The Evening and the Morning

by Ken Follett

  Dreng gathered an armful of deadfalls and lit a fire with a spark from a flint. Degbert unloaded the packhorse. The three men made themselves as comfortable as they could as night fell.

  Wynstan took a long pull from a flask and passed it around. Then he gave instructions. “You’ll have to carry the barrel of tar with you to the village,” he said. “You can’t take the horse—it might make a noise.”

  Dreng said: “I can’t carry a barrel. I’ve got a bad back. A Viking—”

  “I know. Degbert can take it. You’ll carry the sack of rags.”

  “That looks heavy enough.”

  Wynstan ignored his grumbling. “What you have to do is simple. You dip the rags in the tar, then tie them to the bridge, ideally to the ropes and the smaller wooden components. Take your time, tie them tight, don’t rush the job. When they’re all attached, light a good, dry stick, then use that to ignite all the rags, one by one.”

  “This is the part that worries me,” said Degbert.

  “It will be the middle of the night. A few burning rags won’t wake anyone. You’ll have all the time in the world. When the rags are alight, walk quietly back up the hill. Don’t make a noise, don’t run until you’re out of earshot. I’ll be waiting for you here with the horses.”

  “They’ll know it was me,” said Dreng.

  “They’ll suspect you, perhaps. You were foolish enough to oppose the building of the bridge, a protest that was doomed to be ignored, as you should have known.” Wynstan was often infuriated by the stupidity of men such as Dreng. “But then they’ll recall that you were in Shiring when the bridge was set on fire. You were seen in the great hall two days ago, and you’ll be seen there again the day after tomorrow. If anyone is smart enough to realize that you were out of sight during a period long enough to get to Dreng’s Ferry and back, I will swear that the three of us were at my residence the whole time.”

  Degbert said: “They’ll blame outlaws.”

  Wynstan nodded. “Outlaws are useful scapegoats.”

  Dreng said: “I could hang for this.”

  “So could I!” said Degbert. “Stop whining—we’re doing it for you!”

  “No, you’re not. You’re doing it because you hate Aldred, both of you.”

  It was true.

  Degbert detested Aldred for getting him kicked out of his comfortable minster. Wynstan’s hatred was more complex. Aldred had challenged him again and again. Each time, Wynstan had punished him; but Aldred never learned his lesson. This maddened Wynstan. People were supposed to be afraid of him. Someone who had defied him should never be seen to prosper. Wynstan’s curse had to be fatal. If Aldred could oppose him, others might get the same idea. Aldred was a crack in the wall that might one day bring down the whole building.

  Wynstan made himself calm. “Who cares why we’re doing it?” he said, and his fury sounded in his voice despite his effort at self-control, so that the other two looked scared. “None of us is going to hang,” he said in a more emollient tone. “If necessary I shall swear that we’re innocent, and the oath of a bishop is too powerful.” He passed the wineskin around again.

  After a while he put more wood on the fire and told the others to settle down to rest. “I’ll stay awake,” he said.

  They lay down, wrapped in their cloaks, but Wynstan remained sitting upright. He would have to guess when it was the middle of the night. Perhaps the exact hour did not matter, but he needed to feel sure the villagers were in the deepest trough of slumber, and the monks were a few hours away from their predawn service of Matins.

  He was uncomfortable, feeling the aches and pains of a body almost forty years old, and he asked himself whether it had really been necessary for him to sleep rough in the forest with Degbert and Dreng; but he knew the answer. He had to make sure they did the job thoroughly and at the same time discreetly. As with all the most important tasks, his hands-on supervision was the only guarantee of success.

  He was glad he had gone into battle with Garulf. If he had not been there, the boy would surely have been killed. These were things a bishop should not have to do. But Wynstan was no ordinary bishop.

  While he waited for the hours to pass he brooded over the illness of his half brother, Wilf, and its consequences for Shiring. It was plain to Wynstan, though not to everyone, that Wilf’s recovery was partial. Ragna was still the main conduit for his instructions: she decided what was to be done and then pretended that her decisions were his wishes. Bern the Giant was still in charge of Wilf’s personal bodyguard and Sheriff Den was in command of the Shiring army, what was left of it. Wilf’s recovery served mainly to allow him to confirm her authority.

  Wynstan and Wigelm had been cleverly sidelined. They retained authority in their respective spheres, Wynstan in the diocese and Wigelm at Combe, but they had little general power. Garulf had recovered from his injuries, but the disastrous battle with the Vikings had destroyed his reputation and he had no credibility. Gytha had long been stripped of influence in the compound. Ragna still reigned supreme.

  And there was nothing Wynstan could do about it.

  He had no trouble staying alert as the night wore on. A maddeningly intractable problem would always keep him awake. He took a few sips of wine now and again, never very much. He threw wood on the fire, just enough to keep it going.

  When he judged it was past midnight, he woke Degbert and Dreng.

  * * *

  Brindle growled in the night. The sound did not quite wake Edgar. He was vaguely aware and recognized it as the muted warning the dog gave when she heard someone pass the house at night but recognized the step of a person she knew. Edgar understood that he did not need to respond, and went back to sleep.

  Some time later, the dog barked. That was different. It was an urgent, frightened bark that said Wake up quickly, now, I’m really scared.

  Edgar smelled burning.

  The air was always smokey in his house, as it was in every house in England, but this was a different aroma, sharper and slightly ripe, pungent. In the first moment of wakefulness he thought of tar. In the second moment he realized this was some kind of emergency, and he leaped to his feet, full of fear.

  He threw open the door and stepped out. He saw with horror where the smell came from: the bridge was alight. Flames flickered maliciously in a dozen different places, and on the surface of the water their reflections danced with insane glee.

  Edgar’s masterpiece was burning.

  He ran down the hill in his bare feet, hardly noticing the cold. The fire blazed higher in the few seconds it took him to reach the waterside, but the bridge could still be saved, he thought, if enough water could be thrown on it. He stepped into the river, cupped his hands in the water, and splashed a burning timber.

  He realized immediately that this was hopelessly inadequate. He had allowed panic to direct him for a few moments. He stopped, breathed, and looked around. Every house was daubed with orange-red reflections. No one else was awake. “Help!” he yelled desperately. “Everybody, come quickly! Fire! Fire!”

  He ran to the alehouse and banged on the door, shouting. It was opened a moment later by Blod, big-eyed and scared, her dark hair tangled. “Bring buckets and pots!” Edgar yelled. “Quickly!” Blod, showing impressive presence of mind, immediately reached behind the door and handed him a wooden bucket.

  Edgar dashed into the river and began throwing bucketfuls of water over the flames. Seconds later he was joined by Blod with Ethel, who carried a big clay jar, and Leaf, staggering with an iron cooking pot.

  It was not enough. The flames were spreading faster than the people could put them out.

  Other villagers appeared: Bebbe, Bucca Fish, Cerdic and Ebba, Hadwine and Elfburg, Regenbald Roper. As they ran to the river, Edgar saw that they were all empty-handed. Maddened with frustration, he yelled: “Bring pots! You idiots, bring pots!” They realized they could do l
ittle without water containers, and turned back to their houses to find what was needed.

  Meanwhile, the fire grew quickly. The smell of tar was diminishing, but the flat-bottomed boats were burning strongly and even the oak timbers were now catching alight.

  Then Aldred came out of the monastery followed by the rest of the monks, all carrying pots, jars, and small barrels. “Go to the downstream side!” Edgar shouted, accompanying his words with an arm gesture. Aldred led the monks into the river on the other side of the bridge and they all began throwing water on the flames.

  Soon the whole village had joined in. Some who could swim crossed the cold river and attacked the blaze at the far end of the bridge. But even at the near end, Edgar saw with despair, they were losing the battle.

  Mother Agatha arrived with two other nuns in their tiny boat.

  Leaf, Dreng’s elder wife, who was probably drunk as well as sleepy, stumbled out of the river, exhausted. Edgar noticed her and feared she was in danger of reeling into the flames. She dropped to her knees in the riverside mud and swayed sideways. She managed to right herself, but not before her hair caught fire.

  She screamed in pain, came upright, and ran, blindly heading away from the water that could save her. Ethel went after her, but Edgar was quicker. He threw down his bucket and ran. He caught Leaf easily, but saw that she was already badly burned, the skin of her face blackened and cracking. He threw her to the ground. There was no time to carry her back to the river: she would be dead before they got there. He pulled his tunic off and wrapped it around her head, smothering the flames instantly.

  Mother Agatha appeared beside him. She bent over and gently removed Edgar’s garment from around Leaf’s head. It came away scorched, with some of Leaf’s hair and face attached to the woolen fibers. She touched Leaf’s chest, feeling for a heartbeat, then shook her head sadly.

  Ethel burst into tears.

  Edgar heard a great creak, like the groan of a giant, then a mammoth splash. He turned to see that the far end of the bridge had crashed into the river.

  He glimpsed something on the bank just downstream of the ruined bridge. It piqued his curiosity. Not caring that he was stark naked, he stepped to the bank and picked it up. It was a half-burned rag. He sniffed it. As he had suspected, it had been soaked in tar.

  In the light of the dying flames he saw his brothers, Erman and Eadbald, hurrying along the bank from the farmhouse. Cwenburg was close behind them, carrying eighteen-month-old Beorn and holding the hand of Winnie, aged four. Now the whole village was here.

  He showed the rag to Aldred. “Look at this.”

  At first Aldred did not understand. “What is it?”

  “A rag soaked in tar and set alight. It obviously fell in the water, which put out the flames.”

  “You mean it was originally tied to the bridge?”

  “How do you think the bridge caught fire?” The other villagers began to gather around Edgar, listening. “There’s been no storm, no lightning. A house might burn, because a house has a fire in the middle of it, but what could set light to a bridge in the middle of winter?”

  The cold got to his naked body at last, and he began to shiver.

  Aldred said: “Someone did this.”

  “When I discovered the fire, the bridge was burning in a dozen separate places. An accidental fire starts in one place. This was arson.”

  “But who did it?”

  Bucca Fish was listening. “It must have been Dreng,” he said. “He hates the bridge.” Bucca, by contrast, loved it: his business had multiplied.

  Fat Bebbe overheard. “If it was Dreng, he’s killed his own wife,” she said.

  The monks crossed themselves, and old Tatwine said: “God bless her soul.”

  Aldred said: “Dreng is in Shiring. He can’t have started the fire.”

  Edgar said: “Who else?”

  No one answered the question.

  Edgar studied the dying flames, assessing the damage. The far end of the bridge was gone. At the near end, the embers still glowed, and the entire structure was leaning downstream precipitously.

  It was utterly beyond repair.

  Blod came to him holding a cloak. After a moment he realized it was his own. She must have gone to his house and fetched it. She also had his shoes.

  He put the cloak on. He was shivering too much to manage the shoes, so Blod knelt in front of him and put them on his feet.

  “Thank you,” said Edgar.

  Then he began to cry.

  CHAPTER 31

  June 1002

  agna sat astride her horse and looked down the slope at the village of Dreng’s Ferry. The ruined bridge stood out like a gallows in a marketplace. The blackened timbers were twisted and broken. At the far end nothing was left but the deeply embedded abutment: the boats and the superstructure had become detached, and scorched beams littered the downstream banks. At the near side the flat-bottomed boats were still in place, but the framework and the roadbed had collapsed into them, forming a tragic heap of destroyed carpentry.

  She felt for Edgar. He had talked passionately about this bridge whenever they met in Outhenham and Shiring: the challenge of building in the river, the need for strength enough to bear the weight of loaded carts, the beauty of well-fitting oak joinery. He had put his soul into that bridge, and now he must be heartbroken.

  No one knew who had set the fire, but Ragna had no doubt about who was behind it. Only Bishop Wynstan was malicious enough to do such a thing and clever enough to get away with it.

  She hoped to see Edgar today, to talk about the quarry, but she was not sure whether he was here or at Outhenham. She would be disappointed if she had missed him. However, that was not her main purpose here.

  She touched Astrid’s flanks with her heels and moved slowly down the hill, followed by her entourage. Wilwulf was with her, and she had brought Agnes as her maid—Cat was back at the compound taking care of the children. Ragna was guarded by Bern and six men-at-arms.

  Wilf now spent his days being cared for by Ragna and his nights with Carwen. He pleased himself, as he always had; in that respect he had not changed. He saw Ragna as a banquet table from which he could select what he wanted, leaving the rest. He had loved her body until he was distracted by another one; he relied more than ever on her intelligence to help him govern; and he acted as if she had no more soul than his favorite horse.

  In the days since his physical recovery she had developed a sense that he was in danger, an intuition that was getting stronger. She had come to Dreng’s Ferry to do something about it. She had a plan, and she was here to win support for it.

  Dreng’s Ferry smelled of brewing ale, as it often did. She rode past a house with a display of silvery fish on a stone slab outside the door: the village had acquired its first shop. There was a new extension on the north side of the little church.

  By the time she and Wilf reached the monastery, Aldred and the monks were lined up outside to greet them. Wilf and the men would sleep here tonight; Ragna and Agnes would cross to Leper Island and spend the night at the nunnery, where Ragna would be welcomed only too warmly by Mother Agatha.

  For some reason she was reminded of her first meeting with Aldred, back in Cherbourg. He was still handsome, but his face now had worry lines that had not been there five years ago. He was not yet forty, she calculated, but he looked older.

  She greeted him and said: “Are the others here?”

  “Waiting in the church, in accordance with your instructions,” he replied.

  She turned to Wilf. “Why don’t you go to the stable with the men and make sure the horses are looked after?”

  “Good idea,” said Wilf.

  Ragna went with Aldred to the church. “I see you’ve built an extension,” she said as they approached the entrance.

  “Thanks to free stone from you, and a builder who
takes reading lessons instead of pay.”

  “Edgar.”

  “Of course. The new transept is a side chapel for the relics of Saint Adolphus.”

  They went in. A trestle table had been set up in the nave, with parchment, a bottle of ink, several quills, and a penknife with which to sharpen the points of the quills. Sitting on benches at the table were Bishop Modulf of Norwood and Sheriff Den.

  Ragna felt confident of the support of Aldred for her scheme. The hard-faced Sheriff Den had consented in advance. She was not so sure of Modulf, a thin man with a sharp mind. He would help her if her plan made sense to him, but not otherwise.

  She sat down with them. “Thank you, bishop, and you, sheriff, for agreeing to meet me here.”

  Den said: “Always a pleasure, my lady.”

  Modulf said warily: “I’m eager to hear the reason for this mysterious invitation.”

  Ragna got straight down to business. “Ealdorman Wilwulf is now physically well, but as you eat supper with him this evening you’ll wonder about his mind. I can tell you now that he is not the man he used to be, mentally, and all the signs are that he will never return to normal.”

  Den nodded. “I had wondered . . .”

  Modulf said: “And what, exactly, do you mean when you say ‘mentally’?”

  “His memory is erratic and he has difficulty with numbers. This leads him to make embarrassing mistakes. He addressed Thane Deorman of Norwood as ‘Emma’ and offered him a thousand pounds for his horse. If I’m present, which is nearly always, I laugh and try to brush it off.”

  Modulf said: “This is bad news.”

  “I’m sure Wilf is now incapable of leading an army against the Vikings.”

  Aldred said: “I noticed, a few minutes ago, that you told him to go to the stable with the men, and he just obeyed you like a child.”