Wynstan said: “There’s still a chance he might nominate little Osbert, with Ragna acting as the boy’s regent.”

Wigelm said: “I’ve mustered four hundred men already and more are coming in every day.”

“Good. If the king attacks us, the army can defend us, and if he doesn’t they can fight the Vikings.”

“Either way, I will have proved my ability to raise an army, and therefore to be ealdorman of Shiring.”

“I bet Ragna could muster armies equally well. But fortunately the king doesn’t know what she’s like. With luck, he’ll think that if he wants his troops he has to have your help.”

Wynstan himself should have been the one to claim the title of ealdorman. But it was too late for that, too late by about thirty years. Wilwulf had been the elder brother, and their mother had set Wynstan firmly on the second-best route to power, the Church. But no one could see the future, and the unforeseen consequence of his mother’s careful planning had been that the mulish youngest brother, Wigelm, was now playing the role of ealdorman.

“But we’ve got another problem,” Wynstan said. “We can’t stop Ethelred holding court, and we can’t prevent him from talking about Ragna. He is going to order us to produce her, and then what can we do?”

Wigelm sighed. “I wish we could just kill her.”

“We’ve been over that. We barely got away with killing Wilf. If we murder Ragna the king will declare war on us.”

The rider Wynstan had seen on the road now trotted into the compound, and Wynstan recognized Dreng. He grunted with irritation. “What does that fawning idiot want now?”

Dreng left his horse at the stable and came to the great hall. “Good day to you, my cousins,” he said, smiling unctuously. “I hope I see you well.”

Wynstan said: “What brings you here, Dreng?”

“King Ethelred came to our village,” Dreng said. “His army crossed on my ferry.”

“That must have taken awhile. What did he do while he was waiting?”

“He gave the priory a charter. They have royal approval for a toll bridge, a weekly market, and an annual fair.”

“Aldred building his power base,” Wynstan mused. “These monks renounce the things of the world, but they know how to look after their own interests.”

Dreng seemed disappointed that Wynstan was not more shocked. “Then the army left,” he said.

“When do you think they’ll get here?”

“They’re not coming here. They recrossed the river.”

“What?” This was the real news, even though Dreng had not recognized it. “They turned around and went back eastward? Why?”

“A message came to say that Swein Forkbeard has attacked Wilton.”

Wigelm said: “The Vikings must have sailed up the river from Christchurch.”

Wynstan did not care how King Swein had reached Wilton. “Don’t you see what this means? Ethelred has gone back!”

“So he’s not coming to Shiring,” said Wigelm.

“Not now, anyway.” Wynstan was profoundly relieved. He added hopefully: “And perhaps not any time soon.”

CHAPTER 36

    June 1003

dgar was shaping a beam with an adze, a tool like an ax but with an arched blade, its edge at right angles to the handle, designed for scraping a length of timber to a smooth, even surface. In past times work such as this had been a delight to him. He had found profound satisfaction in the fresh smell of the scraped wood, the sharpness of the cutting edge, and most of all the clear, logical picture he had in his head of the structure he was creating. But now he worked joylessly, as mindless as a mill wheel going around and around.

He paused, straightened his back, and took a long swallow of weak ale. Looking across the river he saw that the trees on the far side were now in full leaf, fresh green in the pale morning sun. That woodland had formerly been a dangerous place on account of Ironface, but now travelers ventured there with less trepidation.

On the near side, his family’s farmland was just turning from green to yellow as the oats ripened, and he could see in the distance the stooped figures of Erman and Cwenburg as they weeded. Their children were with them: Winnie, now five, was old enough to help with the weeding, but Beorn, three, was sitting on the ground, playing with the earth. Nearer to Edgar, Eadbald was at the fishpond, up to his waist in the water, pulling up a fish trap and examining the contents.

Nearer still, there were new houses in the village, and many of the old buildings had been extended. The alehouse had a brewhouse, which was even now giving off the yeasty aroma of fermenting barley: Blod had taken over the brewing after Leaf died, and she had turned out to have something of a flair for it. Right now Fat Bebbe was sitting on the bench in front of the alehouse drinking a flagon of Blod’s ale.

The church had an extension, and the monastery had a stone building for the school, library, and scriptorium. Halfway up the hill, opposite Edgar’s house, a site was slowly being cleared for the new, larger church that would be built there one day, if Aldred’s dreams came true.

Aldred’s optimism and ambition were infectious, and most of the village now looked to the future with eager hope; but Edgar was an exception. Everything that he and Aldred had achieved in the last six years tasted sour in his mouth. He could think of nothing but Ragna, languishing in some place of captivity all this time while he was powerless to help her.

He was about to restart his work when Aldred came down from the monastery. Rebuilding the bridge was quicker than the original construction, but not much, and Aldred was desperately impatient. “When will it be finished?” he asked Edgar.

Edgar surveyed the site. He had used his Viking ax to chop away the charred remains. He had let the useless ashes float downstream, and had stacked half-burned timbers by the riverside to be recycled as firewood. He had renewed the stout abutments on both banks, then had rapidly built a series of simple flat-bottomed boats to be fixed together and moored to the abutments to form the pontoons. He was now fashioning the framework that would rest on the boats and support the roadbed.

“How long?” said Aldred.

“I’m not dawdling,” Edgar said irritably.

“I didn’t say you were dawdling, I asked you how long. The priory needs the money!”

Edgar hardly cared about the priory and he resented Aldred’s tone. Lately he had found that several of his friends were becoming uncongenial. Everyone seemed to want something from him, and he found their demands annoying. “I’m on my own!” he said.

“I can give you more monks to use as laborers.”

“I don’t need laborers. Most of the work is skilled.”

“Perhaps we can get other builders to help you.”

“I’m probably the only craftsman in England willing to work in exchange for reading lessons.”

Aldred sighed. “I know we’re lucky to have you, and I’m sorry to badger you, but we really are eager to get this finished.”

“I hope the bridge might be ready to use by the autumn.”

“Could you make it sooner, if I could find the money for another skilled man to work with you?”

“Good luck finding one. Too many builders round here have gone to Normandy for higher wages. Our neighbors across the Channel have long been ahead of us in building castles and now, apparently, the young Duke Richard is turning his attention to churches.”

“I know.”

Edgar was impatient about something else. “I saw that a traveling monk spent last night at the monastery. Did he have news of King Ethelred?” After all his months of searching, Edgar now believed that the king represented the only hope of finding Ragna and freeing her.

“Yes,” said Aldred. “We learned that Swein Forkbeard sacked Wilton and left. Ethelred got there too late. The Vikings, meanwhile, had sailed for Exeter, so our king and his army headed there.”

“They must have taken the coast road, as Ethelred didn’t pass through Shiring this time.”

“Correct.”

“Has the king held court anywhere in the Shiring region?”

“Not as far as we know. He has neither confirmed Wigelm as ealdorman nor issued any new orders about Ragna.”

“Hell. She’s been a prisoner for nearly ten months now.”

“I’m sorry, Edgar. Sorry for her and sorry for you.”

Edgar did not want anyone’s pity. He glanced toward the tavern and saw Dreng outside. He was standing near Bebbe but looking at Edgar and Aldred. Edgar shouted: “What are you staring at?”

“You two,” Dreng said. “Wondering what you’re plotting now.”

“We’re building a bridge.”

“Aye,” said Dreng. “Take care, though. It would be a shame if this one were to burn down, too.” He laughed, then turned around and went inside.

Edgar said: “I hope he goes to hell.”

“Oh, he will,” said Aldred. “But while we wait for that I have another plan.”

* * *

Aldred went to Shiring and returned a week later with Sheriff Den and six men-at-arms.