by Ken Follett
“We should hold court tomorrow morning—in the ealdorman’s compound, in front of the great hall. Announce to the townspeople that you and I are taking charge—no, that we already have taken charge—pending the king’s decision.” She thought for a minute. “The only opposition will come from Bishop Wynstan.”
“He’s ill, and losing his mind; and people know that,” Den said. “He’s not the power he once was.”
“Let’s make sure of that,” Ragna insisted. “When we go to the compound, you should take all your men with you, fully armed, a show of strength. Wynstan has no men-at-arms: he never needed them because his brothers had plenty. Now he has no brothers and no men. He may protest at our announcement, but there will be nothing he can do about it.”
“You’re right,” said Den. He looked at Ragna with an odd little smile.
She said: “What?”
He said: “You’ve just proved it. I made the right choice.”
* * *
In the morning Ragna could hardly wait to see Alain.
She forced herself not to hurry. This was a hugely important public event, and she had long ago learned the importance of giving the right impression. She washed thoroughly, to smell like a noblewoman. She let Osgyth do her hair in an elaborate style with a high hat, to make her even taller. She dressed carefully, in the richest clothes she had with her, to look as authoritative as possible.
But then she could not discipline herself any longer, and she went ahead of Sheriff Den.
The townspeople were already climbing the hill to the ealdorman’s compound. The news had evidently got around town already. No doubt Osgyth and Ceolwulf had talked last night of the events in Outhenham, and half the townspeople had heard the story—Ragna’s version—by morning. They were avid to learn more.
Den had written to the king last night, before going to bed, and his messenger had left already. It would be some time before a reply came: Den was not sure where the king was, and it could take the messenger weeks to find him.
Ragna went straight to Meganthryth’s house.
She saw Alain immediately. He was sitting at the table eating porridge with a spoon, watched by his grandmother, Gytha, and Meganthryth, plus two maids. Ragna realized with a shock that he was no longer a baby. He was taller, his dark hair was getting long, and his face had lost its pudgy roundness. He had the beginnings of the nose and chin that characterized the men of Wigelm’s family.
She cried: “Oh, Alain, you’ve changed!” and she burst into tears.
Gytha and Meganthryth both turned around, startled.
Ragna went to the table and sat by her son. He stared at her thoughtfully with his large blue eyes. She could not tell whether he knew her or not.
Gytha and Meganthryth looked on without speaking.
Ragna said: “Do you remember me, Alain?”
“Mudder,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he had been searching for the right word and was satisfied to have found it; then he put another spoonful of porridge into his mouth.
Ragna felt a wave of relief overwhelm her.
She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at the other women. Meganthryth’s eyes were red and sore. Gytha was dry-eyed, but her face was white and drawn. They had heard the news, evidently, and both were possessed by grief. Wigelm had been evil, but he had been Gytha’s son and Meganthryth’s lover, and they mourned him. But Ragna felt little compassion. They had connived in the monumental cruelty of taking Alain away from Ragna. They deserved no sympathy.
Ragna said firmly: “I have come to take back my child.”
Neither woman protested.
Alain put down his spoon and turned his bowl to show that it was empty. “All gone,” he said. He placed the bowl back on the table.
Gytha looked defeated. All her deviousness had come to nothing in the end. She seemed much changed. “We were cruel to you, Ragna,” she said. “It was wicked of us to take your child.”
It was a shocking turnaround, and Ragna was not ready to take it at face value. “Now you admit it,” she said. “When you’ve lost the power to keep him.”
Gytha persisted. “You won’t be as wicked as us, will you? Please don’t cut me off from my only grandchild.”
Ragna made no reply. She turned her attention back to Alain. He was watching her carefully.
She reached for him and he held out his arms to be picked up. She lifted him onto her lap. He was heavier than she remembered: she would no longer be able to carry him around half the day. He leaned into her, resting his head on her chest, and she felt the heat of his little body through the wool of her dress. She stroked his hair.
From outside she heard the sound of a large group of people. Den was arriving with his entourage, she guessed. She stood up, still holding Alain in her arms. She went out.
Den was marching across the compound at the head of a large squad of men-at-arms. Ragna joined him and walked by his side. A crowd was waiting for them outside the great hall.
They stopped at the door and turned to face the people.
All the important men of the town stood at the front of the crowd. Bishop Wynstan was there, Ragna saw; and she was shocked by his appearance. He was thin and stooped, and his hands were shaking. He looked like an old man. His face as he stared at Ragna was a mask of hatred, but he seemed too weak to do anything about it, and his weakness appeared to fuel his rage.
Den’s deputy, Captain Wigbert, clapped his hands loudly.
The crowd went quiet.
Den said: “We have an announcement.”
CHAPTER 42
October 1006
ing Ethelred held court in Winchester Cathedral, with a crowd of dignitaries wrapped in furs against the bite of approaching winter.
To Ragna’s delight, he confirmed everything Sheriff Den had proposed.
Garulf protested, his indignant whine echoing off the stone walls of the nave. “I am the son of Ealdorman Wilwulf and the nephew of Ealdorman Wigelm,” he said. “Den is merely a sheriff without noble blood.”
The assembled thanes might have been expected to agree with this, for they all wanted their sons to be rulers too; but their reaction was muted.
Ethelred said to Garulf: “You lost half my army in one foolish battle in Devon.”
Kings have long memories, thought Ragna. She heard a rumble of agreement from the noblemen, who also remembered Garulf’s defeat.
“That will never happen again,” Garulf promised.
The king was unmoved. “It won’t, because you’ll never lead my army again. Den is ealdorman.”
Garulf at least had the sense to know when his case was hopeless, and he shut up.
It was not just the battle, Ragna reflected. Garulf’s family had defied the king’s rule again and again for a decade, disobeying orders and refusing to pay fines. It had seemed that they would get away with it indefinitely, but now at last their insurrection had come to an end. There was justice, after all. A pity it took such a long time coming.
Queen Emma, sitting next to the king on a similar cushioned stool, leaned over and murmured in his ear. He nodded and spoke to Ragna. “I believe your son has been restored to you, Lady Ragna.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
He addressed the court. “Let no one take the lady Ragna’s child from her.”
It was a fait accompli, but she was glad to have royal approval publicly stated. It gave her security for the future. “Thank you,” she said.
After the court, the new bishop of Winchester gave a banquet. It was attended by the previous bishop, Alphage, who had come from Canterbury. Ragna was keen to speak to him. It was high time Wynstan was removed from his bishopric, and the only person who could dismiss him was the archbishop of Canterbury.
She wondered how she could contrive a meeting, but Alphage solved the problem by approaching her.
“Last time we were here, I believe you did me a good turn,” he said.
“I’m not sure what you mean . . .”
“You discreetly revealed the news of Bishop Wynstan’s shameful illness.”
“I tried to keep my role secret, but Wynstan seems to have ferreted out the truth.”
“Well, I’m grateful to you, for you put an end to his bid to become archbishop of Canterbury.”
“I’m very glad to have been of service to you.”
“So now you’re living at King’s Bridge?” he said, changing the subject.
“It’s my base, though I travel a lot.”
“And is everything well at the priory there?”
“Absolutely.” Ragna smiled. “I passed through nine years ago, and the place was a hamlet called Dreng’s Ferry, with about five buildings. Now it’s a town, busy and prosperous. Prior Aldred has done that.”
“A fine man. You know it was he who first warned me of Wynstan’s scheme to become archbishop.”
Ragna wanted to ask Alphage to dismiss Wynstan, but she had to tread carefully. The archbishop was a man, and all men hated to be told what to do by a woman. In her life she had sometimes forgotten this, and found her wishes frustrated for that reason. Now she said: “I hope you’ll come to Shiring before you return to Canterbury.”
“Any particular reason?”
“The town would be thrilled by a visit from you. And you might want to observe Wynstan.”
“How is his health?”
“Poor, but it’s not really for me to give an opinion,” she said with false humility. “Your own judgment is undoubtedly best.” It was rare for a man to doubt that his judgment was good.
Alphage nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll visit Shiring.”
* * *
Getting him to visit was only the beginning.
Archbishop Alphage was a monk, so he lodged at Shiring Abbey. This disappointed Ragna, for she had wanted him to stay at the bishop’s residence and get a good long close-up look at Wynstan.
Wynstan should have invited Alphage to dine with him. However, Ragna heard that Archdeacon Degbert had delivered a transparently insincere message saying that Wynstan would love to entertain the archbishop but would not ask him for fear of interfering with his monkish devotions. Wynstan was mad only in phases, it seemed; and when he was in his right mind he could be as sly as ever.
Ragna got Sheriff Den to invite the archbishop to dinner at his compound, so that Den could speak about Wynstan; but the result was another disappointment: Alphage declined. He was a genuine ascetic, and he really did prefer to eat stewed eel with beans in the company of other monks while listening to a reading from the life story of Saint Swithin.
Ragna was afraid that the two might not meet at all, which would scupper her plan. However, it was automatic that the visiting archbishop would celebrate Mass at the cathedral on Sunday, and Wynstan was obliged to attend, so to her relief the enemies were thrown together at last.
The whole town attended. Wynstan had deteriorated even since she had seen him the day after the death of Wigelm. His hair was graying, and he walked with a cane. Unfortunately that was not enough to get him unseated. Half the bishops Ragna had ever seen were old and gray and unsteady on their feet.
Ragna believed in the Christian faith and thanked God for its civilizing influence, but she did not spend much time thinking about it. However, the Mass always moved her, making her feel that she had a place in Creation that made sense.
Half her mind was on the service and half on Wynstan. She was worried, now, that he might get through the rite without revealing his insanity. He performed the motions mechanically, almost absent-mindedly, but he was not making any mistakes.
She watched the elevation of the Host with more than usual attention. Jesus had died so that sinners could be forgiven. Ragna had confessed her murder to Aldred, who was a priest as well as a monk. He had compared her to the Old Testament hero Judith, who had cut off the head of the Assyrian general Holofernes. The story proved that even a murderess could be pardoned. Aldred had assigned her a fasting penance and granted absolution.
The service continued with no manifestation of Wynstan’s madness. Ragna felt frustrated. She had had some credit with Alphage, but now it seemed she might have spent it in vain.
The priests began the procession to the exit. Suddenly Wynstan stepped to one side and crouched down. Alphage looked at him, mystified. Wynstan lifted the skirt of his priestly robe and defecated on the stone floor.
Alphage’s face was a picture of horror.
It only took a few seconds. Wynstan stood up, rearranged his robes, and said: “That’s better.” Then he rejoined the procession.
Everyone stared at what he had left behind.
Ragna gave a sigh of satisfaction. “Good-bye, Wynstan,” she said.
* * *
Ragna rode to King’s Bridge in the company of Archbishop Alphage, who was returning to Canterbury. He was a joy to talk to: intelligent, educated, sincere in his religion yet tolerant of dissent. He even knew the romantic Latin poetry of Alcuin, which she had loved when she was growing up. She now realized that she had got out of the habit of reading poetry. It had been crowded out of her life by violence, childbirth, and imprisonment. Perhaps there would soon be a time when she could read poetry again.
Alphage had dismissed Wynstan immediately. Unsure what to do with the mad bishop, he had asked Ragna’s advice, and she had recommended locking Wynstan up for a while in the hunting lodge where she had spent a year imprisoned. She had been savagely pleased with the irony.
Riding into King’s Bridge felt to Ragna like coming home, which was odd, she thought, for she had spent relatively little of her life here. But somehow she felt safe. Perhaps it was because Aldred ruled the town. He respected law and justice, and did not judge every issue according to his own interests, not even the priory’s interests. If only the whole world could be like that.
She noticed a massive hole in the ground on the site of the projected new church. Large stacks of timber and stones stood around. Clearly Aldred was going ahead without Edgar.
She thanked Alphage for his company and turned aside to her own residence, right opposite the building site, while the archbishop rode a little farther to the cluster of buildings that formed the priory.
She had decided not to move into Wilf’s house in Shiring. She could live anywhere in the region, and she preferred King’s Bridge.
As she approached her home—which was looking more and more like an ealdorman’s compound—Astrid gave a happy snort of recognition, and a moment later the children came running out, Ragna’s four boys and Cat’s two girls. Ragna jumped out of the saddle and hugged them all.
She was filled with a strange emotion that at first she did not recognize. After a moment she realized that she was happy.
She had not felt like this for a long time.
* * *
The timber building that had once been the minster was now Aldred’s house and place of work. He welcomed Archbishop Alphage, who shook his hand warmly and thanked him again for his help in gaining the archbishopric. Aldred said: “You’ll forgive me, my lord archbishop, if I say I did it for God, not for you.”
“Which is even more flattering,” said Alphage with a smile.
He sat down, declined a cup of wine, and helped himself from a bowl of nuts. “You were so right about Wynstan,” he said. “He is now quite mad.”
Aldred raised an eyebrow.
Alphage said: “Wynstan took a shit in Shiring Cathedral during Mass.”
“In front of everyone?”
“All the clergy and several hundred in the congregation.”
“Lord save us!” said Aldred. “Did he offer any excuse?”
“He just said: ‘That’s better.’”
Aldred let out a
bark of laughter then apologized. “I’m sorry, archbishop, but it is almost funny.”
“I’ve dismissed him. Archdeacon Degbert will deputize for now.”
Aldred frowned. “I don’t have a high opinion of Degbert. He was dean here when this place was a minster.”
“I know, and I never thought well of him. I told him not to hope for promotion to bishop.”
Aldred was relieved. “Who then will take Wynstan’s place?”
“You, I hope.”
Aldred was astounded. He had not been expecting that. “I’m a monk,” he said.
“So am I,” said Alphage.
“But . . . I mean . . . my work is here. I’m the prior.”
“It may be God’s will for you to move on.”
Aldred wished he had been given more time to prepare for this conversation. It was a great honor to be made a bishop, and a tremendous opportunity to further God’s work. But he could not bear the thought of abandoning King’s Bridge. What about the new church? What about the growth of the town? Who would take his place?
He thought about Shiring. Could he realize his dream there? Could he turn Shiring Cathedral into a world-class center of learning? He would first have to deal with a group of priests who had become idle and corrupt under Wynstan. Perhaps he could dismiss all the priests and replace them with monks, following the example of Elfric, Alphage’s predecessor at Canterbury. But the Shiring monks were under the authority of Abbot Hildred, Aldred’s ancient enemy. No, a move to Shiring would set his project back years.
“I’m honored and flattered as well as surprised, my lord archbishop,” he said. “But I beg to be excused. I can’t leave King’s Bridge.”
Alphage looked cross. “That’s a great disappointment,” he said. “You’re a man of unusual potential—you might have my job, one day—but you’ll never rise in the church hierarchy if you remain merely prior of King’s Bridge.”
