Using a pliant twig as a rope, he suspended the blade from a branch, then struck it with the stone. It rang out, not with a bell-like tone but with an unmusical clang that was nevertheless quite loud.

He showed it to Ma. “If you bang that before you feed the piglet every day, she will learn to come at the sound,” he said.

“Very good,” Ma said. “How long will it take you to make the golden brooch?” Her tone was bantering, but there was a touch of pride in it. She thought Edgar had inherited her brains, and she was probably right.

The midday meal was ready, but it was only flat bread with wild onions, and Edgar wanted to wash before he ate. He walked along the river until he came to a little mud beach. He took off his tunic and washed it in the shallows, rubbing and squeezing the woolen cloth to get rid of the stink. Then he spread it on a rock to dry in the sun.

He immersed himself in the water, ducking his head to wash his hair. People said that bathing was bad for your health, and Edgar never bathed in winter, but those who never bathed at all stank all their lives. Ma and Pa had taught their sons to keep themselves fresh by bathing at least once a year.

Edgar had been brought up by the sea, and he had been able to swim for as long as he could walk. Now he decided to cross the river, just for the fun of it.

The current was moderate and the swim was easy. He enjoyed the sensation of the cool water on his bare skin. When he reached the far side he turned and came back. Near the shore he found his footing and stood up. The surface was at the level of his knees, and the water dripped from his body. The sun would soon dry him.

At that moment he realized he was not alone.

Cwenburg was sitting on the bank, watching him. “You look nice,” she said.

Edgar felt foolish. Embarrassed, he said: “Would you please go away?”

“Why should I? Anyone can walk along the bank of a river.”

“Please.”

She stood up and turned around.

“Thank you,” Edgar said.

But he had misunderstood her intention. Instead of walking away, she pulled her dress over her head with a swift movement. Her naked skin was pale.

Edgar said: “No, no!”

She turned around.

Edgar stared in horror. There was nothing wrong with her appearance—in fact some part of his mind noted that she had a nice round figure—but she was the wrong woman. His heart was full of Sunni, and no one else’s body could move him.

Cwenburg stepped into the river.

“Your hair’s a different color down there,” she said, with a smile of uninvited intimacy. “Sort of gingery.”

“Keep away from me,” he said.

“Your thing is all shriveled up with the cold water—shall I warm it up?” She reached for him.

Edgar pushed her away. Because he was tense and embarrassed, he shoved her harder than he needed to. She lost her balance and fell over in the water. While she was recovering, he went past her and onto the beach.

Behind him, she said: “What’s the matter with you? Are you a girlie-boy who likes men?”

He picked up his tunic. It was still damp, but he put it on anyway. Feeling less vulnerable, he turned to her. “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “I’m a girlie-boy.”

She was glaring angrily at him. “No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re making that up.”

“Yes, I’m making it up.” Edgar’s self-control began to slip. “The truth is that I don’t like you. Now will you leave me alone?”

She came out of the water. “You pig,” she said. “I hope you starve to death on this barren farm.” She pulled her dress on over her head. “Then I hope you go to hell,” she said, and she walked off.

Edgar was relieved to be rid of her. Then, a moment later, he felt sorry that he had been unkind. It was partly her fault for being insistent, but he could have been gentler. He often regretted his impulses and wished he had more self-discipline.

Sometimes, he thought, it was difficult to do the right thing.

* * *

The countryside was quiet.

At Combe there was always noise: herring gulls’ raucous laughter, the ring of hammers on nails, a crowd’s murmur, and the cry of a lone voice. Even at night there was the creaking of boats as they rose and fell on the restless water. But the countryside was often completely silent. If there was a wind, the trees would whisper discontentedly, but if not, it could be as quiet as the tomb.

So when Brindle barked in the middle of the night, Edgar came awake fast.

He stood up immediately and took his ax from its peg on the wall. His heart was beating hard and his breath was shallow.

Ma’s voice came out of the gloom. “Be careful.”

Brindle was in the barn, and her bark was distant but alarmed. Edgar had put her there to guard the piglet, and something had alerted her to danger.

Edgar went to the door, but Ma was there ahead of him. He saw the firelight glint ominously on the knife in her hand. He had cleaned and sharpened it himself, to save her the effort, so he knew it was deadly keen.

She hissed: “Step back from the door. One of them may be lying in wait.”

Edgar did as he was told. His brothers were behind him. He hoped that they, too, had picked up weapons of some kind.

Ma lifted the bar carefully, making almost no noise. Then she threw the door wide.

Right away a figure stepped into the doorway. Ma had been right to warn Edgar: the thieves had anticipated that the family would wake, and one thief had stood ready to ambush them if they incautiously came running out of the house. There was a bright moon, and Edgar clearly saw the long dagger in the thief’s right hand. The man thrust blindly into the darkness of the house, stabbing nothing but air.

Edgar hefted his ax, but Ma was quicker. Her knife gleamed and the thief roared in pain and fell to his knees. She stepped closer and her blade flashed across the man’s throat.

Edgar pushed past them both. As he emerged into the moonlight, he heard the piglet squeal. A moment later he saw two more figures coming out of the barn. One of them wore some kind of headgear that partly covered his face. In his arms he held the wriggling piglet.

They saw Edgar and ran.

Edgar was outraged. That pig was precious. If they lost it, they would not get another one: people would say they could not look after their livestock. In a moment of piercing anxiety Edgar acted without thinking. He swung the ax back over his head then hurled it at the back of the thief with the pig.

He thought it was going to miss, and he groaned in despair; but the sharp blade bit into the fugitive’s upper arm. He gave a high-pitched scream, dropped the pig, and fell to his knees, clutching the wound.

The second man helped him up.

Edgar dashed toward them.

They ran on, leaving the pig behind.

Edgar hesitated for a heartbeat. He wanted to catch the thieves. But if he let the pig go it might run a long way in its terror, and he might never find it. He abandoned pursuit of the men and went after the animal. It was young and its legs were short, and after a minute he caught up, threw himself on top of it, and got hold of a leg with both hands. The pig struggled but could not escape his grip.

He got the little beast securely in his arms, stood up, and walked back to the farmhouse.

He put the pig in the barn. He took a moment to congratulate Brindle, who wagged her tail proudly. He retrieved his ax from where it had fallen and wiped the blade on the grass to clean off the thief’s blood. Finally he rejoined his family.

They were standing over the other thief. “He’s dead,” said Eadbald.

Erman said: “Let’s throw him in the river.”

“No,” said Ma. “I want other thieves to know we killed him.” She was in no danger from the law: it was well established that a thief caught red-handed could be killed on the spot. “Follow me, boys. Bring the corpse.”

Erman and Eadbald picked it up. Ma led them into the woods and went a hundred yards along a just-visible path through the undergrowth until she came to a place where it crossed another almost imperceptible track. Anyone coming to the farm through the forest would have to pass this junction.

She looked at the surrounding trees in the moonlight and pointed to one with low, spreading branches. “I want to hang the body up in that tree,” she said.

Erman said: “What for?”

“To show people what happens to men who try to rob us.”

Edgar was impressed. He had never known his mother to be so harsh. But circumstances had changed.

Erman said: “We haven’t got any rope.”

Ma said: “Edgar will think of something.”

Edgar nodded. He pointed to a forked branch at a height of about eight feet. “Wedge him in there, with one bough under each armpit,” he said.

While his brothers were manhandling the corpse up into the tree, Edgar found a stick a foot long and an inch in diameter and sharpened one end with his ax blade.

The brothers got the body into position. “Now pull his arms together until his hands are crossed in front.”