Erman said: “Eadbald and I will draw the plough and Ma will steer it.”

Edgar nodded. The loamy soil here was soft enough to yield to a man-drawn plough. The clay soil of a place such as Outhenham required the strength of oxen.

Edgar drew his belt knife, knelt down, and began to mark the wood for Erman and Eadbald to shape. Although the youngest brother was taking charge, the other two made no protest. They recognized Edgar’s superior skill, though they never admitted it aloud.

While they went to work on the timbers, Edgar began to make the ploughshare, a blade fixed to the front of the moldboard to cut more easily through the soil. The others had found a rusting iron spade in the barn. Edgar heated it in the house fire, then beat it into shape with a rock. The result looked a bit rough. He could have done better with an iron hammer and an anvil.

He sharpened the blade with a stone.

When they got thirsty they went down to the river and drank from their cupped hands. They had no ale and no cups either.

They were almost ready to join the pieces together with pegs when Ma called them for the midday meal.

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.”