Page 221 of The Evening and the Morning

He sat with Aldred on the bench outside the alehouse, listening to the sound of the river and staring at the ruins of his plan. He had succeeded, with great difficulty, in building a foundation on the riverbed for one of the pillars of the bridge, a simple box filled with stones to hold the base of the column firmly in place. He had fashioned a mighty beam of heart of oak, stout enough to bear the weight of people and carts as they crossed. But he could not insert the pillar into its socket.

It was evening, and he had been trying in the hot sun all day. At the end almost everyone in the village had been helping. The pillar had been held in place by long ropes, made at high cost by the newcomer Regenbald Roper. People on both banks had hauled on the ropes to keep the timber stable. Edgar and several others had stood on his raft in midstream trying to maneuver the enormous beam.

But everything moved: the water, the raft, the ropes, and the pillar. The timber itself insisted on rising to the surface.

At first it had been like a game, and there was laughter and banter as they all struggled. Several people had fallen into the water, to general hilarity.

To keep the pillar under water and at the same time position it in its socket should have been possible, but they had not done it. They had all become frustrated and bad-tempered. In the end Edgar had given up.

Now the sun was sinking, the monks had returned to the monastery, the villagers had returned to their homes, and Edgar was defeated.

Aldred was not yet willing to abandon the project. “It can be done,” he said. “We need more men, more ropes, more boats.”

Edgar did not think that would work. He said nothing.

Aldred said: “The problem was that your raft kept shifting. Whenever you pushed the pillar into the water, the raft would move away from the foundation.”

“I know.”

“What we really need is a whole row of boats, stretching out from the bank, tied together so that they can’t move so much.”

“I don’t know where we’d get that many boats,” Edgar said gloomily; but he could picture what Aldred was suggesting. The boats could be roped or even nailed together. The whole row would still move, but more slowly, more predictably, less capriciously.

Aldred was still fantasizing. “Maybe two rows, one on each side of the river.”

Edgar was so weary and downhearted that he was reluctant to entertain new ideas, but despite his mood he was intrigued by Aldred’s notion. It would provide a much more stable setup for the awkward task. All the same it might not be enough. However,something else was nagging at him as he pictured the two rows of boats growing out of the banks and reaching out into midstream. They would be steady, they would provide a sturdy platform on which to stand...

He said suddenly: “Perhaps we could build the bridge on the boats.”

Aldred frowned. “How?”

“The roadbed of the bridge could rest on boats, instead of on the riverbed.” He shrugged. “Theoretically.”

Aldred snapped his fingers. “I’ve seen that!” he said. “When I was traveling in the Low Countries. A bridge built on a row of boats. They called it a pontoon bridge.”

Edgar felt bemused. “So it can be done!”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never seen such a thing.” But Edgar was already designing it in his head. “They would have to be firmly braced at the shoreline.”

Aldred thought of a snag. “We can’t block the river. There’s not much traffic, but there is some. The ealdorman would object, and so would the king.”

“There can be a gap in the line of boats, spanned by the roadbed but wide enough for any normal riverboat to pass through.”

“Do you think you could build that?”

Edgar hesitated. Today’s experience had undermined his confidence. All the same, he thought a pontoon bridge was a possibility. “I don’t know,” he said with newfound caution. “But I think so.”

The summer was over, the harvest had been gathered in, and the nip of autumn was in the breeze when Wynstan rode with Garulf to join forces with the men of Devon.

Priests were not supposed to shed blood. This rule was often broken, but Wynstan normally found it a convenient excuse to avoid the discomfort and danger of war.

However, he was no coward. He was bigger and stronger than most men, and he was well armed. As well as the spear carried by everyone, he had a sword with a steel blade, a helmet, and a sort of sleeveless shirt of mail.

He was riding with the army, breaking his usual habit, in order to stay close to Garulf. He had connived to have Garulf made commander in chief because it was the only way to keep control of the army in the family’s hands. But it would be a disaster if Garulf were to die in battle. With Wilf so ill, Garulf had become important. While Ragna’s children were small, Garulf had a chance of inheriting Wilf’s fortune and his title. He could be the means by which the family kept its hold not just on the army, but on Shiring.

The road was a track through forested hills. One day before they were due at their rendezvous, they emerged from a wood and looked up a long valley. At the far, narrower end the river was a fast stream hurrying toward them. Then it widened and ran shallow over rocky falls, and finally consolidated into a deeper, slower waterway.