The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  Aldred strode across the room, but Wynstan stood squarely in front of the workshop door, blocking his way. Aldred looked at him but spoke to Den. “It’s in there.”

  Den said: “Stand aside, my lord bishop.”

  Wynstan knew he had no defense now but his rank. “Get out of this place,” he said. “It’s a priests’ house.”

  Den looked around at the priests and their families, all staring silently at the confrontation. “It doesn’t look like a priests’ house,” said Den.

  “You’ll answer for this in the shire court,” Wynstan said.

  “Oh, don’t worry, we’re going to the shire court, all right,” said Den. “Now stand aside.”

  Aldred pushed past Wynstan and put his hand on the door. Wynstan, furious, punched Aldred’s face as hard as he could. Aldred fell back. Wynstan’s knuckles hurt: he was not accustomed to fisticuffs. He rubbed his right hand with his left.

  Den made a gesture to the men-at-arms.

  Wigbert approached Wynstan. The bishop was bigger, but Wigbert seemed more dangerous.

  “Don’t you dare touch a bishop!” Wynstan said furiously. “You’ll bring God’s curse down upon yourselves.”

  The men hesitated.

  Den said: “A man as wicked as Wynstan can’t bring down God’s curse, even if he is a bishop.”

  His scornful tone maddened Wynstan.

  “Seize him,” said Den.

  Wynstan moved, but Wigbert was faster. Before Wynstan could dodge, Wigbert grabbed him, lifted him off his feet, and moved him away from the door. Wynstan struggled in vain: Wigbert’s muscles were like ships’ ropes.

  Wynstan’s rage became as incandescent as the metal in Cuthbert’s crucible.

  Aldred darted into the workshop, with Den and Godwine right behind him.

  Wynstan was still being held by Wigbert. For a moment he had no inclination to move. The experience of being manhandled by a sheriff’s officer had shocked him. Wigbert slightly relaxed his grip.

  Wynstan heard Aldred say: “Look at this: copper to adulterate the silver, dies to counterfeit the king’s currency, and brand-new coins all over the bench. Cuthbert, my friend, what got into you?”

  “They forced me,” said Cuthbert. “I only wanted to make ornaments for the church.”

  Lying dog, Wynstan thought; you were eager for this work, and you got fat on the profits.

  He heard Den say: “How long has that evil bishop had you debasing the king’s coinage?”

  “Five years.”

  “Well, it’s over now.”

  Wynstan saw a river of silver coins change course and begin to flow away from him, and his fury boiled over. He pulled away from Wigbert with a sudden jerk.

  * * *

  Aldred was staring in astonishment at the sophisticated counterfeit factory that was Cuthbert’s workbench: the hammer and shears, the crucible in the fire, the dies and molds, and the pile of shiny, fake pennies; and at the same time he was rubbing his face where Wynstan had hit him, high on the left cheekbone; when he heard a roar of rage from Wynstan, followed by a surprised curse from Wigbert, and Wynstan charged into the workshop.

  He was red in the face and there was spittle on his lips like the foam on the mouth of a sick horse. He was screaming obscenities like a lunatic.

  Aldred had seen him angry but never like this: he appeared to have lost all control. Roaring with incoherent hatred, he hurled himself at Sheriff Den, who fell back against the wall, taken by surprise. But Den, who Aldred guessed must be experienced at this sort of thing, lifted one leg and kicked Wynstan hard in the chest, sending him lurching away.

  Wynstan turned on Cuthbert, who cowered away. Then Wynstan grabbed the anvil and tipped it over, spilling tools and forged pennies.

  Wynstan grabbed the iron-headed hammer and raised it high. There was murder in his eyes, Aldred saw, and for the first time in his life he felt he was in the presence of the devil.

  Godwine bravely came at him. Wynstan changed his stance, drew back his arm, and swung the hammer at the crucible of molten metal standing on the work bench. The clay shattered and the metal sprayed.

  Aldred saw a hot splash land full on Godwine’s face. The big man’s scream of terror and agony was cut off almost as soon as it began. Then something struck Aldred’s leg below the knee. He felt a pain worse than anything he had known in his whole life, and he passed out.

  * * *

  Aldred screamed when he came round, and continued to scream for several minutes. Eventually his cries became groans. Someone made him drink strong wine, but that only made him feel confused as well as terrified.

  When at last the panic subsided and he was able to focus, he looked at his leg. There was a hole in his calf the size of a robin’s egg and the flesh was charred black. It hurt like hell. The metal that had done the damage had cooled and fallen to the floor, he guessed.

  One of the priests’ women brought ointment for his wound but he refused it: there was no telling what pagan magic ingredients had gone into it, bats’ brains or crushed mistletoe or blackbird droppings. Spotting the trustworthy Edgar, he asked him to warm some wine and pour it into the hole to cleanse it, then find a clean rag.

  Just before passing out, Aldred had seen a large splash of molten metal land on Godwine’s face. Sheriff Den now told him that Godwine had died, and Aldred could understand how. A small drop of the molten metal had instantly made a hole in Aldred’s leg, so the quantity that had hit Godwine’s face must have burned all the way through to his brain in no time.

  “I’ve arrested Degbert and Cuthbert,” Den said. “I’ll keep them prisoners until the trial.”

  “What about Wynstan?”

  “I hesitate to arrest a bishop. I don’t want to turn the entire Church establishment against me. But it’s not really necessary: Wynstan isn’t likely to run away, and if he does, I’ll catch him.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’ve known him for years and I have never seen such a fit seize him. He’s gone beyond ordinary wickedness. He seems possessed.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Den. “This is a new level of evil. But don’t worry. We’ve caught him just in time.”

  CHAPTER 22

  October 998

  here would be repercussions, Edgar knew. Wynstan would not accept what had happened. He would fight back, and he would be merciless with those involved in the exposure of his crime. Edgar felt fear like a small, hard growth in his belly. Just how much danger was he in?

  He had played an important role, but always clandestinely. During the raid he had been out of sight, and only when the excitement was over had he appeared at the minster with a group of curious villagers. He would not have been noticed by Wynstan, he felt sure.

  He was wrong.

  Wynstan’s clerk, Ithamar, with the round face and white-blond hair, came to Dreng’s Ferry a week after the raid. After Mass he made an administrative announcement: in Degbert’s absence the eldest of the priests remaining at the minster, Father Deorwin, had been appointed acting dean. It hardly seemed worth the trip from Shiring when a letter would have done just as well.

  As the congregation was leaving the little church, Ithamar approached Edgar, who was with his family: Erman, Eadbald, Cwenburg, and six-month-old baby Winnie. Ithamar did not bother with polite small talk. He said bluntly to Edgar: “You’re a friend of Brother Aldred from Shiring Abbey.”

  Was this the real reason for Ithamar’s trip? Edgar felt a shiver of fear. He said: “I don’t know why you would say that.”

  Erman put in stupidly: “Because you are, idiot.”

  Edgar wanted to punch him in the face. He said: “No one’s speaking to you, Erman, so keep your fool mouth shut.” He turned back to the clerk. “I know the monk, certainly.”

  “You bathed his wound after he was burned.”

  “As anyone would.
Why do you ask?”

  “You’ve been seen with Aldred here in Dreng’s Ferry, at Shiring, and at Combe; and I myself saw you with him at Outhenham.”

  Ithamar was saying that Edgar knew Aldred, that was all. Ithamar did not seem to know that he had actually been Aldred’s spy. So what was this about? He decided to ask outright. “What point are you making, Ithamar?”

  “Are you going to be one of Aldred’s oath helpers?”

  So that was it. Ithamar’s mission was to find out who Aldred’s oath helpers were going to be. Edgar felt relieved. It could have been a lot worse.

  He said: “I haven’t been asked to be an oath helper.”

  This was true, but not completely honest. Edgar fully expected to be asked. When an oath helper had personal knowledge of the facts in the case, it added weight to his vow. And Edgar had been in the workshop and seen the metals, the dies, and the freshly minted coins, so his oath would be helpful to Aldred—and damaging to Wynstan.

  Ithamar knew this. “You will be asked, almost certainly,” he said. His rather childish face twisted with malice. “And when that happens, I recommend you refuse.”

  Erman spoke again. “He’s right, Edgar,” he said. “People like us should stay out of priests’ quarrels.”

  “Your brother is wise,” said Ithamar.

  Edgar said: “Thank you both for your advice, but the fact remains that I haven’t been summoned to appear at the trial of Bishop Wynstan.”

  Ithamar was not satisfied. “Remember,” he said, wagging a finger, “that Dean Degbert is your landlord.”

  Edgar was taken aback. He had not been expecting threats. “What do you mean by that”—he moved closer to Ithamar—“exactly?”

  Ithamar looked intimidated and took a step back, but he put on a belligerent face and said defiantly: “We need our tenants to support the Church, not undermine it.”

  “I would never undermine the Church. For example, I would not forge counterfeit coins in a minster.”

  “Don’t get clever with me. I’m telling you that if you offend your landlord, he will evict you from your farm.”

  Erman said: “Jesus save us. We can’t lose the farm. We’re only just getting straight. Edgar, listen to the man. Don’t be a fool.”

  Edgar stared at Ithamar with incredulity. “We’re in a church, and you’ve just attended Mass,” he said. “Angels and saints surround us, invisible but real. They all know what you’re doing. You’re trying to prevent the truth being told, and you’re protecting a wicked man from the consequences of his crimes. What do you imagine the angels are whispering to one another now, as they watch you committing these sins, with the wine of the sacrament still on your lips?”

  Eadbald protested: “Edgar, he’s the priest, not you!”

  Ithamar paled, and took a moment to think how to reply. “I’m protecting the Church, and the angels know it,” he said, though he looked as if he hardly believed that himself. “And you should do the same. Otherwise you’ll feel the wrath of God’s priesthood.”

  Erman spoke with a note of desperation. “You have to do as he says, Edgar, or we’ll be back where we were fifteen months ago, homeless and destitute.”

  “I got that message,” Edgar said shortly. He was feeling bewildered and uncertain and he did not want to show it.

  Eadbald put in: “Tell us you won’t testify, Edgar, please.”

  Cwenburg said: “Think of my baby.”

  Ithamar said: “Listen to your family, Edgar.” Then he turned away with the air of one who feels he has done all he can.

  Edgar wondered what Ma would say. He needed her wisdom now. The others were no help. He said: “Why don’t you all go back to the farmhouse? I’ll catch you up.”

  Erman said suspiciously: “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to talk to Ma,” said Edgar, and he walked away.

  He stepped outside the church and crossed the graveyard to Ma’s resting place. The grass over it was young and bright green. Edgar stood at the foot of the plot and folded his hands in the attitude of prayer. “I don’t know what to do, Ma,” he said.

  He closed his eyes and imagined she was alive, standing next to him, listening thoughtfully.

  “If I swear the oath, I’ll get us all evicted from the farm.”

  He knew his mother could not answer him. However, she was in his memory, and her spirit was surely nearby, so she could speak to him in his imagination, if he just opened his mind.

  “Just when we’re starting to have a little to spare,” he said. “Money for blankets and shoes and beef. Erman and Eadbald have worked hard. They deserve some reward.”

  He knew she agreed with that.

  “But if I give in to Ithamar I’ll be helping a wicked bishop escape justice. Wynstan will be able to carry on as he always has. I know you wouldn’t want me to do that.”

  He had laid it out plainly, he thought.

  In his mind, she answered clearly. “Family comes first,” she said. “Take care of your brothers.”

  “So I’ll refuse to help Aldred.”

  “Yes.”

  Edgar opened his eyes. “I knew you’d say that.”

  He turned to leave, but as he did so she spoke again.

  “Or you could do something clever,” she said.

  “What?”

  There was no reply.

  “What clever thing could I do?” he said.

  But she did not answer him.

  * * *

  Ealdorman Wilwulf paid a call on Shiring Abbey.

  Aldred was summoned from the scriptorium by a breathless novice. “The ealdorman is here!” he said.

  Aldred suffered a moment of fear.

  “And he’s asking for Abbot Osmund and you!” the novice added.

  Aldred had been at the abbey since Wilwulf’s father was ealdorman, and he could not remember either man ever entering the monastery. This was serious. He took a moment to calm his breathing and let his heartbeat return to normal.

  He could guess what had brought about this unprecedented visit. The sheriff’s raid on the minster at Dreng’s Ferry was all anyone was talking about throughout the shire, and perhaps all over the west of England. And an attack on Wynstan was a personal affront to Wilwulf, his brother.

  In Wilwulf’s eyes, Aldred was probably the one who had caused the trouble.

  Like all powerful men, Wilwulf would go to great lengths to keep his power. But would he go so far as to threaten a monk?

  An ealdorman needed to be seen as a fair judge. Otherwise he lost moral authority. Then he might have trouble enforcing his decisions. Enforcement could be difficult for an ealdorman. He could use his small personal bodyguard of men-at-arms to punish occasional minor disobedience, and he could raise an army—albeit with considerable trouble and expense—to fight the Vikings or harry the Welsh, but it was hard for him to deal with a persistent undercurrent of disobedience among people who lost faith in their overlords. He needed to be looked up to. Was Wilwulf now prepared to attack Aldred regardless?

  Aldred felt a bit nauseated, and swallowed hard. He had known, when he began to investigate Wynstan, that he was going up against ruthless people, and he had told himself it was his duty. But it was easy to take risks in a theoretical way. Now the reality was on him.

  He limped up the stairs. His leg still hurt, especially when he walked. Molten metal was worse than a knife in the flesh.

  Wilwulf was not a man to be kept waiting outside the door, and he had already gone into Osmund’s room. In his yellow cloak he was a garish worldly presence in the gray-and-white monastery. He stood at the end of the bed with his legs apart and his hands on his hips in a classic stance of aggression.

  The abbot was still bedridden. He was sitting up, wearing a nightcap, looking scared.

  Aldred acted more confident than he f
elt. “Good day to you, ealdorman,” he said briskly.

  “Come in, monk,” said Wilwulf, as if he were at home and they were the visitors. With a note of complacency he added: “I believe my brother gave you that black eye.”

  “Don’t worry,” Aldred said with a deliberate note of condescension. “If Bishop Wynstan confesses and begs forgiveness, God will have mercy on him for his unpriestly violence.”

  “He was provoked!”

  “God doesn’t accept that excuse, ealdorman. Jesus told us to turn the other cheek.”

  Wilwulf grunted with exasperation and shifted his ground. “I’m highly displeased by what happened at Dreng’s Ferry.”

  “So am I,” said Aldred, going on the offensive. “Such a wicked crime against the king! Not to mention the murder of the sheriff’s man, Godwine.”

  Osmund said timorously: “Be quiet, Aldred, let the ealdorman speak.”

  The door opened and Hildred came in.

  Wilwulf was irritated by both interruptions. “I didn’t summon you,” he said to Hildred. “Who are you?”

  Osmund answered the question: “This is Treasurer Hildred, whom I have made acting abbot during my illness. He should hear whatever you have to say.”

  “All right.” Wilwulf picked up the conversation where it had left off. “A crime has been committed, and that is shameful,” he conceded. “But now the question is what should be done.”

  “Justice,” said Aldred. “Obviously.”

  “Shut up,” said Wilwulf.

  Osmund spoke in a pleading tone. “Aldred, you’re only making things worse for yourself.”

  “Making what worse?” Aldred said indignantly. “I’m not in trouble. I didn’t forge the king’s currency. That was Wilwulf’s brother.”

  Wilwulf was on weak ground. “I’m not here to discuss the past,” he said evasively. “The question, as I said a moment ago, is what is to be done now.” He turned to Aldred. “And don’t say ‘justice’ again or I’ll knock your bald head off your skinny neck.”