Dreng handed Edgar a small leather purse, saying: “There’s twelve pennies in there. That should be plenty.” Ethel gave them bread and ham for the journey, and Leaf added a flagon of ale to quench their thirst.

They set off early. Brindle leaped onto the raft as they boarded. In dog philosophy it was always better to go somewhere than to be left behind. Edgar asked himself whether that was his philosophy, too, and was not sure of the answer.

Erman and Eadbald were thin, and Edgar supposed he was, too. A year ago, when they had been living at Combe, no one would have called them even a little fat, but all the same they had shed weight over the winter. They were still strong, but lean, their cheeks concave, their muscles ropy, their waists narrow.

It was a cold February morning, but they perspired as they deployed the poles and pushed the raft upstream. One person could propel the vessel but it was easier with two, one on each side, the third man resting. They did not normally talk much, but there was nothing else to do on the journey, and Edgar asked: “How are you getting on with Cwenburg?”

Eadbald answered: “Erman lies with her on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and me on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.” He grinned. “Sunday is her day of rest.”

They were both good-humored about it, and Edgar concluded that the unorthodox marriage was working surprisingly well.

Erman said: “It’s lying and nothing more, now—she’s too pregnant for fucking.”

Edgar calculated when the baby was due. They had arrived in Dreng’s Ferry three days before Midsummer, and Cwenburg had conceived more or less immediately. “The baby is due three days before Lady Day,” he said. Erman gave him a sour look. Edgar’s ability with numbers seemed almost miraculous to other people, and his brothers resented it.

Erman said: “Anyway, Cwen can’t help with the spring ploughing. Ma will have to guide the ploughshare while we pull.”

The soil at Dreng’s Ferry was light and loamy, but their mother was no longer young. Edgar said: “How is Ma with that?”

“She finds field work hard.”

Edgar saw his mother about once a week, but his brothers were with her every day. “Does she sleep well?” he asked. “Does she have a good appetite?”

They were not very observant. Eadbald shrugged, and Erman said snappishly: “Look, Edgar, she’s old, and one day she will die, and only God knows when that will be.”

After that they stopped talking.

Looking ahead, Edgar reflected that it might not be easy to establish Gab’s cheating for certain. He needed to do it without arousing hostility. If he appeared too obviously inquisitive, Gab would become wary. And if he revealed his suspicions, Gab would be angry. It was curious, but a wrongdoer found out could often be morally indignant, as if the discovery were the offense, rather than the original transgression. More importantly, if Gab knew he was mistrusted he would have a chance to cover up.