Eadbald looked at him and said: “What happened to your face?”

“I had an argument with Dreng.”

“What about?”

“Blod the slave has been recaptured. He was killing her, but I stopped him.”

“What for? He owns her, he can kill her if he likes.”

This was almost true. Someone who killed a slave without justification might have to repent and do penance in the form of fasting, but justification was easy to invent and fasting was not much of a punishment.

But Edgar had a different objection. “I won’t let him kill her in front of me.”

The brothers had raised their voices, disturbing Winnie, who began to grizzle.

Erman said: “Then you’re a damn fool. If you’re not careful, Dreng will dismiss you.”

“He already did.” Edgar sat at the table. The stew pot was empty, but there was a barley loaf, and he tore off a hunk. “I’m not going back to the alehouse.” He began to eat.

Erman said: “I hope you don’t think we’re going to feed you. If you were stupid enough to lose your position, that’s your lookout.”

Cwenburg took the baby from Ma, saying: “I’ve hardly got enough milk for Winnie as it is.” She uncovered her breast and put the baby to her nipple, giving Edgar a sultry glance from under her eyelids as she did so.

Edgar stood up. “If I’m not welcome here, I’ll leave.”

Ma said: “Don’t be foolish. Sit down.” She looked at the others. “We’re a family. Any child of mine—or grandchild—will be fed at my table as long as there’s a crust in the house, and don’t any of you ever forget it.”

That night there was a storm. The wind shook the timbers of the house and waves of rain crashed on the thatch of the roof. They all woke up, including baby Winnie, who cried and was fed.

Edgar opened the door a crack and peeped out, but the night was black. He could see nothing but a sheet of rain like a crazed mirror reflecting the red glow of the fire behind him. He closed the door firmly.

Winnie went back to sleep, and the others seemed to doze, but Edgar remained wide awake. He was worried about the hay. If it remained wet for any length of time it would rot. Was there a chance they might dry it, if the weather changed again and the sun shone in the morning? He was not enough of a farmer to know.

At first light the wind dropped and the rain eased, though it did not stop. Edgar opened the door again. “I’m going to check on the hay,” he said, putting on his cloak.

His brothers and Ma came, too, leaving Cwenburg behind with the baby.

As soon as they reached the low-lying land beside the river, they saw that disaster had struck. The field was underwater. The hay was not just wet, it was floating.