“Where did he go?”
“Shiring. I don’t know why, some nefarious purpose, I expect.”
“He’s probably protesting about the bridge.”
“Protesting? To whom?”
“Good point,” said Edgar. “Wilwulf is still ill, apparently, and Dreng won’t get much sympathy from Ragna.”
Edgar was glad the village was busy. He shared Aldred’s affection for the place. They both wanted it to prosper. It had been a dump just a few years ago, a scatter of poor houses supporting two lazyand venal brothers, Degbert and Dreng. Now it had a priory, a fish shop, a saint, and a bridge.
That led Edgar’s thoughts to another topic. He said: “Sooner or later we’re going to need to build a wall.”
Aldred looked dubious. “I’ve never felt in danger here.”
“Every year the Vikings raid deeper into the west of England. And if our village continues to prosper, before long we’ll be worth raiding.”
“They always attack up rivers—but there’s an obstacle at Mudeford, that shallow stretch.”
Edgar remembered the wrecked Viking vessel on the beach at Combe. “Their ships are light. They can be dragged over the shallows.”
“If that happened, they would attack us from the river, not from land.”
“So first we would need to fortify the riverbank all the way around the bend.” Edgar pointed upstream, to where the river turned a right angle. “I’m talking about an earth rampart, possibly revetted with timber or stone in places.”
“Where would you put the rest of the wall?”
“It should start at the waterfront just beyond Leaf’s brewhouse.”
“Then your brothers’ farm would be outside.”
Edgar cared about his brothers more than they cared about him, but they were not in serious danger. “The Vikings don’t raid isolated farms—there’s not enough to steal.”
“True.”
“The wall would run uphill at the back of the houses: Bebbe’s place, then Cerdic and Ebba, then Hadwine and Elfburg, then Regenbald Roper, Bucca Fish, and me. Past my place it would turnright and go all the way to the river, to enclose the site of the new church, just in case we ever get to build it.”
“Oh, we’ll build it,” said Aldred.
“I hope so.”
“Have faith,” said Aldred.
Ragna watched as Hildi the midwife examined Wilf carefully. She made him sit upright on a stool, then brought a candle close to look at his head wound.
“Take that away,” he said. “It hurts my eyes.”
She moved it behind him so that it did not shine in his face. She touched the wound with her fingertips and nodded with satisfaction. “Are you eating well?” she said. “What did you have for breakfast?”
“Porridge with salt,” he replied glumly. “And a flagon of weak ale. A poor meal for a nobleman.”
Hildi met Ragna’s eye. “He had smoked ham and wine,” said Ragna quietly.
“Don’t contradict me,” Wilf said irritably. “I know what I had for breakfast.”
Hildi said: “How are you feeling?”
“I get headaches,” he replied. “Otherwise I’m fine—never better.”
