Page 229 of The Evening and the Morning

Leaf, Dreng’s elder wife, who was probably drunk as well as sleepy, stumbled out of the river, exhausted. Edgar noticed her and feared she was in danger of reeling into the flames. She dropped to her knees in the riverside mud and swayed sideways. She managed to right herself, but not before her hair caught fire.

She screamed in pain, came upright, and ran, blindly heading away from the water that could save her. Ethel went after her, but Edgar was quicker. He threw down his bucket and ran. He caught Leaf easily, but saw that she was already badly burned, the skin of her face blackened and cracking. He threw her to the ground. There was no time to carry her back to the river: she would be dead before they got there. He pulled his tunic off and wrapped it around her head, smothering the flames instantly.

Mother Agatha appeared beside him. She bent over and gently removed Edgar’s garment from around Leaf’s head. It came away scorched, with some of Leaf’s hair and face attached to the woolen fibers. She touched Leaf’s chest, feeling for a heartbeat, then shook her head sadly.

Ethel burst into tears.

Edgar heard a great creak, like the groan of a giant, then a mammoth splash. He turned to see that the far end of the bridge had crashed into the river.

He glimpsed something on the bank just downstream of the ruined bridge. It piqued his curiosity. Not caring that he was stark naked, he stepped to the bank and picked it up. It was a half-burned rag. He sniffed it. As he had suspected, it had been soaked in tar.

In the light of the dying flames he saw his brothers, Erman and Eadbald, hurrying along the bank from the farmhouse. Cwenburg was close behind them, carrying eighteen-month-old Beorn and holding the hand of Winnie, aged four. Now the whole village was here.

He showed the rag to Aldred. “Look at this.”

At first Aldred did not understand. “What is it?”

“A rag soaked in tar and set alight. It obviously fell in the water, which put out the flames.”

“You mean it was originally tied to the bridge?”

“How do you think the bridge caught fire?” The other villagers began to gather around Edgar, listening. “There’s been no storm, no lightning. A house might burn, because a house has a fire in the middle of it, but what could set light to a bridge in the middle of winter?”

The cold got to his naked body at last, and he began to shiver.

Aldred said: “Someone did this.”

“When I discovered the fire, the bridge was burning in a dozen separate places. An accidental fire starts in one place. This was arson.”

“But who did it?”

Bucca Fish was listening. “It must have been Dreng,” he said. “He hates the bridge.” Bucca, by contrast, loved it: his business had multiplied.

Fat Bebbe overheard. “If it was Dreng, he’s killed his own wife,” she said.

The monks crossed themselves, and old Tatwine said: “God bless her soul.”

Aldred said: “Dreng is in Shiring. He can’t have started the fire.”

Edgar said: “Who else?”

No one answered the question.

Edgar studied the dying flames, assessing the damage. The far end of the bridge was gone. At the near end, the embers still glowed, and the entire structure was leaning downstream precipitously.

It was utterly beyond repair.

Blod came to him holding a cloak. After a moment he realized it was his own. She must have gone to his house and fetched it. She also had his shoes.

He put the cloak on. He was shivering too much to manage the shoes, so Blod knelt in front of him and put them on his feet.

“Thank you,” said Edgar.

Then he began to cry.

CHAPTER 31

June 1002