“So could I!” said Degbert. “Stop whining—we’re doing it for you!”
“No, you’re not. You’re doing it because you hate Aldred, both of you.”
It was true.
Degbert detested Aldred for getting him kicked out of his comfortable minster. Wynstan’s hatred was more complex. Aldred had challenged him again and again. Each time, Wynstan had punished him; but Aldred never learned his lesson. This maddened Wynstan. People were supposed to be afraid of him. Someone who had defied him should never be seen to prosper. Wynstan’s curse had to be fatal. If Aldred could oppose him, others might get the same idea. Aldred was a crack in the wall that might one day bring down the whole building.
Wynstan made himself calm. “Who cares why we’re doing it?” he said, and his fury sounded in his voice despite his effort at self-control, so that the other two looked scared. “None of us is going tohang,” he said in a more emollient tone. “If necessary I shall swear that we’re innocent, and the oath of a bishop is too powerful.” He passed the wineskin around again.
After a while he put more wood on the fire and told the others to settle down to rest. “I’ll stay awake,” he said.
They lay down, wrapped in their cloaks, but Wynstan remained sitting upright. He would have to guess when it was the middle of the night. Perhaps the exact hour did not matter, but he needed to feel sure the villagers were in the deepest trough of slumber, and the monks were a few hours away from their predawn service of Matins.
He was uncomfortable, feeling the aches and pains of a body almost forty years old, and he asked himself whether it had really been necessary for him to sleep rough in the forest with Degbert and Dreng; but he knew the answer. He had to make sure they did the job thoroughly and at the same time discreetly. As with all the most important tasks, his hands-on supervision was the only guarantee of success.
He was glad he had gone into battle with Garulf. If he had not been there, the boy would surely have been killed. These were things a bishop should not have to do. But Wynstan was no ordinary bishop.
While he waited for the hours to pass he brooded over the illness of his half brother, Wilf, and its consequences for Shiring. It was plain to Wynstan, though not to everyone, that Wilf’s recovery was partial. Ragna was still the main conduit for his instructions: she decided what was to be done and then pretended that her decisions were his wishes. Bern the Giant was still in charge of Wilf’s personal bodyguard and Sheriff Den was in command of the Shiring army, what was left of it. Wilf’s recovery served mainly to allow him to confirm her authority.
Wynstan and Wigelm had been cleverly sidelined. They retained authority in their respective spheres, Wynstan in the diocese and Wigelm at Combe, but they had little general power. Garulf had recovered from his injuries, but the disastrous battle with the Vikings had destroyed his reputation and he had no credibility. Gytha had long been stripped of influence in the compound. Ragna still reigned supreme.
And there was nothing Wynstan could do about it.
He had no trouble staying alert as the night wore on. A maddeningly intractable problem would always keep him awake. He took a few sips of wine now and again, never very much. He threw wood on the fire, just enough to keep it going.
When he judged it was past midnight, he woke Degbert and Dreng.
Brindle growled in the night. The sound did not quite wake Edgar. He was vaguely aware and recognized it as the muted warning the dog gave when she heard someone pass the house at night but recognized the step of a person she knew. Edgar understood that he did not need to respond, and went back to sleep.
Some time later, the dog barked. That was different. It was an urgent, frightened bark that saidWake up quickly, now, I’m really scared.
Edgar smelled burning.
The air was always smokey in his house, as it was in every house in England, but this was a different aroma, sharper and slightly ripe, pungent. In the first moment of wakefulness he thought of tar. In the second moment he realized this was some kind of emergency, and he leaped to his feet, full of fear.
He threw open the door and stepped out. He saw with horror where the smell came from: the bridge was alight. Flames flickered maliciously in a dozen different places, and on the surface of the water their reflections danced with insane glee.
Edgar’s masterpiece was burning.
He ran down the hill in his bare feet, hardly noticing the cold. The fire blazed higher in the few seconds it took him to reach the waterside, but the bridge could still be saved, he thought, if enough water could be thrown on it. He stepped into the river, cupped his hands in the water, and splashed a burning timber.
He realized immediately that this was hopelessly inadequate. He had allowed panic to direct him for a few moments. He stopped, breathed, and looked around. Every house was daubed with orange-red reflections. No one else was awake. “Help!” he yelled desperately. “Everybody, come quickly! Fire! Fire!”
He ran to the alehouse and banged on the door, shouting. It was opened a moment later by Blod, big-eyed and scared, her dark hair tangled. “Bring buckets and pots!” Edgar yelled. “Quickly!” Blod, showing impressive presence of mind, immediately reached behind the door and handed him a wooden bucket.
Edgar dashed into the river and began throwing bucketfuls of water over the flames. Seconds later he was joined by Blod with Ethel, who carried a big clay jar, and Leaf, staggering with an iron cooking pot.
It was not enough. The flames were spreading faster than the people could put them out.
Other villagers appeared: Bebbe, Bucca Fish, Cerdic and Ebba, Hadwine and Elfburg, Regenbald Roper. As they ran to the river, Edgar saw that they were all empty-handed. Maddened withfrustration, he yelled: “Bring pots! You idiots, bring pots!” They realized they could do little without water containers, and turned back to their houses to find what was needed.
Meanwhile, the fire grew quickly. The smell of tar was diminishing, but the flat-bottomed boats were burning strongly and even the oak timbers were now catching alight.
Then Aldred came out of the monastery followed by the rest of the monks, all carrying pots, jars, and small barrels. “Go to the downstream side!” Edgar shouted, accompanying his words with an arm gesture. Aldred led the monks into the river on the other side of the bridge and they all began throwing water on the flames.
Soon the whole village had joined in. Some who could swim crossed the cold river and attacked the blaze at the far end of the bridge. But even at the near end, Edgar saw with despair, they were losing the battle.
Mother Agatha arrived with two other nuns in their tiny boat.
