Garulf stood behind him holding a leather whip, its end divided into three strips, each strip embedded with sharp stones. He looked resentful and unhappy.
Every resident of the compound was watching: men, women, and children. The penalty was intended to educate everyone, not just the offender.
Wilf, standing by, said: “Stiggy laid hands on my wife. This is his penalty.”
The crowd was silent. The only sound was the evening psalm of the birds.
Wilf said: “Begin. One.”
Garulf raised the whip and struck Stiggy’s naked back. The blow made a sharp snapping noise, and Stiggy flinched.
Ragna shuddered and wished she did not have to watch. But for her to leave now would appear weak.
Wilf shook his head. “Not hard enough,” he said. “Begin again. One.”
Garulf hit Stiggy harder. This time Stiggy gave a muted cry of pain. The whip left red marks on his white skin.
A woman in the crowd wept softly, and Ragna recognized Stiggy’s mother.
Wilf was unmoved. “Still too soft. Begin again. One.”
Garulf raised the whip high and struck with all his might. Stiggy screamed in pain, and drops of blood appeared where the stones had broken his skin.
The scream silenced the birds.
“Two,” said Wilf.
CHAPTER 17
February 998
dgar was angered by the idea of people stealing from Ragna.
He had not cared so much about Gab the quarrymaster cheating Ealdorman Wilwulf. Wilf had plenty of money, and anyway it was none of Edgar’s business. But he felt differently when Ragna was the victim, perhaps because she was a foreigner and therefore vulnerable—or perhaps, he thought wryly, because she was beautiful.
He had almost told her after the wedding, but he had hesitated. He wanted to be absolutely sure. He did not want to give her a false alert.
Anyway, he had to go to Outhenham again. The walls of the brewhouse were finished and the timber rafters were in place, but he wanted to complete the roof with thin stone tiles that would not burn. He told Dreng he could get the material for half the price if he transported it himself, which was true, and Dreng agreed, always keen to keep money rather than spend it.
Edgar built a simple raft of logs, long and broad. Last time he went to Outhenham he had followed the river upstream, so now heknew there were no major obstacles to craft, just two places where the water became shallow and the raft might have to be pulled along with ropes for a few yards.
However, poling the raft upstream would be hard work, and roping it over the shallows even harder, so he persuaded Dreng to pay Erman and Eadbald a penny each to leave the farm for two days and help him.
Dreng handed Edgar a small leather purse, saying: “There’s twelve pennies in there. That should be plenty.” Ethel gave them bread and ham for the journey, and Leaf added a flagon of ale to quench their thirst.
They set off early. Brindle leaped onto the raft as they boarded. In dog philosophy it was always better to go somewhere than to be left behind. Edgar asked himself whether that was his philosophy, too, and was not sure of the answer.
Erman and Eadbald were thin, and Edgar supposed he was, too. A year ago, when they had been living at Combe, no one would have called them even a little fat, but all the same they had shed weight over the winter. They were still strong, but lean, their cheeks concave, their muscles ropy, their waists narrow.
It was a cold February morning, but they perspired as they deployed the poles and pushed the raft upstream. One person could propel the vessel but it was easier with two, one on each side, the third man resting. They did not normally talk much, but there was nothing else to do on the journey, and Edgar asked: “How are you getting on with Cwenburg?”
Eadbald answered: “Erman lies with her on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and me on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.” He grinned. “Sunday is her day of rest.”
They were both good-humored about it, and Edgar concluded that the unorthodox marriage was working surprisingly well.
Erman said: “It’s lying and nothing more, now—she’s too pregnant for fucking.”
Edgar calculated when the baby was due. They had arrived in Dreng’s Ferry three days before Midsummer, and Cwenburg had conceived more or less immediately. “The baby is due three days before Lady Day,” he said. Erman gave him a sour look. Edgar’s ability with numbers seemed almost miraculous to other people, and his brothers resented it.
