by Ken Follett
She dipped a clean rag in the bucket and washed the baby, gently cleaning blood and mucus from his face and head, then the rest of his body. He cried again at the feel of the water. She patted him dry then wrapped him up again.
Blod groaned with effort, as if she were giving birth again, and the thought of twins crossed Edgar’s mind briefly; but what came out was a shapeless lump, and when he frowned in puzzlement, Leaf said: “The afterbirth.”
Blod rolled over and sat with her back to the wall. Her normal expression of guarded hostility had been wiped away, and she just looked pale and exhausted. Leaf gave her the baby, and Blod’s face changed again, softening and brightening at the same time. She looked with love at the tiny body in her arms. The baby’s head turned toward her, so that his face pressed against her chest. She pulled down the front of her dress and put the baby to her breast. He seemed to know what to do: his mouth closed eagerly around the nipple and he began to suck.
Blod closed her eyes and looked contented. Edgar had never seen her like that before.
Leaf helped herself to another cup of ale and drained it in a gulp.
Brindle stared at the baby, fascinated. A tiny foot stuck out from the bundle and Brindle licked it.
Getting rid of spoiled straw was normally Blod’s job, and Edgar decided that now he had better do it. He picked up the mess where Blod had stood, including the afterbirth, and took it outside.
Dreng was sitting on a bench in the moonlight. Edgar said: “The baby is born.”
Dreng put his cup to his mouth and drank.
Edgar said: “It’s a boy.”
Dreng said nothing.
Edgar dumped the straw next to the dunghill. When it was dry he would burn it.
Back inside, both Blod and the baby seemed to be sleeping. Leaf was lying down with her eyes closed, exhausted or drunk or both. Ethel was still out cold.
Dreng came in. Blod opened her eyes and looked warily at him, but he only went to the barrel and refilled his tankard. Blod closed her eyes again.
Dreng took a long draught of ale, then put his tankard on the table. In a swift, confident move he bent over Blod and picked up the baby. The rag fell to the floor and he said: “A boy it is, the little bastard.”
Blod said: “Give him to me!”
“Oh, so you can speak English!” said Dreng.
“Give me my baby.”
Ethel did not stir, but Leaf said: “Give her the baby, Dreng.”
“I think he needs fresh air,” Dreng said. “Too smoky in here for a baby.”
“Please,” said Blod.
Dreng took the baby outside.
Leaf went after him. Blod tried to get up but fell back. Edgar followed Leaf. “Dreng, what are you doing?” Leaf cried fearfully.
“There,” Dreng said to the baby. “Taste the clean air from the river. Isn’t that better?” He moved down the slope to the water’s edge.
The fresh air probably was better for the baby, Edgar thought, but was that really what was on Dreng’s mind? Edgar had never seen him be kind to anyone other than Cwenburg. Had the drama of childbirth reminded him of when Cwenburg came into the world? Edgar followed Dreng at a distance, watching.
Dreng turned to face Edgar and Leaf. The moonlight shone white on the baby’s tiny body. Summer had turned to autumn, and the cold air on bare skin woke the baby and made him cry.
Leaf cried: “Keep him warm!”
Dreng grasped the baby by the ankle and held him upside down. The crying became urgent. Edgar did not know what was happening but he felt sure it was bad, and in sudden fear he dashed at Dreng.
With a rapid, vigorous motion Dreng swung the baby, windmilling his arm, and hurled it out across the water.
Leaf screamed.
The baby’s crying was abruptly silenced as he splashed into the river.
Edgar crashed into Dreng and they both fell into the shallows.
Edgar sprang up immediately. He jerked off his shoes and pulled his tunic over his head.
Dreng, spluttering, said: “You tried to drown me, you madman!”
Edgar dived naked into the water.
The little body had gone far out into midstream: Dreng was a big man, and the bad back of which he constantly complained did not much affect his throwing ability. Edgar swam strongly, heading for the place where he thought the baby had splashed down. There was no cloud and the moon was bright, but as he looked ahead he saw, with dismay, that there was nothing on the surface. Surely the baby would float? Human bodies did not normally sink to the bottom, did they? All the same, people drowned.
He reached and passed what he thought was the spot without seeing anything. He waved his arms around under water, hoping to touch something, but he felt nothing.
The urge to save the child was overpowering. He felt desperate. It had something to do with Sunni, he was not sure how—and he did not let the thought distract him. He trod water and turned in a circle, staring hard, wishing the light were brighter.
The current always took flotsam downstream. He swam in that direction, going as fast as he could while scanning the surface left and right. Brindle came alongside him, paddling hard to keep up. Perhaps she would smell the baby before Edgar saw him.
The current moved him toward the north side of Leper Island, and he had to assume it had done the same with the baby. Debris from the hamlet sometimes washed up opposite the island, and Edgar decided his best hope was to look there for the baby. He swam to the edge. Here the bank was not clearly defined: instead there was puddled swampy ground, part of the farm though not productive. He swam along, peering in the moonlight. He saw plenty of litter: bits of wood, nutshells, animal bones, and a dead cat. If the baby was there Edgar would surely see his white body. But he was disappointed.
Feeling increasingly frantic, he gave up on that stretch and swam across the river to Leper Island. Here the bank was overgrown, and he could not easily see the ground. He came up out of the water and walked along, going toward the nunnery, scanning the water’s edge as best he could in the moonlight. Brindle growled, and Edgar heard movement nearby. He guessed the lepers were watching him: they were known to be shy, perhaps reluctant to let people see their deformities. But he decided to speak. “Hey, anybody,” he said loudly. The shuffling stopped abruptly. “A baby fell into the river,” he said. “Have you seen anything?”
The silence continued some moments, then a figure appeared from behind a tree. The man was dressed in rags but did not appear misshapen: perhaps the rumors were exaggerated. “No one saw a baby,” the man said.
Edgar said: “Will you help me look?”
The man hesitated, then nodded.
Edgar said: “He may have been washed up somewhere along the shore.”
There was no response to this so Edgar just turned and resumed searching. Gradually he became aware that he was accompanied. Someone was moving through the bushes alongside him, and another was treading the shallows behind him. He thought he saw movement farther ahead, too. He was grateful for the extra eyes: it would be easy to miss something small.
But as he moved back in the direction of the alehouse, closing the circle, he found it hard to maintain hope. He was exhausted and shivering: what state would a naked baby be in? If it had not drowned it might now have died of the cold.
He drew level with the convent building. There were lights in its windows and outside, and he saw hurried movement. A nun approached him, and he recognized Mother Agatha. He remembered that he was stark naked, but she seemed not to notice.
She carried a bundle in her arms. Edgar’s hoped leaped. Had the nuns found the baby?
Agatha must have seen the eagerness in his face, for she shook her head sadly, and Edgar was filled with alarm.
She came close and showed him what she held in her arms. Wrapped in a white wool blanket was Blod’s baby. His eyes
were closed and he was not breathing.
“We found him on the shore,” Agatha said.
“Was he . . .”
“Dead or alive? I don’t know. We took him into the warm, but we were too late. We baptized him, though, so he’s with the angels now.”
Edgar was overwhelmed by grief. He cried and shivered at the same time, and his eyes blurred with tears. “I saw him born,” he said between sobs. “It was like a miracle.”
“I know,” said Agatha.
“And then I saw him murdered.”
Agatha unwrapped the blanket and gave the tiny baby to Edgar. He held the cold body to his bare chest and wept.
CHAPTER 11
Early October 997
s Ragna drew nearer to Shiring, her heart filled with apprehension.
She had embarked on this adventure eagerly, impatient for the pleasures of marriage with the man she loved, careless of perils. Bad weather delays had been frustrating. Now she was more aware, with every mile she traveled, that she did not really know what she had let herself in for. All of the short time she and Wilwulf had spent together had been at her home, where he was a stranger trying to fit in. She had never seen him in his own place, never watched him move among his own people, never heard him talk to his family, his neighbors, his subjects. She hardly knew him.
When at last she came in sight of his city, she stopped and took a good look.
It was a big place, several hundred homes clustered at the foot of a hill, with a damp mist drifting over the thatched roofs. It was surrounded by an earth rampart, no doubt for defense against Vikings. Two large churches stood out, pale stone and wet shingles against the mass of brown timber. One appeared to be part of a group of monastic buildings enclosed by a ditch and a fence and was undoubtedly the abbey where the handsome Brother Aldred was in charge of the scriptorium. She looked forward to seeing Aldred again.
The other church would be the cathedral, for alongside it was a two-story house that must be the home of the bishop, Wilwulf’s brother Wynstan, soon to be Ragna’s brother-in-law. She hoped he would act like a kind of older brother to her.
A stone building with no bell tower was probably the home of a moneyer, containing a stock of silver metal that had to be guarded from thieves. England’s currency was trusted, she had learned: the purity of its silver pennies was carefully regulated by the king, who imposed brutal punishments for forgery.
There would be more churches in a town of this size, but they were probably built of timber, just like houses.
On top of the hill, dominating the town, was a stockaded compound, twenty or thirty assorted buildings enclosed by a stout fence. That must be the seat of government, the residence of the ealdorman, the home of Wilwulf.
And my home too now, Ragna thought nervously.
It had no stone buildings. That did not surprise her: it was only recently that the Normans had begun to build stone keeps and gatehouses, and most of them were simpler and cruder than her father’s castle at Cherbourg. She would undoubtedly be a little less safe here.
She had known in advance that the English were weak. The Vikings had first raided this country two centuries ago and the English still had not been able to put a permanent stop to it. People here were better at jewelry and embroidery than at fighting.
She sent Cat and Bern ahead to warn of her arrival. She followed slowly, to give Wilwulf time to prepare a welcome. She had to suppress the urge to kick Astrid into a canter. She was desperately keen to hold Wilwulf in her arms, and she resented every moment’s delay, but she was eager to make a dignified entrance.
Despite the drizzle of cold rain, the town was busy with commerce: people buying bread and ale, horses and carts delivering sacks and barrels, peddlers and prostitutes walking the mud streets. But business stopped as Ragna and her entourage approached. They formed a large group, richly dressed, and her men-at-arms all sported the severe haircut that marked them distinctively as Norman. People stared and pointed. They probably guessed who Ragna was: the forthcoming wedding was surely general knowledge in the town, and the people must have long anticipated her arrival.
Their looks were wary, and she guessed they were not certain how to respond to her. Was she a foreign usurper, come to steal the most eligible man in the west of England away from more deserving local girls?
She noticed that her men had instinctively formed a protective ring around her. That was a mistake, she realized. The people of Shiring needed to see their princess. “We look too defensive,” she said to Bern. “This won’t do. You and Odo ride ten paces ahead, just to clear the way. Tell the rest to fall back. Let the townsfolk see me.”
Bern looked worried, but he changed the formation as instructed.
Ragna began to interact with the people. She met the eyes of individuals and smiled at them. Most people found it hard not to return a smile, but here she sensed a reluctance. One woman gave a tentative wave, and Ragna waved back. A group of thatchers putting a roof on a house stopped work and called out to her: they spoke English with a broad accent that she could not understand, so she was not sure whether their shouted comments represented enthusiasm or mockery, but she blew them a kiss. Some onlookers smiled in approval. A little crowd of men drinking outside an alehouse waved their caps in the air and cheered. Other bystanders followed suit. “That’s better,” said Ragna, her anxiety easing a little.
The noise drew people out of their houses and shops to see what was going on, and the crowd thickened ahead. Everyone followed behind the entourage, and as Ragna headed up the hill to the compound the buzz became a roar. She was infected by their enthusiasm. The more she smiled, the more they cheered; and the more they cheered, the happier she felt.
The wooden stockade had a big double gate, and both sides stood wide. Just inside, another crowd had gathered, presumably Wilwulf’s servants and hangers-on. They applauded as Ragna came into view.
The compound was not very different from that at Cherbourg apart from the lack of a castle. There were houses, stables, and storerooms. The kitchens were open-sided. One house was double-size, and had small windows at both ends: that would be the great hall, where the ealdorman held meetings and hosted banquets. The other houses would be homes for important men and their families.
The crowd formed two lines and clearly expected Ragna to ride between them to the great hall. She went slowly, taking time to look at the faces and smile at individuals. Almost every expression was welcoming and happy; just a handful were stonily noncommittal, as if warily withholding judgment, waiting for further evidence that she was all right.
Outside the door of the long house stood Wilwulf.
He was just as she remembered him, tall and loose-limbed, with a mane of fair hair and a mustache but no beard. He wore a red cloak with an enameled brooch. His smile was broad but relaxed, as if they had parted company only yesterday, rather than two months ago. He stood in the rain without a hat, not caring about getting wet. He spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome.
Ragna could restrain herself no longer. She leaped off her horse and ran to him. The onlookers cheered at this display of uncontained enthusiasm. His smile became wider. She threw herself into his arms and kissed him passionately. The cheering became thunderous. She put her arms around his neck and jumped up with her legs around his waist, and the crowd went wild.
She kissed him hard, but not too long, then put her feet on the ground again. A little vulgarity went a long way.
They stood grinning at each other. Ragna was thinking about making love with him, and she felt he knew what was in her mind.
They let the people cheer for a minute, then Wilwulf took her hand and they walked side by side into the great hall.
A smaller crowd waited there, and there was more applause. As Ragna’s eyes grew accustomed to the dimmer light, she saw a group of a dozen or so people, more richly dressed than those outside,
and she guessed these were Wilwulf’s family.
One stepped forward, and she recognized the large ears and the close-set eyes. “Bishop Wynstan,” she said. “I’m pleased to see you again.”
He kissed her hand. “I’m glad that you’re here, and proud of the modest part I played in making the arrangements.”
“For which I thank you.”
“You’ve had a long journey.”
“I’ve certainly got to know my new country.”
“And what do you think of it?”
“It’s a bit wet.”
Everyone laughed, which pleased Ragna, but she knew this was not the moment for candid honesty, and she added an outright lie. “The English people have been friendly and kind. I love them.”
“I’m so glad,” said Wynstan, apparently believing her.
Ragna almost blushed. She had been miserable ever since she set foot in England. The alehouses were dirty, the people were unfriendly, ale was a poor substitute for cider, and she had been robbed. But no, she thought, that was not the whole truth. Mother Agatha had welcomed her, and that ferry boy had been zealously helpful. No doubt the English were a mixture of good and bad, as were the Normans.
And the Normans had no one like Wilwulf. As she made small talk with the family, pausing often to search her memory for the right Anglo-Saxon word, she glanced at him every chance she got, feeling a jolt of pleasure each time she recognized a familiar feature: his strong jaw, his blue-green eyes, the blond mustache she was longing to kiss again. Each time she looked she found he was staring at her, wearing a proud smile with a hint behind it of impatient lust. That made her feel good.
Wilwulf introduced another tall man with a bushy blond mustache. “Allow me to present my younger half brother, Wigelm, the lord of Combe.”
Wigelm looked her up and down. “My word, you are very welcome,” he said. His words were kind but his grin made Ragna uneasy, even though she was accustomed to men staring at her body. Wigelm confirmed her instinctive dislike by saying: “I’m sure Wilf explained to you that we three brothers share everything, including our women.”
