Page 60 of The Evening and the Morning

Cuthbert said: “The standard rough stones cost a penny each at the quarry, if I remember rightly, and they charged us a penny per stone for delivery.”

Edgar said: “I’ll make a plan, and work it out exactly; but I would probably need about two hundred stones.”

Dreng pretended to be shocked. “Why, that’s almost two pounds of silver!”

“It would still be cheaper than rebuilding in wood and thatch again and again.” Edgar held his breath.

“Work it out exactly,” said Dreng.

Edgar set off for Outhenham at sunrise on a cool morning, with a chill September breeze wafting along the river. Dreng had agreed to pay for a stone brewhouse. Now Edgar had to make good on his boasting and build it well.

He took his ax with him on the journey. He would have preferred to go with one of his brothers, but both were busy on the farm, so he had to take the risk of traveling alone. On the other hand, he had already met the outlaw Ironface, who had gone away the worse for the encounter and might hesitate to attack him again. All the same, he carried the ax in his hand, for readiness, and he was glad to have Brindle to give him early warning of danger.

The trees and bushes along the bank were luxuriant after a fine summer, and it was often a struggle to make progress. Around midmorning he came to a place where he had to detour inland. Fortunately the sky was mostly clear, so he could usually see the sun, and this helped him to keep his bearings, so that eventually he was able to find his way back to the river.

Every few miles he passed through a large or small settlement, the same timber-and-thatch houses clustered on the riverbank or inland around a crossroads, a pond, or a church. He slung his ax in his belt as he approached, to make a peaceable impression, but drew it out as soon as he found himself alone again. He would have liked to stop and rest, drink a cup of ale and eat something, but he had no money, so he just exchanged a few words with the villagers, checked that he was on the right road, and walked on.

He had thought it a simple matter to follow the river. However, numerous streams flowed into it and he could not always be surewhich was the main river and which the tributary. On one occasion he made the wrong choice, and learned at the next settlement he came to—a village called Bathford—that he needed to retrace his steps.

Along the way he thought about the brewhouse he would construct for Leaf. Perhaps it should have two rooms, like the nave and chancel of a church, so that valuable stores could be kept away from the fire. The hearth should be made of trimmed stones mortared together, so that it would easily bear the weight of the cauldron and be less likely to collapse.

He had hoped to reach Outhenham by midafternoon, but his detours had delayed him, so the sun was low in the western sky when he thought he might be approaching the end of his journey.

He was in a fertile valley of heavy clay soil that he thought must be the Vale of Outhen. In the surrounding fields peasants were harvesting barley, working late to make the most of dry weather. At a place where a tributary joined the river, he came to a large village of more than a hundred houses.

He was on the wrong side of the water, and there was no bridge or ferry, but he easily swam across, holding his tunic above his head and using only one hand to propel himself. The water was cold and he shivered when he got out.

At the edge of the village was a small orchard where a gray-haired man was picking fruit. Edgar approached with some trepidation, fearing he might be told he was far from his destination. “Good day, friend,” he said. “Is this Outhenham?”

“It is,” the man said amiably. He was a bright-eyed fifty-year-old with a friendly smile and an intelligent look.

“Thank heaven,” said Edgar.

“Where have you come from?”

“Dreng’s Ferry.”

“A godless place, I’ve heard.”

Edgar was surprised that Degbert’s laxity was known about so far away. He was not sure how to respond to that, so he said: “My name is Edgar.”

“And I’m Seric.”

“I’ve come here to buy stone.”

“If you go east to the edge of the village, you’ll see a well-worn track. The quarry is about half a mile inland. There you’ll find Gaberht, called Gab, and his family. He’s the quarrymaster.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

Seric gave him a handful of small pears. Edgar thanked him and went on. He ate the pears, cores and all, right away.

The village was relatively prosperous, with well-built houses and outbuildings. At its center, a stone church faced an alehouse across a green where cows grazed.

A big man in his thirties came out of the alehouse, spotted Edgar, and took up a confrontational stance in the middle of the pathway. “Who the hell are you?” he said as Edgar approached him. He was heavy and red-eyed, and his speech was slurred.