Кен Фоллетт - The Evening and the Morning

The crowd was muttering discontentedly. They were disappointed. That was the disadvantage of power, Wynstan thought; people expected miracles. Several people surged forward to demand some kind of special treatment. The men-at-arms moved to keep order.

Wynstan stepped away. At the church door he ran into Mags again. She had decided to change her tone, and instead of desperate she was wheedling. “Would you like me to suck your cock around the back of the church?” she said. “You always say I do it better than the young girls.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Wynstan said. A sailor or a fisherman might not care who saw him being sucked off, but a bishop had to be discreet. “Get to the point,” he said. “How much do you need?”

“What do you mean?”

“To replace the girls,” Wynstan said. He had had good times at Mags’s house, and he hoped to do so again. “How much money do you need to borrow from me?”

Mags was practiced at responding quickly to men’s changes of mood, and she adjusted her demeanor again, becoming businesslike. “If they’re young and fresh, slave girls cost about a pound each at Bristol market.”

Wynstan nodded. There was a big slave market at Bristol, several days’ journey from here. He made up his mind quickly, as always. “If I lend you ten pounds today, can you pay me back twenty a year from now?”

Her eyes lit up, but she pretended to be doubtful. “I don’t know whether custom will come back that fast.”

“There will always be visiting sailors. And fresh girls will attract more men. You’re in a profession that never lacks for clients.”

“Give me eighteen months.”

“Pay me twenty-five pounds at Christmas next year.”

Mags looked worried but she said: “All right.”

Wynstan summoned Cnebba, a big man in an iron helmet who was custodian of the bishop’s money. “Give her ten pounds,” he said.

“The chest is in the monastery,” Cnebba said to her. “Come with me.”

“And don’t cheat her,” Wynstan said. “You can fuck her if you like, but give her the full ten pounds.”

Mags said: “God bless you, my lord bishop.”

Wynstan touched her lips with a finger. “You can thank me later, when it gets dark.”

She took his hand and licked his finger lasciviously. “I can’t wait.”

Wynstan stepped away before anyone noticed.

He scanned the crowd. They were disconsolate and resentful, but nothing could be done about that. The boatbuilder’s son met his eye, and Wynstan beckoned him. Edgar came to the church door with a brown-and-white dog at his heel. “Fetch your mother,” Wynstan said. “And your brothers. I may be able to help you.”

“Thank you, lord!” said Edgar with eager enthusiasm. “Do you want us to build you a ship?”

“No.”

Edgar’s face fell. “What, then?”

“Fetch your mother and I’ll tell you.”

“Yes, lord.”

Edgar went away and came back with Mildred, who looked warily at Wynstan, and two young men who were evidently his brothers, both bigger than Edgar but lacking his look of inquiring intelligence. Three strong boys and a tough mother: it was a good combination for what Wynstan had in mind.

He said: “I know of a vacant farm.” Wynstan would be doing Wigelm a favor by ridding him of the seditious Mildred.

Edgar looked dismayed. “We’re boatbuilders, not farmers!”

Mildred said: “Shut your mouth, Edgar.”

Wynstan said: “Can you manage a farm, widow?”

“I was born on a farm.”

“This one is beside a river.”

“But how much land is there?”

“Thirty acres. That’s generally considered enough to feed a family.”

“That depends on the soil.”

“And on the family.”

She was not to be fobbed off. “What’s the soil like?”

“Much as you’d expect: a bit swampy beside the river, light and loamy farther up the slope. And there’s a crop of oats in the ground, just shooting green. All you’ll have to do is reap it, and you’ll be set for the winter.”

“Any oxen?”

“No, but you won’t need them. A heavy plough is unnecessary on that light soil.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why is it vacant?”

It was a shrewd question. The truth was that the last tenant had been unable to grow enough on the poor soil to feed his family. The wife and three small children had died, and the tenant had fled. But this family was different, with three good workers and only four mouths to feed. It would still be a challenge, but Wynstan had a feeling they would manage. However, he was not going to tell them the truth. “The tenant died of a fever and his wife went back to her mother,” he lied.

“The place is unhealthy, then.”

“Not in the least. It’s by a small hamlet with a minster. A minster is a church served by a community of priests living together, and—”

“I know what a minster is. It’s like a monastery but not as strict.”

“My cousin Degbert is the dean, and also landlord of the hamlet, including the farm.”

“What buildings does the farm have?”

“A house and a barn. And the previous tenant left his tools.”

“What’s the rent?”

“You’ll have to give Degbert four fat piglets at Michaelmas, for the priests’ bacon. That’s all!”

“Why is the rent so low?”

Wynstan smiled. She was a suspicious cow. “Because my cousin is a kindly man.”

Mildred snorted skeptically.

There was a silence. Wynstan watched her. She did not want the farm, he could see; she did not trust him. But there was desperation in her eyes, for she had nothing else. She would take it. She had to.

She said: “Where is this place?”

“A day and a half’s journey up the river.”

“What’s it called?”

“Dreng’s Ferry.”

CHAPTER 3 Late June 997

hey walked for a day and a half, following a barely visible footpath beside the meandering river, three young men, their mother, and a brown-and-white dog.

Edgar felt disoriented, bewildered, and anxious. He had planned a new life for himself, but not this one. Destiny had taken a turn that was completely unexpected, and he had had no time to prepare for it. In any case, he and his family still had little idea of what was ahead of them. They knew almost nothing of the place called Dreng’s Ferry. What would it be like? Would the people be suspicious of newcomers, or welcome them? How about the farm? Would the ground be light soil, easy to cultivate, or recalcitrant heavy clay? Were there pear trees or honking wild geese or wary deer? Edgar’s family believed in plans. His father had often said that you had to build the entire boat in your imagination before picking up the first piece of timber.

There would be a lot of work to do to reinvigorate an abandoned farm, and Edgar found it difficult to summon up enthusiasm. This was the funeral of his hopes. He was never going to have his own boatyard, never build ships. He felt sure he would never marry.

He tried to interest himself in his surroundings. He had never walked this far before. He had once sailed many miles, to Cherbourg and back, but in between he had looked at nothing but water. Now for the first time he was discovering England.

There was a lot of forest, just like the one in which the family had been felling trees for as long as he could remember. The woodland was broken up by villages and a few large estates. The landscape became more undulating as they trudged farther inland. The woods grew thicker but there were still habitations: a hunting lodge, a lime pit, a tin mine, a horse-catcher’s hut, a small family of charcoal burners, a vineyard on a south-facing slope, a flock of sheep grazing a hilltop.

They met a few travelers: a fat priest on a skinny pony, a well-dressed silversmith with four grim-faced bodyguards, a burly farmer driving a big black sow to market, and a bent old woman with brown eggs to sell. They stopped and talked to each one, exchanging news and information about the road ahead.