So when Brindle barked in the middle of the night, Edgar came awake fast.
He stood up immediately and took his ax from its peg on the wall. His heart was beating hard and his breath was shallow.
Ma’s voice came out of the gloom. “Be careful.”
Brindle was in the barn, and her bark was distant but alarmed. Edgar had put her there to guard the piglet, and something had alerted her to danger.
Edgar went to the door, but Ma was there ahead of him. He saw the firelight glint ominously on the knife in her hand. He had cleaned and sharpened it himself, to save her the effort, so he knew it was deadly keen.
She hissed: “Step back from the door. One of them may be lying in wait.”
Edgar did as he was told. His brothers were behind him. He hoped that they, too, had picked up weapons of some kind.
Ma lifted the bar carefully, making almost no noise. Then she threw the door wide.
Right away a figure stepped into the doorway. Ma had been right to warn Edgar: the thieves had anticipated that the family would wake, and one thief had stood ready to ambush them if they incautiously came running out of the house. There was a bright moon, and Edgar clearly saw the long dagger in the thief’s right hand. The man thrust blindly into the darkness of the house, stabbing nothing but air.
Edgar hefted his ax, but Ma was quicker. Her knife gleamed and the thief roared in pain and fell to his knees. She stepped closer and her blade flashed across the man’s throat.
Edgar pushed past them both. As he emerged into the moonlight, he heard the piglet squeal. A moment later he saw two more figures coming out of the barn. One of them wore some kind of headgear that partly covered his face. In his arms he held the wriggling piglet.
They saw Edgar and ran.
Edgar was outraged. That pig was precious. If they lost it, they would not get another one: people would say they could not look after their livestock. In a moment of piercing anxiety Edgar acted without thinking. He swung the ax back over his head then hurled it at the back of the thief with the pig.
He thought it was going to miss, and he groaned in despair; but the sharp blade bit into the fugitive’s upper arm. He gave a high-pitched scream, dropped the pig, and fell to his knees, clutching the wound.
The second man helped him up.
Edgar dashed toward them.
They ran on, leaving the pig behind.
Edgar hesitated for a heartbeat. He wanted to catch the thieves. But if he let the pig go it might run a long way in its terror, and he might never find it. He abandoned pursuit of the men and went after the animal. It was young and its legs were short, and after a minute he caught up, threw himself on top of it, and got hold of a leg with both hands. The pig struggled but could not escape his grip.
He got the little beast securely in his arms, stood up, and walked back to the farmhouse.
He put the pig in the barn. He took a moment to congratulate Brindle, who wagged her tail proudly. He retrieved his ax from where it had fallen and wiped the blade on the grass to clean off the thief’s blood. Finally he rejoined his family.
They were standing over the other thief. “He’s dead,” said Eadbald.
Erman said: “Let’s throw him in the river.”
“No,” said Ma. “I want other thieves to know we killed him.” She was in no danger from the law: it was well established that a thief caught red-handed could be killed on the spot. “Follow me, boys. Bring the corpse.”
Erman and Eadbald picked it up. Ma led them into the woods and went a hundred yards along a just-visible path through the undergrowth until she came to a place where it crossed another almost imperceptible track. Anyone coming to the farm through the forest would have to pass this junction.
She looked at the surrounding trees in the moonlight and pointed to one with low, spreading branches. “I want to hang the body up in that tree,” she said.
Erman said: “What for?”
“To show people what happens to men who try to rob us.”
Edgar was impressed. He had never known his mother to be so harsh. But circumstances had changed.
Erman said: “We haven’t got any rope.”
Ma said: “Edgar will think of something.”
Edgar nodded. He pointed to a forked branch at a height of about eight feet. “Wedge him in there, with one bough under each armpit,” he said.
While his brothers were manhandling the corpse up into the tree, Edgar found a stick a foot long and an inch in diameter and sharpened one end with his ax blade.
The brothers got the body into position. “Now pull his arms together until his hands are crossed in front.”
When the brothers were holding the arms in position, Edgar held one dead hand and stuck the stick into the wrist. He had to tap it with the head of the ax to push it through the flesh. Very little blood flowed: the man’s heart had stopped some time ago.
Edgar lined up the other wrist and hammered the stick through that, too. Now the hands were riveted together and the body was firmly hung from the tree.
It would remain there until it rotted away, he thought.
But the other thieves must have returned, for the corpse was gone in the morning.
* * *
A few days later Ma sent Edgar to the village to borrow a length of stout cord to tie up her shoes, which had broken. Borrowing was common among neighbors, but no one ever had enough string. However, Ma had told the story of the Viking raid twice, first in the priests’ house and then at the alehouse; and although peasants were never quick to accept newcomers, the inhabitants of Dreng’s Ferry had warmed to Ma on hearing of her tragedy.
It was early evening. A small group sat on the benches outside Dreng’s alehouse, drinking from wooden cups as the sun went down. Edgar still had not tasted the ale, but the customers seemed to like it.
He had met all the villagers now, and he recognized the members of the group. Dean Degbert was talking to his brother, Dreng. Cwenburg and red-faced Bebbe were listening. There were three other women present. Leofgifu, called Leaf, was Cwenburg’s mother; Ethel, a younger woman, was Dreng’s other wife or perhaps concubine; and Blod, who was filling the cups from a jug, was a slave.
As Edgar approached, the slave looked up and said to him in broken Anglo-Saxon: “You want ale?”
Edgar shook his head. “I’ve no money.”
The others looked at him. Cwenburg said with a sneer: “Why have you come to an alehouse if you can’t afford a cup of ale?”
Clearly she was still smarting from Edgar’s rejection of her advances. He had made an enemy. He groaned inwardly.
Addressing the group, rather than Cwenburg herself, he said humbly: “My mother asks to borrow a length of stout cord to mend her shoe.”