He answered without looking back. “Soon.”

Edgar surveyed his new home. It was dismal, but he felt surprisingly good. They had a challenge to meet, and that was a lot better than the despair he had felt earlier.

Ma said: “Erman, go into the forest and gather firewood. Eadbald, go to that alehouse and beg a burning stick from their fireplace—use your charm on that ferry girl. Edgar, see if you can make temporary patches for the holes in the roof—we’ve no time now to repair the thatch properly. Snap to it, boys. And tomorrow we’ll start weeding the field.”

* * *

Degbert did not bring a piglet to the farmhouse in the next few days.

Ma did not mention it. She weeded the oats with Erman and Eadbald, the three of them bending double in the long, narrow field, while Edgar repaired the house and barn with timber from the forest, using the Viking ax and a few rusty tools left behind by the previous tenant.

But Edgar worried. Degbert was no more trustworthy than his cousin Bishop Wynstan. Edgar feared that Degbert would see them settling in, decide that they were now committed, and go back on his word. Then the family would struggle to pay the rent—and once they defaulted it would be desperately difficult to catch up, as Edgar knew from observing the fate of improvident neighbors in Combe.

“Don’t fret,” Ma said when Edgar voiced his concern. “Degbert can’t escape me. The worst of priests has to go to church sooner or later.”

Edgar hoped she was right.

When they heard the church bell on Sunday morning they walked the length of their farm to the hamlet. Edgar guessed they were the last to arrive, having the farthest to come.

The church was nothing more than a square tower attached to a one-story building to the east. Edgar could see that the entire structure was leaning downhill: one day it would fall over.

To enter they had to step sideways through an entrance that was partly blocked by the tree trunk supporting the round arch. Edgar could see why the arch was collapsing. The mortared joints between the stones of a round arch formed lines that should all point to the center of one imaginary circle, like the spokes of a well-made cart wheel, but in this arch they were random. That made the structure weaker, and it looked ugly, too.

The nave was the ground floor of the tower. Its high ceiling made the place seem even more cramped. A dozen or so adults and a few small children stood waiting for the service to begin. Edgar nodded to Cwenburg and Edith, the only two he had met before.

One of the stones making up the wall was carved with an inscription. Edgar could not read, but he guessed that someone was buried here, perhaps a nobleman who had built the church to be his last resting place.

A narrow archway in the east wall led into the chancel. Edgar peered through the gap to see an altar bearing a wooden cross with a wall painting of Jesus behind it. Degbert was there with several more clergymen.

The members of the congregation were more interested in the newcomers than in the clergy. The children stared openly at Edgar and his family, while their parents sneaked furtive glances then turned away to talk in low voices about what they had observed.

Degbert went through the service rapidly. It seemed hasty to the point of irreverence, Edgar thought, and he was not a particularly devout person. Perhaps it did not matter, for the congregation did not understand the Latin words anyway; but Edgar had been used to a more measured pace in Combe. In any event it was not his problem, so long as his sins were forgiven.

Edgar was not much troubled by religious feelings. When people discussed how the dead spent their time in heaven, or whether the devil had a tail, Edgar became impatient, believing that no one would ever know the truth of such things in this life. He liked questions that had definite answers, such as how high the mast of a ship should be.

Cwenburg stood near him and smiled. Evidently she had decided to be nice. “You should come to my house one evening,” she said.

“I’ve no money for ale.”

“You can still visit your neighbors.”

“Maybe.” Edgar did not want to be unfriendly, but he had no desire to spend an evening in Cwenburg’s company.

At the end of the service Ma determinedly followed the clergy out of the building. Edgar went with her, and Cwenburg followed. Ma accosted Degbert before he could get away. “I need that piglet you promised me,” she said.

Edgar was proud of his mother. She was determined and fearless. And she had picked her moment perfectly. Degbert would not want to be accused of reneging on a promise in front of the entire village.

“Speak to Fat Bebbe,” he said curtly and walked on.

Edgar turned to Cwenburg. “Who’s Bebbe?”

Cwenburg pointed to a fat woman squeezing herself around the tree trunk. “She supplies the minster with eggs and meat and other produce from her smallholding.”

Edgar identified the woman to Ma, who approached her. “The dean told me to speak to you about a piglet,” she said.

Bebbe was red-faced and friendly. “Oh, yes,” she said. “You’re to be given a weaned female piglet. Come with me and you can take your pick.”

Ma went with Bebbe, and the three boys followed.

“How are you getting on?” Bebbe asked kindly. “I hope that farmhouse isn’t too ruinous.”

“It’s bad, but we’re repairing it,” Ma said.

The two women were about the same age, Edgar thought. It looked as if they might get along. He hoped so: Ma needed a friend.

Bebbe had a small house on a large lot. At the back of the building was a duck pond, a henhouse, and a tethered cow with a new calf. Attached to the house was a fenced enclosure where a big sow had a litter of eight. Bebbe was well off, though probably dependent on the minster.

Ma studied the piglets intently for several minutes then pointed to a small, energetic one. “Good choice,” said Bebbe, and picked up the little animal with a swift, practiced movement. It squealed with fright. She drew a handful of leather thongs from the pouch at her belt and tied its feet together. “Who’s going to carry it?”

“I will,” said Edgar.

“Put your arm under its belly, and take care it doesn’t bite you.”

Edgar did as instructed. The piglet was filthy, of course.

Ma thanked Bebbe.

“I’ll need those thongs back as soon as convenient,” Bebbe said. All kinds of string were valuable, whether hide, sinew, or thread.

“Of course,” said Ma.

They moved away. The piglet squealed and wriggled frantically as it was taken away from its mother. Edgar closed its jaws with his hand to stop the noise. As if in retaliation, the piglet did a stinking liquid shit all down the front of his tunic.

They stopped at the tavern and begged Cwenburg to give them some scraps to feed the piglet. She brought an armful of cheese rinds, fish tails, apple cores, and other leftovers. “You stink,” she said to Edgar.

He knew that. “I’ll have to jump in the river,” he said.

They walked back to the farmhouse. Edgar put the piglet in the barn. He had already repaired the hole in the wall, so the little animal could not escape. He would put Brindle in the barn at night to guard it.

Ma heated water on the fire and threw in the scraps to make a mash. Edgar was glad they had a pig, but it was another hungry mouth. They could not eat it: they had to feed it until it was mature then breed from it. For a while it would be just another drain on their scarce resources.

“She’ll soon feed herself from the forest floor, especially when the acorns begin to fall,” Ma said. “But we have to train her to come home at night, otherwise she’ll be stolen by outlaws or eaten by wolves.”

Edgar said: “How did you train your pigs when you were growing up on the farm?”

“I don’t know—they always came to my mother’s call. I suppose they knew she might give them something to eat. They wouldn’t come to us children.”

“Our piglet could learn to respond to your voice, but then she might not come to anyone else. We need a bell.”

Ma gave a skeptical snort. Bells were costly. “I need a golden brooch and a white pony,” she said. “But I’m not going to get them.”

“You never know what you might get,” said Edgar.

He went to the barn. He had remembered something he had seen there: an old sickle, its handle rotted and its curved blade rusted and broken in two. He had thrown it into a corner with other odds and ends. Now he retrieved the broken-off end of the blade, a foot-long crescent of iron that was of no apparent use for anything.

He found a smooth stone, sat down in the morning sunshine, and started to rub the rust off the blade. It was a strenuous and tedious task, but he was used to hard work, and he kept going until the metal was clean enough for the sun to glint off it. He did not sharpen the edge: he was not going to cut anything with it.