Page 61 of The Evening and the Morning

Edgar stopped and said: “Good day to you, friend. I’m Edgar, from Dreng’s Ferry.”

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“To the quarry,” Edgar said mildly. He did not want a quarrel.

But the man was belligerent. “Who said you could go there?”

Edgar’s patience began to wear thin. “I don’t believe I need permission.”

“You need my permission to do anything in Outhenham, because I’m Dudda, the headman of the village. Why are you going to the quarry?”

“To buy fish.”

Dudda looked mystified, then it dawned on him that he was being mocked, and he reddened. Edgar realized he had been too clever for his own good—again—and regretted his wit. Dudda said: “You cheeky dog.” Then he swung a big fist at Edgar’s head.

Edgar stepped back nimbly.

Dudda’s swing failed to connect, and he overbalanced, stumbled, and fell to the ground.

Edgar wondered what the hell to do next. He had no doubt he could beat Dudda in a fight, but what good would that do him? If he antagonized people here, they might refuse to sell stone to him, and his building project would be in trouble when it had barely got started.

He was relieved to hear the calm voice of Seric behind him. “Now, Dudda, let me help you home. You might want to lie down for an hour.” He took Dudda’s arm and helped him to his feet.

Dudda said: “That boy hit me!”

“No, he didn’t, you fell down, because you drank too much ale with your dinner again.” Seric jerked his head at Edgar, indicating that he should make himself scarce, and walked Dudda away. Edgar took the hint.

He found the quarry easily. Four people were working there: an older man who was evidently in charge and therefore must be Gab,two others who might have been his sons, and a boy who was either a late addition to the family or a slave. The quarry rang with the sound of hammers, punctuated at intervals by a dry cough that came from Gab. There was a timber house, presumably their home, and a woman standing in the doorway watching the sun go down. Stone dust hung in the air like a mist, the specks glittering golden in the rays of the evening light.

Another customer was ahead of Edgar. A sturdy four-wheeled cart stood in the middle of the clearing. Two men were carefully loading it with cut stones, while two oxen—presumably there to pull the cart—grazed nearby, their tails flicking at flies.

The boy was sweeping up stone chips, probably to be sold as gravel. He approached Edgar and spoke with a foreign accent, which made Edgar think he was a slave. “Have you come to buy stone?”

“Yes. I need enough for a brewhouse. But there’s no rush.”

Edgar sat on a flat stone, observed Gab for a few minutes, and quickly understood how he worked. He would insert an oak wedge into a small crack in the rock, then hammer the wedge in, widening the crack until it turned into a split and a section of rock fell away. Failing the convenience of a naturally formed crack, Gab would make one with his iron chisel. Edgar guessed that a quarryman would have learned from experience how to locate the weaknesses in the rock that would make the work easier.

Gab split the larger stones into two or sometimes three pieces, just to make them easier to transport.

Edgar turned his attention to the purchasers. They put ten stones on their cart then stopped. That was probably as much weight as the oxen could pull. They began to put the beasts into the shafts, ready to leave.

Gab finished what he was doing, coughed, looked at the sky, and appeared to decide it was time to stop work. He went to the oxcart and conferred with the two buyers for a few moments, then one of the men handed over money.

Then they cracked a whip over the oxen and left.

Edgar went to Gab. The quarryman had picked up a trimmed branch from a pile and was carefully marking it with a neat row of notches. This was how craftsmen and traders kept records: they could not afford parchment, and if they had any they would not know how to write on it. Edgar guessed that Gab had to pay taxes to the lord of the manor, perhaps the price of one stone in five, and so needed a record of how many he had sold.

Edgar said: “I’m Edgar from Dreng’s Ferry. Ten years ago you sold us stones for the repair of the church.”

“I recollect,” said Gab, putting the tally stick in his pocket. Edgar noticed that he had cut only five notches, although he had sold ten stones: perhaps he was going to finish it later. “I don’t remember you, but then you would have been a small child.”

Edgar studied Gab. His hands were covered with old scars, no doubt from his work. He was probably wondering how he could exploit this ignorant youth. Edgar said firmly: “The price was two pence per stone delivered.”

“Was it, now?” Gab said with pretended skepticism.

“If it’s still the same, we want about two hundred more.”

“I’m not sure we can do it for the same price. Things have changed.”