“What are we going to do, then?”

Ma’s answer caught Edgar by surprise. “We’re going to talk to Cwenburg’s parents. Come on.”

Edgar was not sure this would help. Dreng had little common sense, and might just try to throw his weight around. Leaf was smarter, and kinder, too. But Ma had something up her sleeve, and Edgar could not guess what.

They tramped along the riverbank. The grass was already growing again where they had reaped the hay. The hamlet basked in the August sun, quiet but for the ever-present shush of the river.

They found Ethel, the younger wife, and Blod, the slave, in the alehouse. Ethel smiled at Edgar: she seemed to like him. She said that Dreng was at his brother’s minster, and Cwenburg went to fetch him. Edgar found Leaf in the brewhouse, stirring her mash with a rake. She was happy to break off from her work. She filled a jug with ale and carried it to the bench in front of the alehouse. Cwenburg returned with her father.

They all sat in the sun, enjoying the breeze off the water. Blod poured everyone a cup of ale, and Ma set out the problem in a few words.

Edgar studied the faces around him. Erman and Eadbald were beginning to realize what fools they looked, each thinking he had deceived the other, each having been deceived. Cwenburg was simply proud of the power she had over them. Her parents did not seem surprised by what she had done: perhaps there had been previous incidents. Dreng bristled at any hint of criticism of his daughter. Leaf just looked weary. Ma was in command, confident; in the end, Edgar thought, she would decide what was going to be done.

When Ma had finished, Leaf said: “Cwenburg must be married soon. Otherwise she will fall pregnant by some random ferry passenger who will disappear, leaving us with his bastard to raise.”

Edgar wanted to say: That bastard would be your grandchild. But he kept the thought to himself.

Dreng said: “Don’t speak of my daughter like that.”

“She’s my daughter, too.”

“You’re too hard on her. She may have her faults—”

Ma interrupted. “We all want her to marry, but how is she to live? My farm will not feed another mouth—never mind two.”

Dreng said: “I’m not going to marry her to a husband who can’t support her. I’m a cousin of the ealdorman of Shiring. My daughter could marry a nobleman.”

Leaf laughed derisively.

Dreng went on: “Besides, I can’t let her go. There’s too much work to do around here. I need someone young and strong to paddle the ferry. Blod is too pregnant and I can’t do it myself—I’ve got a bad back. A Viking knocked me off my horse—”

“Yes, yes, at the battle of Watchet,” said Leaf impatiently. “I’ve heard you were drunk, and you fell off a whore, not a horse.”

Ma said: “As to that, Dreng, when Cwenburg leaves you can employ Edgar.”

Well, Edgar thought, I didn’t see that coming.

“He’s young and strong, and what’s more he can build you a new boat to replace that old tree trunk, which is going to sink any day now.”

Edgar was not sure what he thought of that. He would love to build another boat, but he hated Dreng.

“Employ that cocky pup?” Dreng said scornfully. “No one wants a dog that barks at its master, and I don’t want Edgar.”

Ma ignored that. “You can pay him half a penny per day. You’ll never get a cheaper boat.”

A calculating look came over Dreng’s face as he figured that Ma was right. But he said: “No, I don’t like it.”

Leaf said: “We have to do something.”

Dreng looked obstinate. “I’m her father, and I’ll decide.”

“There is one other possibility,” said Ma.

Here it comes, Edgar thought. What scheme has she dreamed up?

“Come on, spit it out,” said Dreng. He was trying to be in charge, but no one else believed it.

Ma was silent for a long moment, then said: “Cwenburg must marry Erman and Eadbald.”

Edgar had not seen that coming, either.

Dreng was outraged. “And she would have two husbands?”

Leaf said pointedly: “Well, plenty of men have two wives.”

Dreng looked indignant but could not, for the moment, find words to express just where Leaf was wrong.

“I’ve heard of such marriages,” Ma said calmly. “It happens when two or three brothers inherit a farm that is too small for more than one family.”

Eadbald said: “But how does it work? I mean . . . at night?”

Ma said: “The brothers take it in turn to lie with their wife.”

Edgar was sure he wanted no part of this, but he kept quiet for the moment, not wanting to undermine Ma. He would state his position later. Come to think of it, Ma must already have guessed how he felt.

Leaf said: “I knew such a family, once. When I was a child I sometimes played with a girl who had one mama and two daddies.” Edgar wondered whether to believe her. He looked hard at her face and saw an expression of genuine reminiscence. She added: “Margaret, her name was.”

“That’s how it should be,” said Ma. “When a child is born, no one knows which brother is the father, which the uncle. And if they’re sensible, no one cares. They just raise all the children as their own.”

Eadbald said: “What about the wedding?”

“You will make all the usual vows, in front of a few witnesses—just the members of the two families, I suggest.”

Erman said: “No priest would bless such a marriage.”

“Fortunately,” said Ma, “we don’t need a priest.”

Leaf said scathingly: “But if we did, Dreng’s brother would surely oblige us. Degbert has two women.”

Dreng said defensively: “A wife and a concubine.”

“Though no one knows which is which.”

“Very well,” said Ma. “Cwenburg, do you have something to tell your father?”

Cwenburg was puzzled. “I don’t think so.”

“I think you do.”

Edgar thought: What now?

Cwenburg frowned. “No.”

“You haven’t had your monthly blood since we arrived in Dreng’s Ferry, have you?”

Edgar thought: That’s the third time Ma has surprised me.

Cwenburg said to Ma: “How did you know that?”

“I know because your shape has changed. You’ve put on a little weight around your middle, and your breasts are bigger. I expect your nipples hurt.”

Cwenburg was frightened and looked pale. “How do you know all this? You must be a witch!”

Leaf understood what Ma was getting at. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I should have seen the signs.”

Edgar thought: Your eyesight was blurred by ale.

Cwenburg said: “What are you all talking about?”

Ma spoke gently. “You’re going to have a baby. When you stop getting the monthly blood, that’s how you know you’re pregnant.”

“Is it?”

Edgar wondered how a girl could reach the age of fifteen without knowing that.

Dreng was infuriated. “You mean she’s already with child?”

“Yes,” said Ma. “I knew it when I saw her naked. And she doesn’t know whether the father is Erman or Eadbald.”

Dreng stared malevolently at Ma. “You’re saying she’s no better than a whore!”

Leaf said: “Calm down, Dreng. You shag two women—does that make you a male whore?”

“I haven’t shagged you for a while.”

“A mercy for which I thank heaven daily.”

Ma said: “Someone has to help Cwenburg raise the baby, Dreng. And there are only two possibilities. She can stay here with you, and you can help her raise the grandchild.”

“A child needs its father.” Dreng was being unusually decent. Edgar had noticed that he softened when Cwenburg was around.

Ma said: “The alternative is that Erman and Eadbald will marry Cwenburg and they will raise the child together. And if that happens, Edgar must come here to live, and be paid half a penny a day on top of his food.”

“I don’t like either choice.”

“Then suggest another.”

Dreng opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Leaf said: “What do you think, Cwenburg? Do you want to marry Erman and Eadbald?”

“Yes,” Cwenburg said. “I like them both.”

Leaf said: “When shall we have the wedding?”

“Tomorrow,” Ma said. “At noon.”

“Where? Here?”

“Everyone in the hamlet will show up.”

Dreng said grumpily: “I don’t want to give them all free beer.”

Ma said: “And I don’t want to explain the marriage ten times over to every fool in Dreng’s Ferry.”

Edgar said: “At the farm, then. They can all find out about it later.”

Leaf said: “I’ll provide a small barrel of ale.”

Ma looked inquiringly at Ethel, who had not spoken.

Ethel said: “I’ll make honey cakes.”

“Oh, good,” said Cwenburg. “I love honey cakes.”

Edgar stared at her in disbelief. She had just agreed to marry two men, and she was able to get excited about cakes.

Ma said: “Well, Dreng?”

“I’ll pay Edgar a farthing a day.”

“Done,” said Ma. She stood up. “We’ll expect you all tomorrow at noon, then.”

Her three sons stood and followed her as she walked away from the alehouse.

Edgar thought: I’m not a farmer anymore.

CHAPTER 7

    Late August 997