Page 290 of The Evening and the Morning

“I hope he comes,” Ragna whispered.

“So do I. I’ve kept his house empty for him.”

Aldred loved him too, Ragna knew—and with even less expectation than she had.

Aldred’s tone became brisk, as if he had read her thoughts and wanted to change the subject. “There’s something else I need to ask you—another favor.”

“Go ahead.”

“The archbishop of Canterbury is dying, and Wynstan is making a bid to succeed him.”

Ragna shuddered. “The idea of Wynstan as the moral leader of the entire south of England is just obscene.”

“Would you say that to Queen Emma? You know her, she likes you, she would listen to you more than to anyone.”

“You’re right, she’d listen to me,” Ragna said. And there was something Aldred did not know. Ragna could tell the queen that Wynstan had a disease that would slowly drive him mad. That would certainly be enough to prevent his being made archbishop.

But Ragna would never do it. She could not pass her information to Emma or anyone else. Wynstan would easily find out what had blocked his appointment, and there would be reprisals. Wigelm would take Alain away from Ragna, knowing that was the most severe punishment he could inflict.

She looked at Aldred and felt sad. His face showed optimism and determination. He was a good man, but she could not give him what he needed. The evil men always seemed to get their way, she thought: Dreng, Degbert, Wigelm, Wynstan. Perhaps it would always be so, on this earth.

“No,” she said. “I’m too scared of what Wynstan and Wigelm would do to me in revenge. I’m sorry, Aldred, I can’t help you.”

CHAPTER 39

Spring 1006

he craftsmen working on the new stone church stopped for a break at midmorning. The master mason’s daughter, Clothild, brought her father a pot of ale and some bread. Giorgio, a builder from Rome, soaked his bread in ale to soften it before eating.

Edgar was the master’s deputy, and during the break he usually went to the lodge, a lean-to hut, to discuss what orders should be given for the rest of the day. After more than two years of speaking nothing but Norman French, Edgar was now fluent.

Clothild had got into the habit of bringing ale and bread for Edgar, too. Edgar gave some of the bread to his new dog, Coalie, who was black with a whiskered muzzle.

The church was being built on a site that sloped down from west to east, which presented a challenge in itself. In order to keep the floor level throughout, a deep crypt with massive squat pillars would provide a platform to hold up the east end.

Edgar was thrilled by Giorgio’s design. The nave would have two parallel rows of huge semicircular arches supported by mightypillars, so that people in the side aisles could see the entire width of the church, and a large congregation could watch the Mass. Edgar had never imagined such a bold design, and he was pretty sure no one else in England had either. The French workers were equally startled: this was something brand new.

Giorgio was a thin, grumpy man in his fifties, but he was the most skilled and imaginative builder Edgar had ever known. He sat drawing in the dirt with a stick, explaining how the voussoirs, the stones in the arches, would be carved with molding in such a way that, when they were set side by side, they would look like a series of concentric rings. “Do you understand?” he said.

“Yes, of course,” Edgar said. “It’s extremely clever.”

“Don’t say you understand unless it’s true!” Giorgio said with irritation.

Giorgio often expected to spend a long time explaining things that Edgar grasped immediately. It reminded Edgar of conversations with his father. “You describe things so clearly,” he said, smoothing Giorgio’s feathers.

Clothild handed him a platter with bread and cheese, and he ate hungrily. She sat opposite him. As he continued to discuss the shape of voussoirs with Giorgio, she crossed and uncrossed her knees repeatedly, showing him her strong brown legs.

She was attractive, with an easygoing personality and a trim figure, and she had made it clear that she liked Edgar. She was twenty-one, just five years younger than he. She was lovely, except that she was not Ragna.

He had long ago realized that he did not love as most men did. He seemed to become almost blind to all women but one. He had remained faithful to Sungifu for years after her death. Now he was being true to a woman who had married another man—two othermen, in fact. At times he wished he had been made differently. Why should he not marry this likable girl? She would be kind and affectionate to him, as she was with her father. And Edgar would be able to lie between those strong brown legs every night.

Giorgio said: “We draw a half circle on the ground the same size as the arch, draw a radius from the center to the circumference, then place a stone on the circumference so that it is square to the radius. But the sides of the stone, where it butts onto the neighboring voussoirs, must be slightly angled.”

“Yes,” said Edgar. “So we draw two more radii, one on each side, and they give us the correct slant for the edges of the stone.”

Giorgio stared at him. “How did you know that?” he said tetchily.

Edgar needed to be careful not to offend Giorgio by knowing too much. Builders jealously guarded what they called the “mysteries” of their craft. “You told me, awhile ago,” Edgar lied. “I remember everything you tell me.”