He found the quarry easily. Four people were working there: an older man who was evidently in charge and therefore must be Gab, two others who might have been his sons, and a boy who was either a late addition to the family or a slave. The quarry rang with the sound of hammers, punctuated at intervals by a dry cough that came from Gab. There was a timber house, presumably their home, and a woman standing in the doorway watching the sun go down. Stone dust hung in the air like a mist, the specks glittering golden in the rays of the evening light.

Another customer was ahead of Edgar. A sturdy four-wheeled cart stood in the middle of the clearing. Two men were carefully loading it with cut stones, while two oxen—presumably there to pull the cart—grazed nearby, their tails flicking at flies.

The boy was sweeping up stone chips, probably to be sold as gravel. He approached Edgar and spoke with a foreign accent, which made Edgar think he was a slave. “Have you come to buy stone?”

“Yes. I need enough for a brewhouse. But there’s no rush.”

Edgar sat on a flat stone, observed Gab for a few minutes, and quickly understood how he worked. He would insert an oak wedge into a small crack in the rock, then hammer the wedge in, widening the crack until it turned into a split and a section of rock fell away. Failing the convenience of a naturally formed crack, Gab would make one with his iron chisel. Edgar guessed that a quarryman would have learned from experience how to locate the weaknesses in the rock that would make the work easier.

Gab split the larger stones into two or sometimes three pieces, just to make them easier to transport.

Edgar turned his attention to the purchasers. They put ten stones on their cart then stopped. That was probably as much weight as the oxen could pull. They began to put the beasts into the shafts, ready to leave.

Gab finished what he was doing, coughed, looked at the sky, and appeared to decide it was time to stop work. He went to the oxcart and conferred with the two buyers for a few moments, then one of the men handed over money.

Then they cracked a whip over the oxen and left.

Edgar went to Gab. The quarryman had picked up a trimmed branch from a pile and was carefully marking it with a neat row of notches. This was how craftsmen and traders kept records: they could not afford parchment, and if they had any they would not know how to write on it. Edgar guessed that Gab had to pay taxes to the lord of the manor, perhaps the price of one stone in five, and so needed a record of how many he had sold.

Edgar said: “I’m Edgar from Dreng’s Ferry. Ten years ago you sold us stones for the repair of the church.”

“I recollect,” said Gab, putting the tally stick in his pocket. Edgar noticed that he had cut only five notches, although he had sold ten stones: perhaps he was going to finish it later. “I don’t remember you, but then you would have been a small child.”

Edgar studied Gab. His hands were covered with old scars, no doubt from his work. He was probably wondering how he could exploit this ignorant youth. Edgar said firmly: “The price was two pence per stone delivered.”

“Was it, now?” Gab said with pretended skepticism.

“If it’s still the same, we want about two hundred more.”

“I’m not sure we can do it for the same price. Things have changed.”

“In that case, I have to return and speak with my master.” Edgar did not want to do this. He was determined to go back and report success. But he could not allow Gab to overcharge him. Edgar mistrusted Gab. Perhaps the man was only negotiating, but Edgar had a feeling he might be dishonest.

The quarryman coughed. “Last time we dealt with Degbert Baldhead, the dean. He didn’t like spending his money.”

“My master, Dreng, is the same. They’re brothers.”

“What’s the stone for?”

“I’m building a brewhouse for Dreng. His wife makes the ale and she keeps burning the wooden buildings down.”

“You’re building it?”

Edgar lifted his chin. “Yes.”

“You’re very young. But Dreng wants a cheap builder, I suppose.”

“He wants cheap stone, too.”

“Did you bring the money?”

I may be young, Edgar thought, but I’m not stupid. “Dreng will pay when the stones arrive.”

“He’d better.”

Edgar guessed the quarrymen would carry the stones, or transport them in a cart, as far as the river, then load them on a raft for the journey downstream to Dreng’s Ferry. It would take them several trips, depending on the size of the raft.

Gab said: “Where are you spending the night? In the tavern?”

“I told you, I’ve no money.”

“You’ll have to sleep here, then.”

“Thank you,” said Edgar.

* * *

Gab’s wife was Beaduhild but he called her Bee. She was more welcoming than her husband, and invited Edgar to share the evening meal. As soon as his bowl was empty, he realized how tired he was after his long walk, and he lay down on the floor and fell asleep immediately.

In the morning he said to Gab: “I’m going to need a hammer and chisel like yours, so that I can shape the stones to my needs.”

“So you are,” said Gab.

“May I look at your tools?”

Gab shrugged.

Edgar picked up the wooden hammer and hefted it. It was big and heavy, but otherwise simple and crude, and he could easily make one like it. The smaller, iron-headed hammer was more carefully made, its handle firmly wedged to the head. Best of all was the iron chisel, with a wide, blunt blade and a spreading top that looked like a daisy. Edgar could forge a copy in Cuthbert’s workshop. Cuthbert might not like sharing his space, but Dreng would get Degbert to insist, and Cuthbert would have no choice.

Hanging on pegs next to the tools were several sticks with notches. Edgar said: “I suppose you keep a tally stick for each customer.”

“What business is that of yours?”

“Sorry.” Edgar did not want to appear nosy. However, he could not help noticing that the newest stick had only five notches. Could it be that Gab recorded only half the stones he sold? That would save him a lot in taxes.

But it was no business of Edgar’s if Gab was cheating his lord. The Vale of Outhen was part of the ealdormanry of Shiring, and Ealdorman Wilwulf was rich enough already.

Edgar ate a hearty breakfast, thanked Bee, and set out to walk home.

From Outhenham he thought he could find his way easily, having already made the journey in the opposite direction, but to his dismay he got lost again. Because of the delay it was near dark when he arrived home, thirsty and hungry and weary.

In the alehouse they were getting ready to go to sleep. Ethel smiled at him, Leaf gave a slurred welcome, and Dreng ignored him. Blod was stacking firewood. She stopped what she was doing, straightened up, put her left hand on the back of her hip, and stretched her body as if easing an ache. When she turned around, Edgar saw that she had a black eye.

“What happened to you?” he said.

She did not answer, pretending not to understand. But Edgar could guess how she had got it. Dreng had been more and more angry with her in the last few weeks, as her time approached. There was nothing unusual about a man using violence on his family, of course, and Edgar had seen Dreng kick Leaf’s backside and slap Ethel’s face, but he had a special malice toward Blod.

“Is there any supper left?” Edgar asked.

Dreng said: “No.”

“But I’ve been walking all day.”

“That’ll teach you not to be late.”

“I was on an errand for you!”

“And you get paid, and there’s nothing left, so shut your mouth.”

Edgar went to bed hungry.

Blod was up first in the morning. She went to the river for fresh water, always her first chore of the day. The bucket was made of wood with iron rivets, and it was heavy even when empty. Edgar was putting his shoes on when she came back. He saw that she was struggling, and he moved to take the bucket from her, but before he could do so, she stumbled over Dreng, lying half asleep, and water sloshed from the bucket onto his face.

“You dumb cunt!” he roared.

He jumped up. Blod cowered away. Dreng raised his fist. Then Edgar stepped between them, saying: “Give me the bucket, Blod.”

There was fury in Dreng’s eyes. For a moment Edgar thought the man was going to punch him instead of Blod. Dreng was strong, despite the bad back he mentioned so often: he was tall, with big shoulders. Nevertheless, Edgar made a split-second decision to hit back if attacked. He would undoubtedly be punished, but he would have the satisfaction of knocking Dreng to the ground.

However, like most bullies Dreng was a coward when confronted by someone stronger. The anger gave way to fear, and he lowered his fist.

Blod made herself scarce.

Edgar handed the bucket to Ethel. She poured water into a cooking pot, hung the pot over the fire, added oats to the water, and stirred the mixture with a wooden stick.

Dreng stared at Edgar malevolently. Edgar guessed he would never be forgiven for coming between Dreng and his slave, but he could not find it in his heart to regret what he had done, even though he would probably suffer for it.

When the porridge was ready Ethel ladled it into five bowls. She chopped some ham and added it to one of the bowls, then gave that to Dreng. She handed the others around.

They ate in silence.

Edgar finished his in seconds. He looked over at the pot, then at Ethel. She said nothing but discreetly shook her head. There was no more.