Guillaume left for Reims the next morning. He had been insulted and now he was the butt of a joke. His dignity could not stand it. His departure was quiet and unceremonious. Ragna had not wanted to humiliate him, but she could not help rejoicing to see him ride away.

Ragna’s parents’ resistance crumbled. Wynstan was told that his brother’s proposal was accepted, including the dowry of twenty pounds, and the wedding was fixed for All Saints’ Day, the first of November. Wynstan went back to England with the good news. Ragna would take a few weeks to get ready, then she would follow.

“You get your way, as you so often do,” Genevieve said to Ragna. “Guillaume doesn’t want you, I don’t have the energy to search for yet another French nobleman, and at least the English will take you off my hands.”

Hubert was more gracious. “Love triumphs in the end,” he said. “Just like in those old stories you love.”

“Quite,” said Genevieve. “Except that the stories usually end in tragedy.”

CHAPTER 8

    Early September 997

dgar was determined to build a boat that would please Dreng.

It was hard to like Dreng, and few people did. He was malevolent and miserly. Living at the alehouse, Edgar quickly became familiar with the family. The elder wife, Leaf, was coldly indifferent to Dreng most of the time. The younger woman, Ethel, seemed scared of her husband. She bought the food and cooked it, and cried when he complained about the cost. Edgar wondered whether either woman had ever loved Dreng, and decided not: both were from poor peasant families and had probably married for financial security.

Blod, the slave, hated Dreng. When she was not servicing passing strangers who wanted sex, Dreng kept her busy cleaning the house and outbuildings, tending the pigs and chickens, and changing the rushes on the floor. He always spoke harshly to her, and she in turn was permanently surly and resentful. She would have made more money for him if she had not been so miserable, but he seemed not to realize that.

The women liked Brindle, Edgar’s dog. She won their affection by chasing foxes away from the henhouse. Dreng never petted the dog, and in response she acted as if Dreng did not exist.

However, Dreng seemed to love his daughter, Cwenburg, and she him. He smiled when he saw her, whereas he greeted most people with a sneer or, at best, a smirk. For Cwenburg, Dreng would always drop what he was doing, and the two of them would sit and talk in low voices, sometimes for an hour.

That proved it was possible to have a normal human relationship with Dreng, and Edgar was determined to try. He was not aiming for affection: just a briskly practical liaison without rancor.

Edgar set up an open-air workshop on the riverbank, and by good fortune the hot August sunshine continued into a warm September. He felt happy to be constructing something again, honing his blade, smelling the cut wood, imagining shapes and joins, and then making them real.

When he had fashioned all the wooden parts he laid them out on the ground, and the outlines of the boat became discernible.

Dreng looked and said accusingly: “In a boat, the planks usually overlap.”

Edgar had anticipated questions, and he had answers ready, but he was wary. He needed to convince Dreng without coming across as a know-it-all—always a danger for Edgar, he knew. “That type of hull is called clinker-built. But this boat will be flat bottomed, so it will be carvel-built, with the planks set edge to edge. By the way, we call them strakes, not planks.”

“Planks, strakes, I don’t care, but why is it flat-bottomed?”

“Mainly so that people and cattle can stand upright, and baskets and sacks can be stacked securely. Also, the vessel won’t roll side to side so much, which helps to keep the passengers calm.”

“If that’s such a smart idea, why aren’t all boats built that way?”

“Because most boats have to cut through the waves and currents at speed. That doesn’t apply to the ferry. There are no waves here, the current is steady but not strong, and speed is not the main issue in a journey of fifty yards.”

Dreng grunted, then pointed at the strakes forming the sides of the boat. “I assume the rails will be higher than that.”

“No. There are no waves, so the boat doesn’t need high sides.”

“Boats are usually pointed at the front end. This one seems blunt at both ends.”

“Same reason—it doesn’t need to cut through the water fast. And the square ends make it easier to get on and off. That’s also the reason for the ramps. Even cattle can board this boat.”

“Does it need to be so wide?”

“To take a cart, yes.” Trying to win a word of approval, Edgar added: “The ferry across the estuary at Combe charges a farthing per wheel: one farthing for a wheelbarrow, a halfpenny for a handcart, and a whole penny for an oxcart.”

A greedy look passed across Dreng’s face, but he said: “We don’t get many carts.”

“They all go to Mudeford because your old boat couldn’t manage them. You’ll see more with this one, you wait.”

“I doubt it,” Dreng said. “And it will be damnably heavy to paddle.”

“It won’t have paddles.” Edgar pointed to two long poles. “The river is never more than about six feet deep, so the ferry can be poled across. One strong man can do it.”

“I can’t, I’ve got a bad back.”

“Two women could do it working together. That’s why I made two poles.”

Some of the villagers had drifted down to the river to stare curiously. One of them was the clergyman-jeweler, Cuthbert. He was skilled and knowledgeable, but a timid and unsociable man who was bullied by his master, Degbert. Edgar often spoke to Cuthbert, but got monosyllabic replies except when discussing issues of craftsmanship. Now Cuthbert said: “Did you do all this with a Viking ax?”

“It’s all I’ve got,” said Edgar. “The back of the head serves me as a hammer. And I keep the blade sharp, which is the main thing.”

Cuthbert looked impressed. He said: “How will you fix the strakes to one another edge to edge?”

“I’ll peg them to a timber skeleton.”

“With iron nails?”

Edgar shook his head. “I’ll use treenails.” A treenail was a wooden peg with split ends. The peg was inserted in a hole, then wedges were hammered into the split ends, widening the peg until it was a tight fit. After that the protruding ends of the peg were cut off flush with the strake to make a smooth surface.

“That will work,” said Cuthbert. “But you’ll need to waterproof the joins.”

“I’ll have to go to Combe and buy a barrel of tar and a sack of raw wool.”

Dreng heard that and looked indignant. “More money? You don’t make boats out of wool.”

“The joins between the strakes have to be stuffed with tar-soaked wool to make them watertight.”

Dreng looked resentful. “You’ve got your smart answers, I’ll grant you that,” he said.

It was almost praise.

* * *

When the boat was ready, Edgar pushed it into the water.

It was always a special moment. While Pa had been alive the whole family had gathered to watch, and they had usually been joined by many of the townspeople. But now Edgar did it alone. He did not fear that the boat would sink, he just did not want to seem triumphal. As a newcomer here he was trying to fit in, not stand out.

With the vessel roped to a tree so that it could not float away, he eased it away from the bank and studied the way it lay in the water. It was straight and level, he saw with satisfaction. No water trickled through the joins. He undid the rope and stepped onto the ramp. His weight shifted the trim of the boat a fraction, as it should.

Brindle was watching him eagerly, but he did not want her on board for this trip. He wanted to see the boat perform without passengers. “You stay here,” he said, and she lay down with her nose between her paws, watching him.

The two long poles rested in wooden crotchets, a row of three on each side. He drew a pole out, put the end in the water, made contact with the riverbed, and pushed. It was easier than he expected, and the ferry moved smoothly off.

He walked to the forward end then put the pole in the water on the downstream side, heading the vessel slightly upstream, to counteract the current. He found it well within the capability of a strong woman or an average man—Blod or Cwenburg could do it, and Leaf and Ethel would easily manage it together, especially if he gave them a lesson.

As he was crossing the river he glanced at the luxuriant late-summer foliage on the far bank and saw a sheep. Several more emerged from the woods, herded by two dogs; and finally the shepherd appeared, a young man with long hair and a straggly beard.

Edgar had his first passengers.

Suddenly he was nervous. He had designed the vessel to be boarded by livestock, but he knew a lot about boats and nothing about sheep. Would they do what he expected? Or would they panic and stampede? Did sheep stampede? He did not even know that.

He might be about to find out.

Reaching the bank, he disembarked and tied the ferry to a tree.

The shepherd smelled as if he had not washed for years. He looked hard at Edgar for a long moment and then said: “You’re new here.” He appeared pleased with his own perspicacity.

“Yes. I’m Edgar.”