Page 76 of The Evening and the Morning
“My father is Brioc.”
“I like that, it sounds strong.”
“It’s the name of a Celtic saint.”
“What about your mother?”
“Eleri.”
“Pretty name.”
Tears came to her eyes. “I miss them so much.”
“I’ve made you sad. I’m sorry.”
“You’re the only English person who ever asked me about my family.”
A shout came from inside the alehouse. “Blod! Get in here.”
Blod left, and Edgar resumed work.
The first consignment of stones had come downstream from Outhenham on a raft steered by one of Gab’s sons, and had been unloaded and stacked near the ruins of the old brewhouse. Edgar had prepared the foundations of the new building, digging a trench and half filling it with loose stones.
He had to guess how deep the foundations should go. He had checked those of the church, digging a small hole alongside the wall of the chancel, and found that there were almost no foundations at all, but that would explain why it was falling down.
He poured mortar over the stones, and here he came across another problem: how to make sure the surface of the mortar was level. He had a good eye, but that was not enough. He had seen builders at work, and now he wished he had watched them more carefully. In the end he invented a device. He made a thin, flat stick a yard long and carved out the inside to form a smooth channel. The result was a miniature version of the log canoe Dreng had used as a ferry. Edgar got Cuthbert to make a small, polished iron ball in his forge. He laid the stick on the mortar, put the ball in the channel, and tapped the stick. If the ball rolled to one end, that showed that the mortar was not level and the surface had to be adjusted.
It was a lengthy process, and Dreng was impatient. He came out of the alehouse and stood with his hands on his hips, watching Edgar, for a few minutes. Eventually he said: “You’ve been working on this a week, and I don’t see any wall rising.”
“I have to get the foundations level,” Edgar explained.
“I don’t care if it’s level,” Dreng said. “It’s a brewhouse, not a cathedral.”
“If it’s not level it will fall down.”
Dreng looked at Edgar, not sure whether to believe him but unwilling to reveal his ignorance. He walked away saying: “I need Leaf to make ale as soon as possible. I’m losing money buying it from Shiring. Work faster!”
While Edgar was working, his mind often went back to Ragna. She had appeared in Dreng’s Ferry like a visitor from paradise. She was so tall, and poised, and beautiful that when you looked at her it was hard to believe she was a member of the human race. But as soon as she spoke she revealed herself to be charmingly human: down-to-earth and warmly sympathetic and capable of weeping over a lost belt. Ealdorman Wilwulf was a lucky man. The two of them would make a remarkable couple. Wherever they went, all eyes would follow them, the dashing ruler and his lovely bride.
Edgar was flattered that she had talked to him, even though she had told him frankly that her motive was to keep Dreng away. He was inordinately pleased that he had been able to find her a place to sleep that suited her better than the tavern. He sympathized with her wish not to lie down on the floor with everyone else. Even quite plain-looking women were liable to be pestered by men in alehouses.
On the following morning he had poled the ferry across to Leper Island to pick her up. Mother Agatha had walked Ragna with Catand Agnes down to the waterside, and in that short distance Edgar had seen clearly that Agatha, too, was enchanted by Ragna, hanging on her words and hardly able to take her eyes off her. The nun had stayed at the water’s edge, waving, until the boat reached the other side and Ragna went into the alehouse.
Before they left, Agnes had told Edgar that she hoped she would see him again soon. The thought had crossed his mind that her interest in him might be romantic. If that were so he would have to confess to her that he was not able to fall in love, and explain about Sunni. He wondered how many times he was going to have to tell that story.
Toward evening he was startled by a cry of pain from within the tavern. It sounded like Blod, and Edgar thought Dreng might be beating her. He dropped his tools and ran inside.
But there was no beating. Dreng was sitting at the table looking irritated. Blod was slumped on the floor with her back to the wall. Her black hair was wet with sweat. Leaf and Ethel were standing up, watching her. As Edgar arrived she gave another shriek of pain.
“God save us,” said Edgar. “Did something terrible happen?”
“What’s the matter with you, you stupid boy?” Dreng jeered. “Haven’t you ever seen a woman giving birth?”
Edgar had not. He had seen animals giving birth, but that was different. He was the youngest in the family and had not been alive when his brothers were born. He knew about human childbirth in theory, so he was aware that it might hurt, and—now that he came to think about it—he had sometimes heard cries of pain from neighboring houses, and he recalled his mother saying: “Her time has come.” But he had never experienced it close up.
The only thing he knew for sure was that the mother often died.
He found it harrowing to look at a girl in pain and be unable to help her. “Should we give her a sip of ale?” he said in desperation. Strong drink was usually good for people in pain.
