She had prepared smoked eel with wild onions and pan bread. Edgar’s mouth watered so violently that he felt a sharp pain under his jawbone.
Cwenburg whispered something to Erman. Ma frowned—whispering in company was bad manners—but she said nothing.
When Edgar reached for a third piece of bread, Erman said: “Go easy, will you?”
“I’m hungry!”
“We haven’t got much food to spare.”
Edgar was outraged. “I’ve given up my day of rest to help you build your plough—and you begrudge me a piece of bread!”
Anger flared quickly, as it always had between the brothers. Erman said hotly: “You can’t eat us out of house and home.”
“I had no supper yesterday, and only one small bowl of porridge this morning. I’m starved.”
“I can’t help that.”
“Then don’t ask me to help you, you ungrateful dog.”
“The plough is almost finished—you should have gone back to the alehouse for your dinner.”
“Precious little I get to eat there.”
Eadbald was more temperate than Erman. He said: “The thing is, Edgar, that Cwenburg needs more, being pregnant.”
Edgar saw Cwenburg smother a smirk, which annoyed him even more. He said: “So eat less yourself, Eadbald, and leave me to my dinner. I’m not the one who made her pregnant.” He added in an undertone: “Thank heaven.”
Erman, Eadbald, and Cwenburg all began shouting at the same time. Ma clapped her hands, and they fell silent. She said: “What did you mean, Edgar, when you said you get precious little to eat at the tavern? Surely Dreng can afford plenty of food.”
“Dreng may be rich, but he’s mean.”
“But you had breakfast today.”
“A small bowl of porridge. He has meat with his, but the rest of us don’t.”
“And supper last night?”
“Nothing. I walked here from Outhenham and arrived late. He said it was all gone.”
Ma looked angry. “Then eat as much as you want here,” she said. “As for the rest of you, shut up, and try to remember that my family will always be fed at my house.”
Edgar ate his third piece of bread.
Erman looked surly. Eadbald said: “How often are we going to have to feed Edgar, then, if Dreng won’t?”
“Don’t you worry,” said Ma, tight-lipped. “I’ll deal with Dreng.”
For the rest of the day Edgar wondered how Ma was going to fulfill her promise and “deal with” Dreng. She was resourceful and bold, but Dreng was powerful. Edgar had no physical fear of his master—Dreng punched women, not men—but he was the master of everyone in the house: husband of Leaf and Ethel, owner of Blod, and employer of Edgar. He was the second most important man in the little hamlet, and the number one was his brother. He could do more or less anything he liked. It was unwise to cross him.
Monday began like any other weekday. Blod went for water and Ethel made porridge. As Edgar was sitting down to his inadequate breakfast, Cwenburg came storming in, indignant and furious. Pointing an accusing finger at Edgar, she said: “Your mother is an old witch!”
Edgar had a feeling this was going to be welcome news. “I’ve often thought so myself,” he said good-humoredly. “But what has she done to you?”
“She wants to starve me to death! She says I can have only one bowl of porridge!”
Edgar guessed where this was going, and he smothered a grin.
Dreng spoke in the confident tones of the powerful. “She can’t do that to my daughter.”
