowered away. Dreng raised his fist. Then Edgar stepped between them, saying: “Give me the bucket, Blod.”
There was fury in Dreng’s eyes. For a moment Edgar thought the man was going to punch him instead of Blod. Dreng was strong, despite the bad back he mentioned so often: he was tall, with big shoulders. Nevertheless, Edgar made a split-second decision to hit back if attacked. He would undoubtedly be punished, but he would have the satisfaction of knocking Dreng to the ground.
However, like most bullies Dreng was a coward when confronted by someone stronger. The anger gave way to fear, and he lowered his fist.
Blod made herself scarce.
Edgar handed the bucket to Ethel. She poured water into a cooking pot, hung the pot over the fire, added oats to the water, and stirred the mixture with a wooden stick.
Dreng stared at Edgar malevolently. Edgar guessed he would never be forgiven for coming between Dreng and his slave, but he could not find it in his heart to regret what he had done, even though he would probably suffer for it.
When the porridge was ready Ethel ladled it into five bowls. She chopped some ham and added it to one of the bowls, then gave that to Dreng. She handed the others around.
They ate in silence.
Edgar finished his in seconds. He looked over at the pot, then at Ethel. She said nothing but discreetly shook her head. There was no more.
It was Sunday, and after breakfast everyone went to church.
Ma was there with Erman and Eadbald and their shared wife, Cwenburg. The twenty-five or so residents of the hamlet all knew by now of the polyandrous marriage, but no one said much about it. Edgar had gathered, from overheard fragments of conversation, that it was considered unusual but not outrageous. He had heard Bebbe say the same as Leaf: “If a man can have two wives, a woman can have two husbands.”
Seeing Cwenburg standing between Erman and Eadbald, Edgar was struck by the difference in their clothes. The homespun knee-length tunics of his brothers, the brownish color of undyed wool, were old, worn, and patched, just like his own; but Cwenburg had a dress of closely woven cloth, bleached and then dyed a pinkish red. Her father was miserly with everyone but her.
Edgar stood beside Ma. In the past she had never been noticeably devout, but nowadays she seemed to take the service more seriously, bowing her head and closing her eyes as Degbert and the other clergy went through their ritual, her reverence undiminished by their carelessness and haste.
“You’ve become more religious,” he said to her as the service came to an end.
She looked at him speculatively, as if wondering whether to confide in him, and seemed to decide he might understand. “I think about your father,” she said. “I believe he is with the angels above.”
Edgar did not really understand. “You can think about him whenever you like.”
“But this seems the best place and time. I feel I’m not so far away from him. Then, during the week, when I miss him, I can look forward to Sunday.”
Edgar nodded. That made sense to him.
Ma said: “How about you? Do you think of him?”
“When I’m working, and have a problem to solve, a joint that won’t close or a blade that won’t come sharp, I think: ‘I’ll ask Pa.’ Then I remember that I can’t. It happens almost every day.”
“What do you do then?”
Edgar hesitated. He was afraid of seeming to claim that he had miraculous experiences. People who saw visions were sometime revered, but they might just as easily be stoned as agents of the devil. However, Ma would comprehend. “I ask him anyway,” he said. “I say: ‘Pa, what should I do about this?’—in my head.” He added hastily: “I don’t see an apparition, or anything like that.”
She nodded calmly, unsurprised. “And then what?”
“Usually, the answer comes to me.”
She said nothing.
A bit nervously he said: “Does that sound peculiar?”
“Not at all,” she said. “That’s how spirits work.” She turned away and spoke to Bebbe about eggs.
Edgar was intrigued. That’s how spirits work. It would bear thinking about.
But his reflections were interrupted. Erman came to him and said: “We’re going to make a plough.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
Edgar was jerked from mysticism back into everyday practicalities. He guessed they had chosen to do this on a Sunday so that he would be available. None of them had ever made a plough, but Edgar could build anything. “Shall I come and help you?” he said.
“If you want.” Erman did not like to acknowledge that he needed assistance.
“Have you got the timber ready?”
“Yes.”
It seemed that anyone could take timber from the forest. At Combe the thane, Wigelm, had made Pa pay for felling an oak. But there, Edgar reflected, it was easier to police the woodcutters, for they had to bring the timber into the town in full view. Here it was not clear whether the forest belonged to Degbert Baldhead or the reeve of Mudeford, Offa, and neither of them claimed payment: no doubt it would involve much surveillance for little reward. In practice timber was free to anyone willing to chop down the trees.
Everyone was moving out of the little church. “We’d better get on with it,” Erman said.
They walked to the farmhouse together: Ma, the three brothers, and Cwenburg. Edgar noticed that the bond between Erman and Eadbald seemed unchanged: they were basically in harmony, despite a continuous low level of petty squabbling. Their uncommon marriage clearly worked.
Cwenburg kept giving Edgar triumphant looks. “You turned me down,” her expression seemed to say, “but see what I got instead!” Edgar did not mind. She was happy and so were his brothers.
Edgar himself was not unhappy, for that matter. He had built a ferry and was working on a brewhouse. His wages were so low they amounted to theft, but he had escaped from farming.
Well, almost.
He looked at the wood his brothers had piled up outside the barn and visualized a plough. Even town dwellers knew what one of those looked like. It would have an upright pointed stick to loosen the soil, and an angled moldboard to undercut the furrow and turn the soil over. Both had to be attached to a frame that could be pulled from the front and guided from behind.
Erman said: “Eadbald and I will draw the plough and Ma will steer it.”
Edgar nodded. The loamy soil here was soft enough to yield to a man-drawn plough. The clay soil of a place such as Outhenham required the strength of oxen.
Edgar drew his belt knife, knelt down, and began to mark the wood for Erman and Eadbald to shape. Although the youngest brother was taking charge, the other two made no protest. They recognized Edgar’s superior skill, though they never admitted it aloud.
While they went to work on the timbers, Edgar began to make the ploughshare, a blade fixed to the front of the moldboard to cut more easily through the soil. The others had found a rusting iron spade in the barn. Edgar heated it in the house fire, then beat it into shape with a rock. The result looked a bit rough. He could have done better with an iron hammer and an anvil.
He sharpened the blade with a stone.
When they got thirsty they went down to the river and drank from their cupped hands. They had no ale and no cups either.
They were almost ready to join the pieces together with pegs when Ma called them for the midday meal.
She had prepared smoked eel with wild onions and pan bread. Edgar’s mouth watered so violently that he felt a sharp pain under his jawbone.
Cwenburg whispered something to Erman. Ma frowned—whispering in company was bad manners—but she said nothing.
When Edgar reached for a third piece of bread, Erman said: “Go easy, will you?”
“I’m hungry!”
“We haven’t got much food to spare.”
Edgar was outraged. “I’ve given up my day of rest to help you build your plough—and you begrudge me a piece of bread!”
Anger flared quickly, as it always had between the brothers. Erman said hotly: “You can’t eat us out of house and home.”
“I had no supper yesterday, and only one small bowl of porridge this morning. I’m starved.”
“I can’t help that.”
“Then don’t ask me to help you, you ungrateful dog.”
“The plough is almost finished—you should have gone back to the alehouse for your dinner.”
“Precious little I get to eat there.”
Eadbald was more temperate than Erman. He said: “The thing is, Edgar, that Cwenburg needs more, being pregnant.”
Edgar saw Cwenburg smother a smirk, which annoyed him even more. He said: “So eat less yourself, Eadbald, and leave me to my dinner. I’m not the one who made her pregnant.” He added in an undertone: “Thank heaven.”
Erman, Eadbald, and Cwenburg all began shouting at the same time. Ma clapped her hands, and they fell silent. She said: “What did you mean, Edgar, when you said you get precious little to eat at the tavern? Surely Dreng can afford plenty of food.”
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br /> “Dreng may be rich, but he’s mean.”
“But you had breakfast today.”
“A small bowl of porridge. He has meat with his, but the rest of us don’t.”
“And supper last night?”
“Nothing. I walked here from Outhenham and arrived late. He said it was all gone.”
Ma looked angry. “Then eat as much as you want here,” she said. “As for the rest of you, shut up, and try to remember that my family will always be fed at my house.”
Edgar ate his third piece of bread.
Erman looked surly. Eadbald said: “How often are we going to have to feed Edgar, then, if Dreng won’t?”
“Don’t you worry,” said Ma, tight-lipped. “I’ll deal with Dreng.”
* * *
For the rest of the day Edgar wondered how Ma was going to fulfill her promise and “deal with” Dreng. She was resourceful and bold, but Dreng was powerful. Edgar had no physical fear of his master—Dreng punched women, not men—but he was the master of everyone in the house: husband of Leaf and Ethel, owner of Blod, and employer of Edgar. He was the second most important man in the little hamlet, and the number one was his brother. He could do more or less anything he liked. It was unwise to cross him.
Monday began like any other weekday. Blod went for water and Ethel made porridge. As Edgar was sitting down to his inadequate breakfast, Cwenburg came storming in, indignant and furious. Pointing an accusing finger at Edgar, she said: “Your mother is an old witch!”
Edgar had a feeling this was going to be welcome news. “I’ve often thought so myself,” he said good-humoredly. “But what has she done to you?”
“She wants to starve me to death! She says I can have only one bowl of porridge!”
Edgar guessed where this was going, and he smothered a grin.
Dreng spoke in the confident tones of the powerful. “She can’t do that to my daughter.”
“She just did!”
“Did she give any reason for it?”
“She said she’s not going to feed me any more than you feed Edgar.”
