The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  He arrived at Shiring Abbey late in the evening on the next day. The monastery was quiet and he could hear, from the church, the psalm singing of Compline, the service that signaled the end of the day. He stabled his horse and went straight to the dormitory.

  In his saddlebag he had a gift from Combe Abbey, a copy of Saint John’s Gospel, with its profound opening words: “In principio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat apud Deum, et Deus erat Verbum.” In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. Aldred felt he could spend his life trying to comprehend that mystery.

  He would present the new book to Abbot Osmund at the first opportunity, he decided. He was unpacking his bag when Brother Godleof came out of Osmund’s room, which was at the end of the dorm.

  Godleof was Aldred’s age, with dark skin and a wiry frame. His mother had been a milkmaid who was ravished by a passing nobleman. Godleof did not know the man’s name and hinted that his mother had never known it either. Like most of the younger monks, Godleof shared Aldred’s views and got impatient with the caution and parsimony of Osmund and Hildred.

  Aldred was struck by Godleof’s worried look. “What’s happened?” he said. He realized that Godleof had something on his mind that he was reluctant to say. “Out with it.”

  “I’ve been looking after Osmund.” Godleof had been a cowherd before he came to the monastery, and he used few words.

  “Why?”

  “He’s taken to his bed.”

  Aldred said: “I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s not really a shock. He’s been ill for a while, and lately he’s had trouble walking down the stairs, never mind up.” He paused, studying Godleof. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “You better ask Osmund.”

  “All right, I will.” Aldred picked up the book he had brought from Combe and went to Osmund’s room.

  He found the abbot sitting up in bed with a pile of cushions behind him. He was not well but he looked comfortable, and Aldred guessed he would be content to stay in bed for the rest of his life, however long or short it might be. “I’m sorry to see you indisposed, my lord abbot,” said Aldred.

  Osmund sighed. “God in his wisdom has not granted me the strength to carry on.”

  Aldred was not sure it had been entirely God’s decision, but all he said was: “The Lord is all wise.”

  “I must rely on younger men,” Osmund said.

  Osmund looked faintly embarrassed. Like Godleof, he seemed to be burdened with something he might have preferred not to say. Aldred had a premonition of bad news. He said: “Are you perhaps thinking of appointing an acting abbot to manage the monastery during your illness?” It was an important point. The monk who was made acting abbot now had the best chance of becoming abbot when Osmund died.

  Osmund did not answer the question, which was ominous. “The problem with young men is that they make trouble,” he said. This was obviously a dig at Aldred. “They are idealistic,” he went on. “They offend people.”

  It was time to stop tiptoeing around. Aldred said bluntly: “Have you already appointed someone?”

  “Hildred,” said Osmund, and he looked away.

  “Thank you, my lord abbot,” said Aldred. He threw the book onto Osmund’s bed and left the room.

  CHAPTER 20

  July 998

  ilf was away three months longer than anyone expected, which was one third of the time Ragna had been married to him. There had been one message, six weeks ago, simply saying that he was penetrating deeper into Wales than he had originally planned, and that he was in good health.

  Ragna missed him. She had grown to like having a man to talk to and discuss problems with and lie down beside at night. The shock of Inge had cast a shadow over that pleasure, but all the same she longed to have Wilf back.

  Ragna saw Inge around the compound almost every day. Ragna was the official wife, and she held her head high and avoided speaking to her rival; but all the same she felt the humiliation constantly.

  She wondered nervously how Wilf would feel about her when he returned. He would probably have lain with other women during his trip. He had made it brutally clear to her—not before the wedding, but after—that his love for her did not exclude sex with others. Had he met younger, more beautiful girls in Wales? Or would he return hungry for Ragna’s body? Or both?

  She got one day’s notice of his return. He sent a messenger ahead on a fast horse to say he would be home tomorrow. Ragna threw the compound into action. The kitchen prepared a feast, slaughtering a young ox, building a fire for spit-roasting, tapping barrels of ale, baking bread. Those not needed in the kitchen were deployed mucking out the stables, putting new rushes and straw on the floors, beating mattresses and airing blankets.

  Ragna went into Wilf’s house, where she burned rye to expel insects, took down shutters to let in fresh air, and made the bed inviting with lavender and rose petals. She set out fruit in a basket, a flagon of wine and a small barrel of ale, bread and cheese and smoked fish.

  All this activity took her mind off her anxiety.

  Next morning she got Cat to heat a cauldron of water and washed herself all over, paying special attention to the hairy parts. Then she rubbed perfumed oil into the skin of her neck, breasts, thighs, and feet. She put on a freshly laundered dress and new silk shoes, and secured her head scarf with a gold-embroidered band.

  He arrived at midday. She was forewarned by the sound of cheering from the town as he rode through at the head of the army, and she hurried to take a commanding position in front of the great hall.

  He came through the gate at a canter, his red cloak flying, his lieutenants close behind. He saw her immediately and came at her dangerously fast, and she struggled against a reflex to leap out of the way; but she knew she had to show him—and the crowd—that she had complete faith in his horsemanship. In that last moment she saw that his hair and mustache were untrimmed, his normally clean-shaven chin now had a wild beard, and there was a new scar across his forehead. Then he reined in spectacularly late, causing his horse to rear a few inches away from her, while her heart beat like a hammer and she kept the welcoming smile undimmed on her face.

  He leaped off his horse and took her in his arms, exactly as she had hoped he would. The people in the compound cheered and laughed: they loved to see his passion for her. She knew that he was showing off to his followers, and she accepted that as part of his role as leader. But there was no doubt about the sincerity of his embrace. He kissed her lasciviously, his tongue in her mouth, and she eagerly responded in the same way.

  After a minute he broke the clinch, bent down, and picked her up, with one arm under her shoulders and the other supporting her thighs. She laughed with joy. He carried her past the great hall to his own dwelling, as the crowd roared their approval. She was doubly glad that she had made his home clean and welcoming.

  He fumbled for the latch and threw the door open, then he carried her inside. He put her down and slammed the door.

  She took off her headdress and let her hair fall freely, then pulled her dress off with one swift move and lay down naked on his bed.

  He stared at her body with delight and desire. He looked like a thirsty man about to drink from a mountain stream. He fell on her, still wearing his leather jerkin and cloth leggings.

  She wrapped her arms and legs around him and drew him deep inside her.

  It was over quickly. He rolled off her and was asleep in seconds.

  She lay watching him for a while. She liked the beard, but she knew he would shave it tomorrow, for English noblemen did not wear beards. She touched the new scar on his brow. It started at his right temple, at the hair line, and followed a jagged course to his left eyebrow. She ran her fingertip along it, and he stirred in his sleep. Another half inch . . . Some brave Welshman had done that, she guessed. He had probably died for it.

  Sh
e poured a cup of wine and ate a morsel of cheese. She was content just to look at him and feel glad that he had come back to her alive. The Welsh were not very formidable fighters, but they were by no means helpless, and she was sure that some wives in the compound were now weeping at the news that their husbands were never coming home.

  As soon as he woke up, they made love again. This time it was slower. He took off his clothes. She had time to relish every sensation, to rub her hands over his shoulders and his chest, to thrust her fingers into his hair and bite his lips.

  When it was over, he said: “By the gods, I could eat an ox.”

  “And I’ve roasted one for your dinner. But let me get you something for now.” She brought him wine and new bread and smoked eel, and he ate with relish.

  Then he said: “I met Wynstan on the road.”

  “Ah,” she said.

  “He told me what happened at Outhenham.”

  Ragna tensed. She had been expecting this. Wynstan was never going to take his defeat lying down. He would try to get revenge by causing trouble between her and Wilf. But she had not anticipated that Wynstan would be so quick off the mark. As soon as the messenger had arrived yesterday, Wynstan must have set out to meet Wilf, keen to get his side of the story in first, hoping to put Ragna on the defensive.

  But she had her strategy ready. The whole thing had been Wynstan’s fault, not hers, and she was not going to make excuses for herself. She moved immediately to shift the ground of the discussion. “Don’t be angry with Wynstan,” she said. “There should be no rift between brothers.”

  Wilf was not expecting that. “But Wynstan is angry with you,” he said.

  “Of course. He tried to rob me while you were away, thinking to take advantage of me in your absence. But don’t worry, I prevented him.”

  “Is that how it was?” Clearly Wilf had not previously looked at the incident as an attack by a powerful man on an undefended woman.

  “He failed, and that made him cross. But I can deal with Wynstan, and I don’t want you to feel concerned about me. Don’t reprove him, please.”

  Wilf was still adjusting his picture of the incident. “But Wynstan says you humiliated him in front of others.”

  “A thief who is caught red-handed will naturally feel humiliated.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “His remedy is to stop stealing, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” Wilf smiled, and Ragna saw that she had successfully negotiated a difficult conversation. He added: “Wynstan may have met his match at last.”

  “Oh, I’m not his rival,” she said, knowing it was the opposite of the truth. But the conversation had gone far enough and ended well, so she changed the subject. “Tell me about your adventures. Did you teach the Welsh a hard lesson?”

  “I did, and I brought back a hundred captives to sell as slaves. We’ll make a small fortune.”

  “Well done,” said Ragna, but she did not mean it. Slavery was an aspect of English life that she found difficult. It had just about died out in Normandy, but here it was normal. There were a hundred or more slaves in Shiring, and several of them lived and worked in the compound. Many did dirty jobs, removing dunghills and cleaning stables, or heavy laboring such as digging ditches and carrying timber. No doubt the younger ones served in the town’s brothels, although Ragna did not know from personal experience because she had never been inside one of those houses. Slaves were not generally kept in chains. They could run away, and some did, but they were easily identifiable, dressed as they were in rags, without shoes, and speaking in strange accents. Most runaways were caught and brought back, and a reward was paid by the owner.

  Wilf said: “You don’t seem as pleased as you might.”

  Ragna had no intention of having a discussion with him about slavery now. “I’m thrilled with your triumph,” she said. “And I’m wondering if you’re man enough to fuck me three times in one afternoon.”

  “Man enough?” he said in mock indignation. “Get down on your hands and knees, and I’ll show you.”

  * * *

  The captives were put on display next day in the town square, standing in lines on the dusty ground between the cathedral and the abbey, and Ragna went out, accompanied by Cat, to look at them.

  They were dirty and exhausted from their journey, and some had minor injuries, presumably having put up a struggle. Ragna imagined that any who had major injuries would have been left behind to die. In the square were men and women, boys and girls, roughly between eleven and thirty years of age. It was summer, and the sun was hot, but they had no shade. They were tied up in different ways: many had their feet hobbled so that they could not run; some were chained to each other; others were bound to their captors, who stood by them, waiting to haggle over a price. The regular soldiers had one or two to sell, but Wigelm and Garulf and the other captains all had several.

  Ragna walked along the lines, finding the sight dispiriting. People said that slaves had done something to deserve their fate, and perhaps it was true sometimes, but not always. What crime could adolescent boys and girls have committed to deserve to be turned into prostitutes?

  Slaves did whatever they were told, but they generally performed their tasks as badly as they could get away with; and since they had to be fed and housed and given minimal clothing, they were in the end not much cheaper than the lowest-paid laborers. However, the financial aspect did not trouble Ragna as much as the spiritual. Owning a person had to be bad for the soul. Cruelty was normal: there were laws about ill-treatment of slaves, but they were feebly enforced and the punishments were mild. To be able to beat or rape or even murder someone brought out the very worst in human nature.

  As she scanned the faces in the square she recognized Garulf’s friend Stigand, with whom she had clashed over the ball game. He made a bow, too exaggerated to be sincere but not rude enough to merit a protest. She ignored him and looked at his three captives.

  She was startled to realize that she knew one of them.

  The girl was about fifteen. She had the black hair and blue eyes typical of Welsh people: the Bretons on the other side of the Channel were similar. She might have been pretty with the dirt washed off her face. She stared back, and her look of vulnerability imperfectly masked by defiance jogged Ragna’s memory. “You’re the girl from Dreng’s Ferry.”

  The captive said nothing.

  Ragna remembered her name. “Blod.”

  She remained silent, but her expression softened.

  Ragna lowered her voice so that Stiggy could not hear. “They said you had escaped. You must have been captured a second time.” That was remarkably bad luck, she thought, and she felt a warm surge of compassion for someone who had suffered that fate twice.

  She remembered more. “I heard that Dreng—” She realized what she was about to say and stopped, her hand flying to her mouth.

  Blod knew what Ragna had hesitated to say. “Dreng killed my baby.”

  “I’m so sorry. Did no one help you?”

  “Edgar jumped in the river to rescue the baby, but couldn’t find him in the dark.”

  “I know Edgar. He’s a good man.”

  “The only decent Englishman I ever met,” said Blod bitterly.

  Ragna saw a certain look in her eye. “Did you fall in love with him?”

  “He loves someone else.”

  “Sungifu.”

  Blod gave Ragna an enigmatic look but said nothing.

  Ragna said: “The one the Vikings killed.”

  “Yes, her.” Blod looked anxiously around the square.

  “I suppose you’re worried about who might buy you this time.”

  “I’m frightened of Dreng.”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s not in town. He would have come to see me. He likes to pretend we’re family.” Across the square, Ragna noticed Bishop Wynstan with his bodyguard,
Cnebba. “But there are other cruel men.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe I should buy you.”

  Blod’s face lit up with hope. “Would you?”

  Ragna spoke to Stiggy. “How much are you hoping to get for this slave?”

  “One pound. She’s fifteen, that’s young.”

  “It’s too much. I’ll give you half, though.”

  “No, she’s worth more than that.”

  “Split the difference?”

  Stiggy frowned. “How much would that be?” He knew the phrase split the difference but he could not do the arithmetic.

  “One hundred and eighty pence.”

  Suddenly Wynstan was there. “Buying a slave, my lady Ragna?” he said. “I thought you high-minded Normans disapproved.”

  “Like a high-minded bishop who disapproves of fornication, I find myself doing it anyway.”

  “Always the smart answer.” He had been looking with curiosity at Blod, and now he said: “I know you, don’t I?”

  Blod said loudly: “You fucked me, if that’s what you mean.”

  Wynstan looked embarrassed, which was unusual. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You did it twice. That was before I was pregnant, so you paid Dreng three pence for each go.”

  Wynstan made only a nominal pretence of priestly virtue, but all the same he was discomfited by this noisily public accusation of unchastity. “Rubbish. You’re making it up. You ran away from Dreng, I remember.”

  “He murdered by baby boy.”

  “Well, who cares? The child of a slave . . .”

  “Perhaps he was your son.”

  Wynstan went pale. Clearly he had not thought of that. He struggled to recover his dignity. “You should be flogged for running away.”

  Ragna interrupted. “I was in the process of bargaining for this slave, my lord bishop, if you will excuse me from further conversation.”

  Wynstan smiled maliciously. “You can’t buy her.”

  “I beg your pardon?”