by Ken Follett
The nun stood back and let the three women in. Ragna said to Edgar: “Wait a few minutes, please, just in case.”
The nun closed the door.
Ragna saw a pillared room, dark and empty now, but probably the place where the nuns lived when they were not praying in the church. She made out the shadowy silhouettes of two writing desks, and concluded that these nuns copied and perhaps illuminated manuscripts as well as caring for lepers.
The nun who had let them in said: “I’m Mother Agatha, the abbess here.”
Ragna said amiably: “Named after the patron saint of nurses, I assume?”
“And of rape victims.”
Ragna guessed there was a story there, but she did not want to hear it tonight. “These are my maids, Cat and Agnes.”
“I’m glad to welcome you all here. Have you had supper?”
“Yes, thank you, and we’re very tired. Can you give us beds?”
“Of course. Please come with me.”
She led them up a wooden staircase. This was the first building Ragna had seen in England that had an upstairs floor. At the top Agatha turned into a small room lit by a single rush light. There were two beds. One was empty, and in the other was a nun about the same age as Agatha but more rounded, sitting up and looking surprised.
Agatha said: “This is Sister Frith, my deputy.”
Frith stared at Ragna as if she could hardly believe her eyes. There was something in her look that made Ragna think of the way men gazed at her sometimes.
Agatha said: “Get up, Frith. We’re giving up our beds to the guests.”
Frith got out of bed hurriedly.
Agatha said: “Lady Ragna, please take my bed, and your maids can share Frith’s.”
Ragna said: “You’re very kind.”
“God is love,” said Agatha.
“But where will you two sleep?”
“In the dormitory next door, with the other nuns. There’s plenty of room.”
To Ragna’s profound satisfaction the room was pristine. The floor was of bare boards, swept clean. On a table stood a jug of water and a bowl, no doubt for washing: nuns washed their hands a lot. There was also a lectern on which rested an open book. This was clearly a highly literate nunnery. There were no chests: nuns had no possessions.
Ragna said: “This is heavenly. Tell me, Mother Agatha, how did there come to be a convent here on this island?”
“It’s a love story,” said Agatha. “The nunnery was built by Nothgyth, the widow of Lord Begmund. After he died and was buried in the minster, Nothgyth did not wish to remarry, for he was the love of her life. She wanted to become a nun and live near his remains for the rest of her days, so that they would rise together at the Last Judgment.”
“How romantic,” Ragna said.
“Isn’t it?”
“Will you tell young Edgar that he may return to the mainland?”
“Of course. Please make yourselves comfortable. I’ll come back and see if there’s anything else you need.”
The two nuns went out. Ragna threw off her cloak and climbed into Agatha’s bed. Cat hung Ragna’s cloak on a peg in the wall. From the leather bag she had brought, she took a small vial of olive oil. Ragna held out her hands and Cat poured a drop of oil on each. Ragna rubbed her hands together.
She made herself comfortable. The mattress was made of linen and stuffed with straw. The only sound was the wash of the river as it bathed the shores of the island. “I’m so glad we discovered this place,” she said.
Agnes said: “Edgar the builder has been a godsend—building up the fire, bringing you hot ale, fetching that little jeweler, and finally bringing us here.”
“You like Edgar, don’t you?”
“He’s lovely. I’d marry him in a heartbeat.”
The three women giggled.
Cat and Agnes got into their shared bed.
Mother Agatha returned. “Is everything all right?” she said.
Ragna stretched luxuriously. “Everything is perfect,” she said. “You’re so kind.”
Agatha bent over Ragna and kissed her softly on the lips. It was more than a mere peck, but did not last long enough to merit an objection. She stood upright, went to the door, and turned back.
“God is love,” said Mother Agatha.
CHAPTER 10
Late September 997
he only master Edgar had known for the first eighteen years of his life had been his father, who could be harsh but was never cruel. After that, Dreng had come as a shock. Edgar had never before suffered sheer malice for its own sake.
However, Sunni had, from her husband. Edgar thought a lot about how Sunni had handled Cyneric. She let him have his own way most of the time, but on the rare occasions that she went against him, she was bold and stubborn. Edgar tried to deal with Dreng in a similar way. He avoided confrontations, and put up with petty persecution and minor injustices, but when he could not avoid a quarrel he fought to win.
He had prevented Dreng from punching Blod on at least one occasion. He had steered Ragna to the nunnery against the will of Dreng, who had clearly wanted her to spend the night at the alehouse. And with his mother’s help he had forced Dreng to feed him decently.
Dreng would have liked to get rid of Edgar, undoubtedly. But there were two snags. One was his daughter, Cwenburg, who was now part of Edgar’s family. Dreng had been taught a firm lesson by Ma: he could not hurt Edgar without bringing repercussions to Cwenburg. The other problem was that Dreng would never find another competent builder for only a farthing a day. A good craftsman would demand three or four times as much in payment. And, Edgar reflected, Dreng’s parsimony outweighed his malice.
Edgar knew he was walking on the edge of a cliff. At heart Dreng was not completely rational, and one day he might lash out regardless of the consequences. But there was no safe way to deal with him—other than to lie down under his heel like the rushes on the floor, and Edgar could not bring himself to do that.
So he went on alternately pleasing and defying Dreng, while watching carefully for signs of a coming storm.
The day after Ragna left, Blod came to him and said: “Do you want a free go? I’m too big to fuck, but I can give you a lovely suck.”
“No!” he said; and then, feeling embarrassed, he added: “Thank you.”
“Why not? Am I ugly?”
“I told you about my girl, Sunni, who died.”
“Then why are you so nice to me?”
“I’m not nice to you. But I’m different from Dreng.”
“You are nice to me.”
He changed the subject. “Do you have names for your baby?”
“I don’t know that I’ll be allowed to name him or her.”
“You should give it a Welsh name. What are your parents called?”
“My father is Brioc.”
“I like that, it sounds strong.”
“It’s the name of a Celtic saint.”
“What about your mother?”
“Eleri.”
“Pretty name.”
Tears came to her eyes. “I miss them so much.”
“I’ve made you sad. I’m sorry.”
“You’re the only English person who ever asked me about my family.”
A shout came from inside the alehouse. “Blod! Get in here.”
Blod left, and Edgar resumed work.
The first consignment of stones had come downstream from Outhenham on a raft steered by one of Gab’s sons, and had been unloaded and stacked near the ruins of the old brewhouse. Edgar had prepared the foundations of the new building, digging a trench and half filling it with loose stones.
He had to guess how deep the foundations should go. He had checked those of the church, digging a small hole alongside the wall of the chancel, and found that there were almost no fou
ndations at all, but that would explain why it was falling down.
He poured mortar over the stones, and here he came across another problem: how to make sure the surface of the mortar was level. He had a good eye, but that was not enough. He had seen builders at work, and now he wished he had watched them more carefully. In the end he invented a device. He made a thin, flat stick a yard long and carved out the inside to form a smooth channel. The result was a miniature version of the log canoe Dreng had used as a ferry. Edgar got Cuthbert to make a small, polished iron ball in his forge. He laid the stick on the mortar, put the ball in the channel, and tapped the stick. If the ball rolled to one end, that showed that the mortar was not level and the surface had to be adjusted.
It was a lengthy process, and Dreng was impatient. He came out of the alehouse and stood with his hands on his hips, watching Edgar, for a few minutes. Eventually he said: “You’ve been working on this a week, and I don’t see any wall rising.”
“I have to get the foundations level,” Edgar explained.
“I don’t care if it’s level,” Dreng said. “It’s a brewhouse, not a cathedral.”
“If it’s not level it will fall down.”
Dreng looked at Edgar, not sure whether to believe him but unwilling to reveal his ignorance. He walked away saying: “I need Leaf to make ale as soon as possible. I’m losing money buying it from Shiring. Work faster!”
While Edgar was working, his mind often went back to Ragna. She had appeared in Dreng’s Ferry like a visitor from paradise. She was so tall, and poised, and beautiful that when you looked at her it was hard to believe she was a member of the human race. But as soon as she spoke she revealed herself to be charmingly human: down-to-earth and warmly sympathetic and capable of weeping over a lost belt. Ealdorman Wilwulf was a lucky man. The two of them would make a remarkable couple. Wherever they went, all eyes would follow them, the dashing ruler and his lovely bride.
Edgar was flattered that she had talked to him, even though she had told him frankly that her motive was to keep Dreng away. He was inordinately pleased that he had been able to find her a place to sleep that suited her better than the tavern. He sympathized with her wish not to lie down on the floor with everyone else. Even quite plain-looking women were liable to be pestered by men in alehouses.
On the following morning he had poled the ferry across to Leper Island to pick her up. Mother Agatha had walked Ragna with Cat and Agnes down to the waterside, and in that short distance Edgar had seen clearly that Agatha, too, was enchanted by Ragna, hanging on her words and hardly able to take her eyes off her. The nun had stayed at the water’s edge, waving, until the boat reached the other side and Ragna went into the alehouse.
Before they left, Agnes had told Edgar that she hoped she would see him again soon. The thought had crossed his mind that her interest in him might be romantic. If that were so he would have to confess to her that he was not able to fall in love, and explain about Sunni. He wondered how many times he was going to have to tell that story.
Toward evening he was startled by a cry of pain from within the tavern. It sounded like Blod, and Edgar thought Dreng might be beating her. He dropped his tools and ran inside.
But there was no beating. Dreng was sitting at the table looking irritated. Blod was slumped on the floor with her back to the wall. Her black hair was wet with sweat. Leaf and Ethel were standing up, watching her. As Edgar arrived she gave another shriek of pain.
“God save us,” said Edgar. “Did something terrible happen?”
“What’s the matter with you, you stupid boy?” Dreng jeered. “Haven’t you ever seen a woman giving birth?”
Edgar had not. He had seen animals giving birth, but that was different. He was the youngest in the family and had not been alive when his brothers were born. He knew about human childbirth in theory, so he was aware that it might hurt, and—now that he came to think about it—he had sometimes heard cries of pain from neighboring houses, and he recalled his mother saying: “Her time has come.” But he had never experienced it close up.
The only thing he knew for sure was that the mother often died.
He found it harrowing to look at a girl in pain and be unable to help her. “Should we give her a sip of ale?” he said in desperation. Strong drink was usually good for people in pain.
Leaf said: “We can try.” She half filled a cup and handed it to Edgar.
He knelt beside Blod and held the cup to her mouth. She gulped the ale then grimaced with pain again.
Dreng said: “It was original sin that caused this. In the garden of Eden.”
Leaf said sarcastically: “My husband, the priest.”
“It’s true,” Dreng said. “Eve disobeyed. That’s why God punishes all women.”
Leaf said: “I expect Eve was driven mad by her husband.”
Edgar did not see what more he could do, and the others seemed to feel the same. Perhaps it was all in the hands of God. Edgar went back outside and resumed his work.
He wondered what childbirth would have been like for Sunni. Obviously their lovemaking was likely to lead to pregnancy, but Edgar had never thought very hard about that. He realized now that he would have found it unbearable to see her in such pain. It was bad enough watching Blod, who was no more than an acquaintance.
He finished mortaring the foundation as it began to get dark. He would double-check the level in the morning, but all being well he would lay the first course of stones tomorrow.
He went into the alehouse. Blod was lying on the floor and seemed to be dozing. Ethel served supper, a stew of pork and carrots. This was the time of year when everyone had to decide which animals would live through the winter and which should be slaughtered now. Some of the meat was eaten fresh, the rest smoked or salted for the winter.
Edgar ate heartily. Dreng threw bad-tempered looks his way but said nothing. Leaf drank more ale. She was getting tipsy.
As they finished the meal, Blod began to moan again, and the pains seemed to come more frequently. Leaf said: “It won’t be long now.” Her words were slurred, as often happened by this time in the evening, but she was still making sense. “Edgar, go to the river and get fresh water to wash the baby with.”
Edgar was surprised. “Do you have to wash a baby?”
Leaf laughed. “Of course—you wait and see.”
He picked up the bucket and made his way to the river. It was dark, but the sky was clear and there was a bright half-moon. Brindle followed him, hoping for a boat ride. Edgar dipped the bucket in the river and carried it to the alehouse. Back inside he saw that Leaf had laid out clean rags. “Put the bucket near the fire, so that the water can warm up a bit,” she said.
Blod’s cries were more anguished now. Edgar saw that the rushes under her hips were soaked with some kind of fluid. Surely this could not be normal? He said: “Shall I ask Mother Agatha to come?” The nun was usually called upon in medical emergencies.
Dreng said: “I can’t afford to pay her.”
“She doesn’t charge a fee!” Edgar said indignantly.
“Not officially, but she expects a donation, unless you’re poor. She’d want money from me. People think I’m a rich man.”
Leaf said: “Don’t worry, Edgar. Blod is going to be all right.”
“Do you mean to say this is normal?”
“Yes, it is.”
Blod tried to get up. Ethel helped her. Edgar said: “Shouldn’t she lie down?”
“Not now,” Leaf said.
She opened a chest. She took out two thin strips of leather. Then she threw a bunch of dried rye on the fire. Burning rye was supposed to drive away evil spirits. Finally she picked up a large clean rag and draped it over her shoulder.
Edgar realized there was a ritual here that he knew nothing about.
Blod stood with her legs apart and bent forward. Ethel stood at her head, a
nd Blod put her arms around Ethel’s thin waist for support. Leaf knelt behind Blod and lifted her dress. “The baby’s coming,” she said.
Dreng said: “Oh, disgusting.” He stood, pulled on his cloak, picked up his tankard, and limped outside.
Blod made heaving noises, as if she were lifting a weight so heavy that she was in agony. Edgar stared, fascinated and horrified at the same time: how could something as big as a baby come out of there? But the opening got larger. Some object seemed to be pushing through. “What’s that?” said Edgar.
“The baby’s head,” said Leaf.
Edgar was aghast. “God help Blod.”
The baby did not come out in one smooth motion. Rather, the skull seemed to push outward for a few moments, widening the opening, then stop, as if to rest. Blod cried in pain with every surge.
Edgar said: “It’s got hair.”
Leaf said: “They generally do.”
Then, like a marvel, the baby’s entire head came into the world.
Edgar was possessed by a powerful emotion he could not name. He was awed by what he was seeing. His throat constricted as if he were about to weep, yet he was not sad; in fact, he felt joyous.
Leaf took the rag from her shoulder and held it between Blod’s thighs, supporting the baby’s head with her hands. The shoulders appeared, then its belly with something attached, which, he realized immediately, was the cord. The whole body was covered with some slimy fluid. At last the legs appeared. It was a boy, he saw.
Ethel said: “I feel strange.”
Leaf looked at her and said: “She’s going to faint—catch her, Edgar.”
Ethel’s eyes rolled up and she went limp. Just in time, Edgar caught her under the arms and laid her carefully on the floor.
The boy opened his mouth and cried.
Blod slowly lowered herself to her hands and knees. Leaf wrapped the rag around the tiny baby and laid him gently in the rushes on the floor. Then she deployed the mysterious thin strips of leather. She tied both tightly around the cord, one close to the baby’s belly and the other a couple of inches away. Finally she drew her belt knife and cut the cord.
