They stopped at the tavern and begged Cwenburg to give them some scraps to feed the piglet. She brought an armful of cheese rinds, fish tails, apple cores, and other leftovers. “You stink,” she said to Edgar.
He knew that. “I’ll have to jump in the river,” he said.
They walked back to the farmhouse. Edgar put the piglet in the barn. He had already repaired the hole in the wall, so the little animal could not escape. He would put Brindle in the barn at night to guard it.
Ma heated water on the fire and threw in the scraps to make a mash. Edgar was glad they had a pig, but it was another hungry mouth. They could not eat it: they had to feed it until it was mature then breed from it. For a while it would be just another drain on their scarce resources.
“She’ll soon feed herself from the forest floor, especially when the acorns begin to fall,” Ma said. “But we have to train her to come home at night, otherwise she’ll be stolen by outlaws or eaten by wolves.”
Edgar said: “How did you train your pigs when you were growing up on the farm?”
“I don’t know—they always came to my mother’s call. I suppose they knew she might give them something to eat. They wouldn’t come to us children.”
“Our piglet could learn to respond to your voice, but then she might not come to anyone else. We need a bell.”
Ma gave a skeptical snort. Bells were costly. “I need a golden brooch and a white pony,” she said. “But I’m not going to get them.”
“You never know what you might get,” said Edgar.
He went to the barn. He had remembered something he had seen there: an old sickle, its handle rotted and its curved blade rusted and broken in two. He had thrown it into a corner with other odds and ends. Now he retrieved the broken-off end of the blade, a foot-long crescent of iron that was of no apparent use for anything.
He found a smooth stone, sat down in the morning sunshine, and started to rub the rust off the blade. It was a strenuous and tedious task, but he was used to hard work, and he kept going until the metal was clean enough for the sun to glint off it. He did not sharpen the edge: he was not going to cut anything with it.
Using a pliant twig as a rope, he suspended the blade from a branch, then struck it with the stone. It rang out, not with a bell-like tone but with an unmusical clang that was nevertheless quite loud.
He showed it to Ma. “If you bang that before you feed the piglet every day, she will learn to come at the sound,” he said.
“Very good,” Ma said. “How long will it take you to make the golden brooch?” Her tone was bantering, but there was a touch of pride in it. She thought Edgar had inherited her brains, and she was probably right.
The midday meal was ready, but it was only flat bread with wild onions, and Edgar wanted to wash before he ate. He walked along the river until he came to a little mud beach. He took off his tunic and washed it in the shallows, rubbing and squeezing the woolen cloth to get rid of the stink. Then he spread it on a rock to dry in the sun.
He immersed himself in the water, ducking his head to wash his hair. People said that bathing was bad for your health, and Edgar never bathed in winter, but those who never bathed at all stank all their lives. Ma and Pa had taught their sons to keep themselves fresh by bathing at least once a year.
Edgar had been brought up by the sea, and he had been able to swim for as long as he could walk. Now he decided to cross the river, just for the fun of it.
The current was moderate and the swim was easy. He enjoyed the sensation of the cool water on his bare skin. When he reached the far side he turned and came back. Near the shore he found his footing and stood up. The surface was at the level of his knees, and the water dripped from his body. The sun would soon dry him.
At that moment he realized he was not alone.
Cwenburg was sitting on the bank, watching him. “You look nice,” she said.
Edgar felt foolish. Embarrassed, he said: “Would you please go away?”
“Why should I? Anyone can walk along the bank of a river.”
“Please.”
She stood up and turned around.
“Thank you,” Edgar said.
But he had misunderstood her intention. Instead of walking away, she pulled her dress over her head with a swift movement. Her naked skin was pale.
Edgar said: “No, no!”
She turned around.
Edgar stared in horror. There was nothing wrong with her appearance—in fact some part of his mind noted that she had a nice round figure—but she was the wrong woman. His heart was full of Sunni, and no one else’s body could move him.
Cwenburg stepped into the river.
“Your hair’s a different color down there,” she said, with a smile of uninvited intimacy. “Sort of gingery.”
“Keep away from me,” he said.
“Your thing is all shriveled up with the cold water—shall I warm it up?” She reached for him.
Edgar pushed her away. Because he was tense and embarrassed, he shoved her harder than he needed to. She lost her balance and fell over in the water. While she was recovering, he went past her and onto the beach.
Behind him, she said: “What’s the matter with you? Are you a girlie-boy who likes men?”
He picked up his tunic. It was still damp, but he put it on anyway. Feeling less vulnerable, he turned to her. “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “I’m a girlie-boy.”
She was glaring angrily at him. “No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re making that up.”
“Yes, I’m making it up.” Edgar’s self-control began to slip. “The truth is that I don’t like you. Now will you leave me alone?”
She came out of the water. “You pig,” she said. “I hope you starve to death on this barren farm.” She pulled her dress on over her head. “Then I hope you go to hell,” she said, and she walked off.
Edgar was relieved to be rid of her. Then, a moment later, he felt sorry that he had been unkind. It was partly her fault for being insistent, but he could have been gentler. He often regretted his impulses and wished he had more self-discipline.
Sometimes, he thought, it was difficult to do the right thing.
* * *
The countryside was quiet.
At Combe there was always noise: herring gulls’ raucous laughter, the ring of hammers on nails, a crowd’s murmur, and the cry of a lone voice. Even at night there was the creaking of boats as they rose and fell on the restless water. But the countryside was often completely silent. If there was a wind, the trees would whisper discontentedly, but if not, it could be as quiet as the tomb.