“I want each person to go home, find a bucket or a pot, and bring it back here, quickly.”
The villagers and the monks obeyed with alacrity. They were keen to see what was going to happen. Among the few who declined to join in were Cwenburg, Dreng’s daughter, and her two husbands, Erman and Eadbald.
When they had reassembled, Den said: “Dreng threatened a fire. We will now put out his flames. Everyone, fill your vessel from the river and pour the water over Dreng.”
Edgar guessed that Aldred had devised this punishment. It was more symbolic than painful. Few people would have dreamed up something so mild. On the other hand it was humiliating, especially for a man such as Dreng, who boasted of his connections in high places.
And it was a warning. Dreng had got away with burning down the bridge before, because that bridge had belonged to Aldred, who was no more than the prior of a small monastery, whereas Dreng had the support of the bishop of Shiring. But the sheriff’s action today announced that the new bridge would be different. This one belonged to the king, and even Wynstan would struggle to protect someone who set fire to it.
The villagers began to throw their containers of river water over Dreng. He was not much liked, and people clearly enjoyed what they were doing. Some took care to throw the water directly into his face, which made him curse. Others laughed and poured it over his head. Several people went back for another bucketful. Dreng began to shiver.
Edgar did not fill a bucket but stood watching, with his arms folded. Dreng will never forget this, he thought.
Eventually Aldred called: “Enough!”
The villagers stopped.
Den said: “He is to remain here until dawn tomorrow. Anyone who releases him before then will take his place.”
Dreng was going to spend a cold night, Edgar thought, but he would live.
Den led his men-at-arms to the monastery, where presumably they would stay the night. Edgar hoped they liked beans.
The villagers dispersed slowly, realizing there was no more fun to be had.
Edgar was about to restart his work when Dreng caught his eye.
“Go on, laugh,” said Dreng.
Edgar was not laughing.
Dreng said: “I heard a rumor about your precious Norman lady, Ragna.”
Edgar froze. He wanted to walk away, but he could not.
“I hear she’s pregnant,” Dreng said.
Edgar stared at him.
Dreng said: “Now laugh at that.”
Edgar brooded over Dreng’s taunt. He might have been making it up, of course. Or the rumor might simply be untrue: many rumors were. But Ragna might really be pregnant.
And if she was pregnant, Edgar might be the father.
He had made love to her only once, but once could be enough. However, their night of passion had been in August, so the baby would have been born in May, and it was now June.
The baby might be late. Or perhaps it had already been born.
That evening he asked Den if he had heard the rumor. Den had.
“Do they say when the baby is due?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did you pick up any hint of where Ragna is?”
“No, and if I did, I would have gone there and rescued her.”
