Page 233 of The Evening and the Morning

And what have we been doing, Edgar wondered? “You look fine,” he said. What a stupid thing to say, he thought. “You look like a sad angel.”

“I wish I had the powers of an angel,” she said. “Think what I could do.”

“What would you do first?”

She smiled, shook her head, turned around, and left.

Once again Wynstan spoke to Agnes in a corner of the chancel, near the altar but out of sight of the nave. There was a Bible on the altar and, near his feet, a chest containing holy water and the sacramental bread. Wynstan had no qualms about conducting business in the holiest part of the church. He worshipped Jehovah, the Old Testament god who had ordered the genocide of the Canaanites. What needs to be done must be done, and God had no use for the squeamish, he believed.

Agnes was excited but nervous. “I don’t know the whole story, but I have to tell you anyway,” she said.

“You’re a wise woman,” he said. She was not, but he needed her to calm down. “Just tell me what happened, and leave me to figure out its significance.”

“Ragna went to Dreng’s Ferry.”

Wynstan had heard as much, but he did not know what to makeof it. There was nothing for Ragna in that little hamlet. She had a soft spot for the young builder, but Wynstan felt sure she was not fucking him. “What did she do there?”

“She and Wilf met with Aldred and two other men. The identities of the others were supposed to be secret, but it’s a small place, and I saw them. They were Bishop Modulf of Norwood and Sheriff Den.”

Wynstan frowned. That was interesting, but it raised more questions than it answered. “Did you get any hint of the purpose of the meeting?”

“No, but I think they all witnessed a parchment.”

“A written agreement,” Wynstan mused. “I don’t suppose you caught a glimpse of it.”

She smiled. “What would such a thing mean to me?” She could not read, of course.

“I wonder what that French bitch is up to,” Wynstan said, mainly to himself. Most documents were about land being sold, leased, or gifted. Had Ragna persuaded Wilf to transfer land to Prior Aldred or Bishop Modulf, a pious gift? But that would not have needed a secret meeting. Marriage contracts might be written, if property was to change hands, but it seemed no marriage had taken place at Dreng’s Ferry. Births were not recorded, even royal births, but deaths were—and wills were written. Had someone made a will? Ragna might have persuaded Wilf to do so. Wilf had not recovered fully from his head wound, and might yet die of it.

The more Wynstan thought about it, the more sure he felt that the purpose of Ragna’s clandestine meeting was to get the ealdorman’s will secretly written and witnessed.

The problem with that was that a nobleman’s will meant little. The king had control of every dead nobleman’s property, includingthat of widows. No will had any force unless is was ratified in advance by the king.

Wynstan asked Agnes: “Was anything said about going to see King Ethelred?”

“How did you know that?” she said. “You’re so clever! Yes, I heard Bishop Modulf say he would see Ragna at Sherborne when the king is there.”

“That’s it,” said Wynstan decisively. “She’s written Wilf’s will, it’s been witnessed by a bishop, a sheriff, and a prior, and now she’s going to ask for royal approval.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She thinks Wilf is going to die, and she wants her son to inherit.” Wynstan thought further. “She will have got Wilf to designate her to rule as regent for Osbert until he comes of age, I’m sure.”

“But Garulf is also Wilf’s son, and he’s twenty. Surely the king would prefer him to a child.”

“Unfortunately Garulf’s a fool, and the king knows it. Last year Garulf lost most of the Shiring army in one injudicious battle, and Ethelred was furious about the waste of all those fighting men. Ragna is a woman, but she’s as clever as a cat, and the king would probably rather have her in charge of Shiring than Garulf.”

“You understand everything,” Agnes said admiringly.

She was gazing at him in adoration, and he wondered whether he should gratify her evident desire, but he decided it was better to keep her hoping. He touched her cheek, as if he were about to whisper an endearment, but what he said was: “Where would Ragna keep such a document?”

“At the house, in the locked chest with her money,” Agnes said in an ardent whisper.

He kissed her lips. “Thank you,” he said. “You’d better go.”

He watched her walk away. She had a nice trim figure. Maybe one day he would give her what her heart desired.

But the news she had brought him was no light matter. It could mean the final demise of his powerful family. He had to talk to his younger brother about it. Wigelm happened to be in Shiring, and staying at the bishop’s residence, but Wynstan wanted to have a plan of action worked out before he opened the conversation. He remained in the cathedral, alone, glad of the chance to think without interruption.