Blod groaned with effort, as if she were giving birth again, and the thought of twins crossed Edgar’s mind briefly; but what came out was a shapeless lump, and when he frowned in puzzlement, Leaf said: “The afterbirth.”

Blod rolled over and sat with her back to the wall. Her normal expression of guarded hostility had been wiped away, and she just looked pale and exhausted. Leaf gave her the baby, and Blod’s face changed again, softening and brightening at the same time. She looked with love at the tiny body in her arms. The baby’s head turned toward her, so that his face pressed against her chest. She pulled down the front of her dress and put the baby to her breast. He seemed to know what to do: his mouth closed eagerly around the nipple and he began to suck.

Blod closed her eyes and looked contented. Edgar had never seen her like that before.

Leaf helped herself to another cup of ale and drained it in a gulp.

Brindle stared at the baby, fascinated. A tiny foot stuck out from the bundle and Brindle licked it.

Getting rid of spoiled straw was normally Blod’s job, and Edgar decided that now he had better do it. He picked up the mess where Blod had stood, including the afterbirth, and took it outside.

Dreng was sitting on a bench in the moonlight. Edgar said: “The baby is born.”

Dreng put his cup to his mouth and drank.

Edgar said: “It’s a boy.”

Dreng said nothing.

Edgar dumped the straw next to the dunghill. When it was dry he would burn it.

Back inside, both Blod and the baby seemed to be sleeping. Leaf was lying down with her eyes closed, exhausted or drunk or both. Ethel was still out cold.

Dreng came in. Blod opened her eyes and looked warily at him, but he only went to the barrel and refilled his tankard. Blod closed her eyes again.

Dreng took a long draught of ale, then put his tankard on the table. In a swift, confident move he bent over Blod and picked up the baby. The rag fell to the floor and he said: “A boy it is, the little bastard.”

Blod said: “Give him to me!”

“Oh, so you can speak English!” said Dreng.

“Give me my baby.”

Ethel did not stir, but Leaf said: “Give her the baby, Dreng.”

“I think he needs fresh air,” Dreng said. “Too smoky in here for a baby.”

“Please,” said Blod.

Dreng took the baby outside.

Leaf went after him. Blod tried to get up but fell back. Edgar followed Leaf. “Dreng, what are you doing?” Leaf cried fearfully.

“There,” Dreng said to the baby. “Taste the clean air from the river. Isn’t that better?” He moved down the slope to the water’s edge.

The fresh air probably was better for the baby, Edgar thought, but was that really what was on Dreng’s mind? Edgar had never seen him be kind to anyone other than Cwenburg. Had the drama of childbirth reminded him of when Cwenburg came into the world? Edgar followed Dreng at a distance, watching.

Dreng turned to face Edgar and Leaf. The moonlight shone white on the baby’s tiny body. Summer had turned to autumn, and the cold air on bare skin woke the baby and made him cry.

Leaf cried: “Keep him warm!”

Dreng grasped the baby by the ankle and held him upside down. The crying became urgent. Edgar did not know what was happening but he felt sure it was bad, and in sudden fear he dashed at Dreng.

With a rapid, vigorous motion Dreng swung the baby, windmilling his arm, and hurled it out across the water.

Leaf screamed.

The baby’s crying was abruptly silenced as he splashed into the river.

Edgar crashed into Dreng and they both fell into the shallows.

Edgar sprang up immediately. He jerked off his shoes and pulled his tunic over his head.

Dreng, spluttering, said: “You tried to drown me, you madman!”

Edgar dived naked into the water.

The little body had gone far out into midstream: Dreng was a big man, and the bad back of which he constantly complained did not much affect his throwing ability. Edgar swam strongly, heading for the place where he thought the baby had splashed down. There was no cloud and the moon was bright, but as he looked ahead he saw, with dismay, that there was nothing on the surface. Surely the baby would float? Human bodies did not normally sink to the bottom, did they? All the same, people drowned.

He reached and passed what he thought was the spot without seeing anything. He waved his arms around under water, hoping to touch something, but he felt nothing.

The urge to save the child was overpowering. He felt desperate. It had something to do with Sunni, he was not sure how—and he did not let the thought distract him. He trod water and turned in a circle, staring hard, wishing the light were brighter.

The current always took flotsam downstream. He swam in that direction, going as fast as he could while scanning the surface left and right. Brindle came alongside him, paddling hard to keep up. Perhaps she would smell the baby before Edgar saw him.

The current moved him toward the north side of Leper Island, and he had to assume it had done the same with the baby. Debris from the hamlet sometimes washed up opposite the island, and Edgar decided his best hope was to look there for the baby. He swam to the edge. Here the bank was not clearly defined: instead there was puddled swampy ground, part of the farm though not productive. He swam along, peering in the moonlight. He saw plenty of litter: bits of wood, nutshells, animal bones, and a dead cat. If the baby was there Edgar would surely see his white body. But he was disappointed.

Feeling increasingly frantic, he gave up on that stretch and swam across the river to Leper Island. Here the bank was overgrown, and he could not easily see the ground. He came up out of the water and walked along, going toward the nunnery, scanning the water’s edge as best he could in the moonlight. Brindle growled, and Edgar heard movement nearby. He guessed the lepers were watching him: they were known to be shy, perhaps reluctant to let people see their deformities. But he decided to speak. “Hey, anybody,” he said loudly. The shuffling stopped abruptly. “A baby fell into the river,” he said. “Have you seen anything?”

The silence continued some moments, then a figure appeared from behind a tree. The man was dressed in rags but did not appear misshapen: perhaps the rumors were exaggerated. “No one saw a baby,” the man said.

Edgar said: “Will you help me look?”

The man hesitated, then nodded.

Edgar said: “He may have been washed up somewhere along the shore.”

There was no response to this so Edgar just turned and resumed searching. Gradually he became aware that he was accompanied. Someone was moving through the bushes alongside him, and another was treading the shallows behind him. He thought he saw movement farther ahead, too. He was grateful for the extra eyes: it would be easy to miss something small.

But as he moved back in the direction of the alehouse, closing the circle, he found it hard to maintain hope. He was exhausted and shivering: what state would a naked baby be in? If it had not drowned it might now have died of the cold.

He drew level with the convent building. There were lights in its windows and outside, and he saw hurried movement. A nun approached him, and he recognized Mother Agatha. He remembered that he was stark naked, but she seemed not to notice.

She carried a bundle in her arms. Edgar’s hoped leaped. Had the nuns found the baby?

Agatha must have seen the eagerness in his face, for she shook her head sadly, and Edgar was filled with alarm.

She came close and showed him what she held in her arms. Wrapped in a white wool blanket was Blod’s baby. His eyes were closed and he was not breathing.

“We found him on the shore,” Agatha said.

“Was he . . .”

“Dead or alive? I don’t know. We took him into the warm, but we were too late. We baptized him, though, so he’s with the angels now.”

Edgar was overwhelmed by grief. He cried and shivered at the same time, and his eyes blurred with tears. “I saw him born,” he said between sobs. “It was like a miracle.”

“I know,” said Agatha.

“And then I saw him murdered.”

Agatha unwrapped the blanket and gave the tiny baby to Edgar. He held the cold body to his bare chest and wept.

CHAPTER 11

    Early October 997

s Ragna drew nearer to Shiring, her heart filled with apprehension.

She had embarked on this adventure eagerly, impatient for the pleasures of marriage with the man she loved, careless of perils. Bad weather delays had been frustrating. Now she was more aware, with every mile she traveled, that she did not really know what she had let herself in for. All of the short time she and Wilwulf had spent together had been at her home, where he was a stranger trying to fit in. She had never seen him in his own place, never watched him move among his own people, never heard him talk to his family, his neighbors, his subjects. She hardly knew him.