The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 4 Early July 997

he Lady Ragnhild, daughter of Count Hubert of Cherbourg, was sitting between an English monk and a French priest. Ragna, as she was called, found the monk interesting and the priest pompous—but the priest was the one she was supposed to charm.

It was the time of the midday meal at Cherbourg Castle. The imposing stone fort stood at the top of the hill overlooking the harbor. Ragna’s father was proud of the building. It was innovative and unusual.

Count Hubert was proud of many things. He cherished his warlike Viking heritage, but he was more gratified by the way the Vikings had become Normans, with their own version of the French language. Most of all, he valued the way they had adopted Christianity, restoring the churches and monasteries that had been sacked by their ancestors. In a hundred years the former pirates had created a law-abiding civilization the equal of anything in Europe.

The long trestle table stood in the great hall, on the upstairs floor of the castle. It was covered with white linen cloths that reached to the floor. Ragna’s parents sat at the head. Her mother’s name was Ginnlaug, but she had changed it to the more French-sounding Genevieve to please her husband.

The count and countess and their more important guests ate from bronze bowls, drank from cherrywood cups with silver rims, and held parcel-gilt knives and spoons—costly tableware, though not extravagant.

The English monk, Brother Aldred, was miraculously handsome. He reminded Ragna of an ancient Roman marble sculpture she had seen at Rouen, the head of a man with short curly hair, stained with age and lacking the tip of the nose, but clearly part of what had once been a statue of a god.

Aldred had arrived the previous afternoon, clutching to his chest a box of books he had bought at the great Norman abbey of Jumièges. “It has a scriptorium as good as any in the world!” Aldred enthused. “An army of monks copying and decorating manuscripts for the enlightenment of mankind.” Books, and the wisdom they could bring, clearly constituted Aldred’s great passion.

Ragna had a notion that this passion had taken the place in his life that might otherwise have been held by a kind of romantic love that was forbidden by his faith. He was charming to her, but a different, hungrier expression came over his face when he looked at her brother, Richard, who was a tall boy of fourteen with lips like a girl’s.

Now Aldred was waiting for a favorable wind to take him back across the Channel to England. “I can’t wait to get home to Shiring and show my brethren how the Jumièges monks illuminate their letters,” he said. He spoke French with some Latin and Anglo-Saxon words thrown in. Ragna knew Latin, and she had picked up some Anglo-Saxon from an English nursemaid who had married a Norman sailor and come to live in Cherbourg. “And two of the books I bought are works that I’ve never previously heard of!” Aldred went on.

“Are you prior of Shiring?” Ragna asked. “You seem quite young.”

“I’m thirty-three, and no, I’m not the prior,” he said with a smile. “I’m the armarius, in charge of the scriptorium and the library.”

“Is it a big library?”

“We have eight books, but when I get home we’ll have sixteen. And the scriptorium consists of me and an assistant, Brother Tatwine. He colors the capital letters. I do the plain writing—I’m more interested in words than colors.”

The priest interrupted their conversation, reminding Ragna of her duty to make a good impression. Father Louis said: “Tell me, Lady Ragnhild, do you read?”

“Of course I do.”

He raised an eyebrow in faint surprise. There was no “of course” about it: by no means could all noblewomen read.

Ragna realized she had just made the kind of remark that gave her a reputation for haughtiness. Trying to be more amiable, she added: “My father taught me to read when I was small, before my brother was born.”

When Father Louis had arrived a week ago, Ragna’s mother had drawn her into the private quarters of the count and countess and said: “Why do you think he’s here?”

Ragna had frowned. “I don’t know.”

“He’s an important man, secretary to the count of Reims and a canon of the cathedral.” Genevieve was statuesque but, despite her imposing appearance, she was easily overawed.

“So what brings him to Cherbourg?”

“You,” Genevieve had said.

Ragna had begun to see.

Her mother went on: “The count of Reims has a son, Guillaume, who is your age and unmarried. The count is looking for a wife for his son. And Father Louis is here to see whether you might be suitable.”

Ragna felt a twinge of resentment. This kind of thing was normal, but all the same it made her feel like a cow being appraised by a prospective purchaser. She suppressed her indignation. “What’s Guillaume like?”

“He’s a nephew of King Robert.” Robert II, twenty-five years old, was king of France. For Genevieve the greatest asset a man could have was a royal connection.

Ragna had other priorities. She was impatient to know what he was like, regardless of his social status. “Anything else?” she said, in a tone of voice that, she realized immediately, was rather arch.

“Don’t be sarcastic. It’s just the kind of thing that puts men off you.”

That shot hit home. Ragna had already discouraged several perfectly appropriate suitors. Somehow she scared them. Being so tall did not help—she had her mother’s figure—but there was more to it than that.

Genevieve went on: “Guillaume is not diseased, or mad, or depraved.”

“He sounds like every girl’s dream.”

“There you go again.”

“Sorry. I’ll be nice to Father Louis, I promise.”

Ragna was twenty years old, and she could not remain single indefinitely. She did not want to end up in a nunnery.

Her mother was getting anxious. “You want a grand passion, a lifelong romance, but those exist only in poems,” Genevieve said. “In real life we women settle for what we can get.”

Ragna knew she was right.

She would probably marry Guillaume, provided he was not completely repugnant; but she wanted to do it on her own terms. She wanted Louis to approve of her, but she also needed him to understand what sort of wife she would be. She did not plan to be purely decorative, like a gorgeous tapestry her husband would be proud to show to guests; nor would she be merely a hostess, organizing banquets and entertaining distinguished visitors. She would be her husband’s partner in the management of his estate. It was not unusual for wives to play such a role: every time a nobleman went off to war he had to leave someone in charge of his lands and his fortune. Sometimes his deputy would be a brother or a grown-up son, but often it was his wife.

Now, over a dish of bass, fresh from the sea, cooked in cider, Louis started to probe her intellectual abilities. With a distinct touch of skepticism he asked: “And what kind of thing do you read, my lady?” His tone said he could hardly believe that an attractive young woman would understand literature.

If she had liked him better, she would have found it easier to impress him.

“I like poems that tell stories,” she said.

“For example . . . ?”

He obviously thought she would be unable to name a work of literature, but he was wrong. “The story of Saint Eulalie is very moving,” she said. “In the end she goes up to heaven in the form of a dove.”

“She does indeed,” said Louis, in a voice that suggested she could not tell him anything about saints that he did not already know.

“And there’s an English poem called ‘The Wife’s Lament.’” She turned to Aldred. “Do you know it?”

“I do, although I don’t know whether it was English originally. Poets travel. They amuse a nobleman’s court for a year or two, then move on when their poems become stale. Or they may win the esteem of a richer patron and be lured away. As they go from place to place, admirers translate their works into other tongues.”

Ragna was fascinated. She liked Aldred. He knew such a lot, and he was able to share his knowledge without using it to prove his superiority.

She turned to Louis again, mindful of her mission. “Don’t you find that fascinating, Father Louis? You’re from Reims, that’s near the German-speaking lands.”

“It is,” he said. “You’re well educated, my lady.”

Ragna felt she had passed a test. She wondered whether Louis’s condescending attitude had been a deliberate attempt to provoke her. She was glad she had not risen to the bait. “You’re very kind,” she said insincerely. “My brother has a tutor, and I’m allowed to sit in on the lessons as long as I remain silent.”

“Very good. Not many girls know so much. But as for me, I mainly read the Holy Scriptures.”

“Naturally.”

Ragna had won a measure of approval. Guillaume’s wife would have to be cultured and able to hold her own in conversation, and Ragna had proved herself in that respect. She hoped that made up for her earlier hauteur.

A man-at-arms called Bern the Giant came and spoke quietly to Count Hubert. Bern had a red beard and a fat belly.

After a short discussion the count got up from the table. Ragna’s father was a small man and seemed even smaller beside Bern. He had the look of a mischievous boy, despite his forty-five years. The back of his head was shaved in the style fashionable among the Normans. He came to Ragna’s side. “I have to go to Valognes unexpectedly,” he said. “I’d planned to investigate a dispute in the village of Saint-Martin today, but now I can’t go. Will you take my place?”

“With pleasure,” Ragna said.

“There’s a serf called Gaston who won’t pay his rent, apparently as some kind of protest.”

“I’ll deal with it, don’t worry.”

“Thank you.” The count left the room with Bern.

Louis said: “Your father is fond of you.”

Ragna smiled. “As I am of him.”

“Do you often deputize for him?”

“The village of Saint-Martin is special to me. All that district is part of my marriage portion. But yes, I often stand in for my father, there and elsewhere.”

“It would be more usual for his wife to be his deputy.”

“True.”

“Your father likes to do things differently.” He spread his arms to indicate the castle. “This building, for example.”

Ragna could not tell whether Louis was disapproving or just intrigued. “My mother dislikes the work of governing, but I’m fascinated by it.”

Aldred put in: “Women sometimes do it well. King Alfred of England had a daughter called Ethelfled who ruled the great region of Mercia after her husband died. She fortified towns and won battles.”

It occurred to Ragna that she had an opportunity to impress Louis. She could invite him to see how she dealt with the ordinary folk. It was part of the duty of a noblewoman, and she knew she did it well. “Would you care to come with me to Saint-Martin, Father?”

“I would be pleased,” he said immediately.

“On the way, perhaps you can tell me about the household of the count of Reims. I believe he has a son my age.”

“He does indeed.”

Now that her invitation had been accepted, she found she was not looking forward to a day talking to Louis, so she turned to Aldred. “Will you come, too?” she said. “You’ll be back by the evening tide, so if the wind should change during the day you could still leave tonight.”

“I’d be delighted.”

They all got up from the table.

Ragna’s personal maid was a black-haired girl her own age called Cat. She had a tip-tilted nose with a sharp point. Her nostrils looked like the nibs of two quill pens laid side by side. Despite that, she was attractive, with a lively look and a sparkle of mischief in her eyes.

Cat helped Ragna take off her silk slippers, then stored them in the chest. The maid then got out linen leggings to protect the skin of Ragna’s calves while riding, and replaced her slippers with leather boots. Finally she handed her a riding whip.

Ragna’s mother came to her. “Be sweet to Father Louis,” she said. “Don’t try to outsmart him—men hate that.”

“Yes, Mother,” Ragna said meekly. Ragna knew perfectly well that women should not try to be clever, but she had broken the rule so often that her mother was entitled to remind her.

She left the keep and made her way to the stables. Four men-at-arms, led by Bern the Giant, were waiting to escort her; the count must have forewarned them. Stable hands had already saddled her favorite horse, a gray mare called Astrid.

Brother Aldred, strapping a leather pad to his pony, looked admiringly at her brass-studded wooden saddle. “It’s nice-looking, but doesn’t it hurt the horse?”

“No,” Ragna said firmly. “The wood spreads the load, whereas a soft saddle gives the horse a sore back.”

“Look at that, Dismas,” said Aldred to his pony. “Wouldn’t you like something so grand?”

Ragna noticed that Dismas had a white marking on his forehead that was more or less cross-shaped. That seemed appropriate for a monk’s mount.

Louis said: “Dismas?”

Ragna said: “That was the name of one of the thieves crucified with Jesus.”

“I know that,” said Louis heavily, and Ragna told herself not to be so clever.

Aldred said: “This Dismas also steals, especially food.”

“Huh.” Louis clearly did not think such a name should be used in a jokey way, but he said no more, and turned away to saddle his gelding.

They rode out of the castle compound. As they made their way down the hill, Ragna cast an expert eye over the ships in the harbor. She had been raised in a port and she could identify different styles of vessel. Fishing boats and coastal craft predominated today, but at the dockside she noticed an English trader that must be the one Aldred planned to sail in; and no one could mistake the menacing profile of the Viking warships anchored offshore.

They turned south, and a few minutes later were leaving the houses of the small town behind. The flat landscape was swept by sea breezes. Ragna followed a familiar path beside cow pastures and apple orchards. She said: “Now that you’ve got to know our country, Brother Aldred, how do you like it?”

“I notice that noblemen here seem to have one wife and no concubines, at least officially. In England, concubinage and even polygamy are tolerated, despite the clear teaching of the Church.”

“Such things may be hidden,” Ragna said. “Norman noblemen aren’t saints.”

“I’m sure, but at least people here know what’s sinful and what’s not. The other thing is that I’ve seen no slaves anywhere in Normandy.”

“There’s a slave market in Rouen, but the buyers are foreigners. Slavery has been almost completely abolished here. Our clergy condemn it, mainly because so many slaves are used for fornication and sodomy.”

Louis made a startled noise. Perhaps he was not used to young women talking about fornication and sodomy. Ragna realized with a sinking heart that she had made another mistake.

Aldred was not shocked. He continued the discussion without pause. “On the other hand,” he said, “your peasants are serfs, who need the permission of their lord to marry, change their way of making a living, or move to another village. By contrast, English peasants are free.”

Ragna reflected on that. She had not realized that the Norman system was not universal.

They came to a hamlet called Les Chênes. The grass was growing tall in the meadows, Ragna saw. The villagers would reap it in a week or two, she guessed, and make hay to feed livestock in the winter.

The men and women working in the fields stopped what they were doing and waved. “Deborah!” they called. “Deborah!” Ragna waved back.

Louis said: “Did I hear them call you Deborah?”

“Yes. It’s a nickname.”

“Where does it come from?”

Ragna grinned. “You’ll see.”

The sound of seven horses brought people out of their houses. Ragna saw a woman she recognized, and reined in. “You’re Ellen, the baker.”

“Yes, my lady. I pray I see you well and happy.”

“What happened to that little boy of yours who fell out of a tree?”

“He died, my lady.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“They say I shouldn’t mourn, for I’ve got three more sons.”

“Then they’re fools, whoever they are,” said Ragna. “The loss of a child is a terrible grief to a mother, and it makes no difference how many more you may have.”

Tears fell on Ellen’s wind-reddened cheeks, and she reached out a hand. Ragna took it and squeezed gently. Ellen kissed Ragna’s hand and said: “You understand.”

“Perhaps I do, a little,” said Ragna. “Good-bye, Ellen.”

They rode on. Aldred said: “Poor woman.”

Louis said: “I give you credit, Lady Ragna. That woman will worship you for the rest of her life.”

Ragna felt slighted. Louis obviously thought she had been kind merely as a way of making herself popular. She wanted to ask him whether he thought no one ever felt genuine compassion. But she remembered her duty and kept silent.

Louis said: “But I still don’t know why they call you Deborah.”

Ragna gave him an enigmatic smile. Let him figure it out for himself, she thought.

Aldred said: “I notice that a lot of people around here have the wonderful red hair that you have, Lady Ragna.”

Ragna was aware that she had a glorious head of red-gold curls. “That’s the Viking blood,” she said. “Around here, some people still speak Norse.”

Louis commented: “The Normans are different from the rest of us in the Frankish lands.”

That might have been a compliment, but Ragna thought not.

After an hour they came to Saint-Martin. Ragna halted on the outskirts. Several men and women were busy in a leafy orchard, and among them she spotted Gerbert, the reeve, or village headman. She dismounted and crossed a pasture to talk to him, and her companions followed.

Gerbert bowed to her. He was an odd-looking character, with a crooked nose and teeth so misshapen that he could not close his mouth completely. Count Hubert had made him headman because he was intelligent, but Ragna was not sure she trusted him.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and clustered around Ragna and Gerbert. “What work are you doing here today, Gerbert?”

“Picking off some of the little apples, my lady, so the others will grow fatter and juicier,” he said.

“So you can make good cider.”

“Cider from Saint-Martin is stronger than most, by the grace of God and good husbandry.”

Half the villages in Normandy claimed to make the strongest cider, but Ragna did not say that. “What do you do with the unripe apples?”

“Feed them to the goats, to make their cheese sweet.”

“Who’s the best cheesewright in the village?”

“Renée,” said Gerbert immediately. “She uses ewes’ milk.”

Some of the others shook their heads. Ragna turned to them. “What do the rest of you think?”

Two or three people said: “Torquil.”

“Come with me, then, all of you, and I’ll taste them both.”

The serfs followed happily. They generally welcomed any change in the tedium of their days, and they were rarely reluctant to stop work.

Louis said with a touch of irritation: “You didn’t ride all this way to taste cheese, did you? Aren’t you here to settle a dispute?”

“Yes. This is my way. Be patient.”

Louis grunted crabbily.

Ragna did not get back on her horse, but walked into the village, following a dusty track between fields golden with grain. On foot she could more easily talk to people on the way. She paid particular attention to the women, who would give her gossipy information that a man might not bother with. On the walk she learned that Renée was the wife of Gerbert; that Renée’s brother Bernard had a herd of sheep; and that Bernard was involved in a dispute with Gaston, the one who was refusing to pay his rent.

She always tried hard to remember names. It made them feel cared for. Every time she heard a name in casual conversation she would make a mental note.

As they walked, more people joined them. When they reached the village, they found more waiting. There was some mystical communication across fields, Ragna knew: she could never understand it, but men and women working a mile or more away seemed to find out that visitors were arriving.

There was a small, elegant stone church with round-arched windows in neat rows. Ragna knew that the priest, Odo, served this and three other villages, visiting a different one every Sunday; but he was here in Saint-Martin today—that magical rural communication again.

Aldred went immediately to talk to Father Odo. Louis did not: perhaps he felt it was beneath his dignity to converse with a village priest.

Ragna tasted Renée’s cheese and Torquil’s, pronouncing them both so good that she could not pick a winner; and she bought a wheel of each, pleasing everyone.

She walked around the village, going into every house and barn, making sure she spoke a few words to each adult and many of the children; then, when she felt she had assured them all of her goodwill, she was ready to hold court.

Much of Ragna’s strategy came from her father. He enjoyed meeting people and was good at making them his friends. Later, perhaps, some would become enemies—no ruler could please everyone all the time—but they would oppose him reluctantly. He had taught Ragna a lot and she had learned more just by watching him.

Gerbert brought a chair and placed it outside the west front of the church, and Ragna sat while everyone else stood around. Gerbert then presented Gaston, a big, strong peasant of about thirty with a shock of black hair. His face showed indignation, but she guessed he was normally an amiable type.

“Now, Gaston,” she said, “the time has come for you to tell me and your neighbors why you will not pay your rent.”

“My lady, I stand before you—”

“Wait.” Ragna held up a hand to stop him. “Remember that this is not the court of the king of the Franks.” The villagers tittered. “We don’t need a formal speech with high-flown phrases.” There was not much chance of Gaston making such a speech, but he would probably try if he was not given a clear lead. “Imagine that you’re drinking cider with a group of friends and they’ve asked you why you’re so riled up.”

“Yes, my lady. My lady, I haven’t paid the rent because I can’t.”

Gerbert said: “Rubbish.”

Ragna frowned at Gerbert. “Wait your turn,” she said sharply.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Gaston, what is your rent?”

“I raise beef cattle, my lady, and I owe your noble father two year-old beasts every Midsummer Day.”

“And you say you don’t have the beasts?”

Gerbert interrupted again. “Yes, he does.”

“Gerbert!”

“Sorry, my lady.”

Gaston said: “My pasture was invaded. All the grass was eaten by Bernard’s sheep. My cows had to eat old hay, so their milk dried up and two of my calves died.”

Ragna looked around, trying to remember which one was Bernard. Her eye lit on a small, thin man with hair like straw. Not being sure, she looked up at the sky and said: “Let’s hear from Bernard.”

She had been right. The thin man coughed and said: “Gaston owes me a calf.”

Ragna saw that this was going to be a convoluted argument with a long history. “Wait a moment,” she said. “Is it true that your sheep cropped Gaston’s pasture?”

“Yes, but he owed me.”

“We’ll get to that. You let your sheep into his field.”

“I had good reason.”

“But that’s why Gaston’s calves died.”

Gerbert, the reeve, put in: “Only this year’s newborn calves died. He still has last year’s. He’s got two one-year-olds he can give to the count for his rent.”

Gaston said: “But then I’ll have no one-year-olds next year.”

Ragna began to get the dizzy feeling that always came when she tried to grasp a peasant squabble. “Quiet, everyone,” she said. “So far we’ve established that Bernard invaded Gaston’s pasture—perhaps with reason, we shall see about that—and as a result Gaston feels, rightly or wrongly, that he is too poor to pay any rent this year. Now, Gaston, is it true that you owe Bernard a calf? Answer yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“And why have you not paid him?”

“I will pay him. I just haven’t been able to yet.”

Gerbert said indignantly: “Repayment can’t be postponed forever!”

Ragna listened patiently while Gaston explained why he had borrowed from Bernard and what difficulties he had paying him back. Along the way, a variety of barely relevant issues were raised: perceived insults to one another, wives’ insults to other wives, disputes about which words had been uttered and in what tone of voice. Ragna let it run. They needed to vent their anger. But finally she called a halt.

“I’ve heard enough,” she said. “This is my decision. First, Gaston owes my father, the count, two year-old calves. No excuses. He was wrong to withhold them. He will not be punished for his transgression, because he was provoked; but what he owes, he owes.”

They received that with mixed reactions. Some muttered disapprovingly, others nodded agreement. Gaston’s face was a mask of injured innocence.

“Second, Bernard is responsible for the deaths of two of Gaston’s calves. Gaston’s unpaid debt does not excuse Bernard’s transgression. So Bernard owes Gaston two calves. However, Gaston already owed one calf to Bernard, so that leaves only one calf to pay.”

Now Bernard looked shocked. Ragna was being tougher than the people had expected. But they did not protest: her decisions were lawful.

“Finally, this dispute should not have been allowed to fester, and the blame for that lies with Gerbert.”

Gerbert said indignantly: “My lady, may I speak?”

“Certainly not,” said Ragna. “You’ve had your chance. It’s my turn now. Be silent.”

Gerbert clammed up.

Ragna said: “Gerbert is the reeve and should have resolved it long ago. I believe he was persuaded not to do so by his wife, Renée, who wanted him to favor her brother Bernard.”

Renée looked abashed.

Ragna went on: “Because all this is partly Gerbert’s fault, he will forfeit a calf. I know he’s got one, I saw it in his yard. He will give the calf to Bernard, who will give it to Gaston. And so debts are settled and wrongdoers are punished.”

She could tell instantly that the villagers approved of her judgment. She had insisted on obedience to the rules, but she had done it in a clever way. She saw them nodding to one another, some smiling, none objecting.

“And now,” she said, standing up, “you can give me a cup of your famous cider, and Gaston and Bernard can drink together and make friends.”

The buzz of conversation grew as everyone discussed what had happened. Father Louis came to Ragna and said: “Deborah was one of the judges of Israel. That’s how you got your nickname.”

“Correct.”

“She is the only female judge.”

“So far.”

He nodded. “You did that well.”

I’ve impressed him at last, Ragna thought.

They drank their cider and took their leave. Riding back to Cherbourg, Ragna asked Louis about Guillaume.

“He’s tall,” Louis said.

That might help, she thought. “What makes him angry?”

Louis’s glance told Ragna that he recognized the shrewdness of her question. “Nothing much,” he said. “Guillaume takes life phlegmatically, in general. He may get irritated when a servant is careless: food badly cooked, a saddle loosely strapped, rumpled bed linen.”

He sounded persnickety, Ragna thought.

“He’s very well thought of at Orléans,” Louis went on. Orléans was the main seat of the French court. “His uncle, the king, is fond of him.”

“Is Guillaume ambitious?”

“No more than is usual in a young nobleman.”

A wary response, Ragna thought. Either Guillaume was ambitious to a fault, or the reverse. She said: “What is he interested in? Hunting? Breeding horses? Music?”

“He loves beautiful things. He collects enameled brooches and embellished strap ends. He has good taste. But you haven’t asked me what I thought might have been a girl’s first question.”

“What’s that?”

“Whether he’s handsome.”

“Ah,” said Ragna, “on that matter I must make my own judgment.”

As they rode into Cherbourg, Ragna noticed that the wind had changed. “Your ship will sail this evening,” she said to Aldred. “You have an hour before the tide turns, but you’d better get on board.”

They returned to the castle. Aldred retrieved his box of books. Louis and Ragna went with him as he walked Dismas down to the waterfront. Aldred said: “It’s been a delight meeting you, Lady Ragna. If I’d known there were girls like you, perhaps I wouldn’t have become a monk.”

It was the first flirtatious remark he had made to her, and she knew right away that he was merely being polite. “Thank you for the compliment,” she said. “But you would have become a monk anyway.”

He smiled ruefully, clearly understanding what she was thinking.

Ragna would probably never see him again, which was a shame, she thought.

A ship was coming in on the tail of the tide. It looked like an English fishing vessel, she thought. The crew furled the sail and the ship drifted toward the shore.

Aldred went on board his chosen vessel with his horse. The crew were already untying the ropes and raising the anchor. Meanwhile, the English fishing boat was doing the reverse.

Aldred waved to Ragna and Louis as the ship began to float away from land on the turning tide. At the same time, a small group of men disembarked from the newly arrived vessel. Ragna looked at them with idle curiosity. They had big mustaches but no beards, which marked them as English.

Ragna’s eye was drawn to the tallest of them. Aged about forty, he had a thick mane of blond hair. A blue cloak, ruffled now by the breeze, was fastened across his broad shoulders by an elaborate silver pin; his belt had a highly decorated silver buckle and strap end; and the hilt of his sword was encrusted with precious stones. English jewelers were the best in Christendom, Ragna had been told.

The Englishman walked with a confident stride, and his companions hurried to keep up. He came straight toward Ragna and Louis, no doubt guessing from their clothes that they were people of importance.

Ragna said: “Welcome to Cherbourg, Englishman. What brings you here?”

The man ignored her. He bowed to Louis. “Good day, Father,” he said in poor French. “I have come to speak with Count Hubert. I am Wilwulf, ealdorman of Shiring.”

Wilwulf was not handsome in the way Aldred was handsome. The ealdorman had a big nose and a jaw like a shovel, and his hands and arms were disfigured by scars. But all the maids in the castle blushed and giggled when he strode past. A foreigner was always intriguing, but Wilwulf’s attraction was more than that. It had to do with his size and the loose-limbed way he walked and the intensity of his gaze. Most of all, he had a self-confidence that seemed ready for anything. A girl felt that at any moment he might effortlessly pick her up and carry her off.

Ragna was intrigued by him, but he seemed supremely unaware of her or any of the women. He spoke to her father and to visiting Norman noblemen, and he chatted to his men-at-arms in fast, guttural Anglo-Saxon that Ragna could not understand; but he hardly ever spoke to women. Ragna felt slighted: she was not used to being ignored. His indifference was a challenge. She felt she had to get under his skin.

Her father was less enchanted. He was not inclined to take the side of the English against the Vikings, who were his uncivilized kinsmen. Wilwulf was wasting his time here.

Ragna wanted to help Wilwulf. She felt little affinity with Vikings and sympathized with their victims. And if she helped him, perhaps he would stop ignoring her.

Although Count Hubert had little interest in Wilwulf, a Norman nobleman had a duty to show hospitality, so he organized a boar hunt. Ragna was thrilled. She loved the hunt, and perhaps this would prove a chance to get to know Wilwulf better.

The party assembled by the stables at first light and took a standing breakfast of lamb cutlets and strong cider. They chose their weapons: any could be used, but the most favored was a special heavy spear with a long blade and a handle of equal length, and between the two a crossbar. They mounted, Ragna on Astrid, and set off on horseback with a pack of hysterically excited dogs.

Her father led the way. Count Hubert resisted the temptation of many small men to compensate by riding a big horse. His favorite hunting mount was a sturdy black pony called Thor. In the woods it was just as fast as a larger beast, but more nimble.

Wilwulf rode well, Ragna noticed. The count had given the Englishman a spirited dappled stallion called Goliath. Wilwulf had mastered the horse effortlessly, and sat as easily as if in a chair.

A packhorse followed the hunt with panniers full of bread and cider from the castle kitchen.

They rode to Les Chênes then turned into the Bois des Chênes, the largest remaining area of woodland in the peninsula, where the most wildlife could be found. They followed a track through the trees while the dogs quartered the ground frantically, snuffling in the undergrowth for the pungent scent of wild pig.

Astrid stepped lightly, enjoying the feeling of trotting through the woods in the morning air. Ragna felt mounting anticipation. The exhilaration was intensified by the danger. Boars were mighty, with big teeth and powerful jaws. A full-grown boar could bring down a horse and kill a man. They would attack even when wounded, especially if cornered. The reason that a boar spear had a crossbar was that without it an impaled boar might run up the spear and attack the hunter despite being fatally wounded. Hunting boar required a cool head and strong nerves.

One of the dogs picked up a scent, barked triumphantly, and headed off. The others followed in a pack, and the horsemen went after them. Astrid dodged between the thickets sure-footedly. Ragna’s young brother, Richard, passed her, riding overconfidently, as teenage boys did.

Ragna heard the gu-gu-gu screech of an alarmed boar. The dogs went wild and the horses picked up their pace. The chase was on, and Ragna’s heart beat faster.

Boars could run. They were not as fast as horses on cleared ground, but in the woods, zigzagging through the vegetation, they were hard to catch.

Ragna glimpsed the prey crossing a clearing in a group: a big female, five feet long from snout to tail tip, probably weighing more than Ragna herself; plus two or three smaller females and a clutch of little striped piglets that could go surprisingly fast on their short legs. Boar family groups were matriarchal: males lived separately except in the winter rutting season.

The horses loved the thrill of the chase, especially when riding at speed in a pack with the dogs. They crashed through the undergrowth, flattening shrubs and saplings. Ragna rode one-handed, holding the reins in her left while keeping her spear ready in her right. She lowered her head to Astrid’s neck to avoid overhanging branches, which could be more deadly than the boar to a careless rider. But although she rode prudently, she felt reckless, like Skadi, the Norse goddess of hunting, all-powerful and invulnerable, as if nothing bad could happen to her in this state of elation.

The hunt burst out of the woods into a pasture. Cows scattered, lowing, terrified. The horses caught up with the boar in moments. Count Hubert speared one of the lesser females, killing it. Ragna chased a dodging piglet, caught up, leaned down, and speared its hindquarters.

The old female turned dangerously, ready to fight back. Young Richard charged at her fearlessly, but his thrust was wild, and he stuck his spear into the heavily muscled hump. It penetrated only an inch or two then broke. Richard lost his balance and came off his horse, hitting the ground with a thump. The old female charged at him, and Ragna screamed in fear for her brother’s life.

Then Wilwulf came from behind, riding fast, spear raised. He jumped his horse over Richard then leaned perilously low and impaled the boar. The iron went through the beast’s throat into its chest. The point must have reached the heart, for the boar instantly fell dead.

The hunters reined in and dismounted, breathless and happy, congratulating one another. Richard was at first white-faced from his narrow escape, but the young men praised his bravery, and soon he was acting like the hero of the hour. The servants disemboweled the carcasses, and the dogs fell greedily on the guts that spilled onto the ground. There was a strong smell of blood and shit. A peasant appeared, silently furious, and herded his distressed cows into a neighboring field.

The packhorse with its panniers caught up, and the hunters drank thirstily and tore into the loaves.

Wilwulf sat on the ground with a wooden cup in one hand and a chunk of bread in the other. Ragna saw an opportunity to talk, and sat beside him.

He did not look particularly pleased.

She was accustomed to men being impressed with her, and his lack of interest pricked her pride. Who did he think he was? But she had a contrary streak, and now she wanted all the more to bring him under her spell.

She spoke in hesitant Anglo-Saxon. “You saved my brother. Thank you.”

He replied amiably enough. “Boys of his age need to take risks. Plenty of time to be cautious when he’s an old man.”

“If he lives that long.”

Wilwulf shrugged. “A timid nobleman gains no respect.”

Ragna decided not to argue. “Were you rash in your youth?”

His mouth twitched, as if his recollections amused him. “Utterly foolhardy,” he said, but it was more of a boast than a confession.

“Now you’re wiser, of course.”

He grinned. “Opinions differ.”

She felt she was breaking through his reserve. She moved to another topic. “How are you getting on with my father?”

His face changed. “He is a generous host, but he’s not inclined to give me what I came here for.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“I want him to stop sheltering Vikings in his harbor.”

She nodded. Her father had told her as much. But she wanted Wilwulf to talk. “How does that affect you?”

“They sail from here across the Channel to raid my towns and villages.”

“They haven’t troubled this coast for a century. And that’s not because we’re descended from Vikings. They no longer attack Brittany or the Frankish lands or the Low Countries. Why do they pick on England?”

He looked startled, as if he had not expected a strategic question from a girl. However, she had clearly raised a subject close to his heart, for he responded with heat. “We’re wealthy, especially our churches and monasteries, but we’re not good at defending ourselves. I’ve talked to learned men, bishops and abbots, about our history. The great King Alfred chased the Vikings off, but he was the only monarch to fight back effectively. England is a rich old lady with a box full of money and no one to guard it. Of course we get robbed.”

“What does my father say to your request?”

“I imagined that, as a Christian, he would readily agree to such a demand—but he has not.”

She knew that, and she had thought about it. “My father doesn’t want to take sides in a quarrel that doesn’t concern him,” she said.

“So I gathered.”

“Do you want to know what I would do?”

He hesitated, looking at her with an expression between skepticism and hope. Taking advice from a woman clearly did not sit easily with him. But his mind was not completely closed to the notion, she was glad to see. She waited, unwilling to force her views on him. Eventually he said: “What would you do?”

She had her answer ready. “I’d offer him something in return.”

“Is he so mercenary? I thought he would help us from fellow feeling.”

She shrugged. “You’re in a negotiation. Most treaties involve an exchange of benefits.”

His interest was heightened. “Perhaps I should think about that—giving your father some incentive for doing what I ask.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“I wonder what he might want.”

“I could make a suggestion.”

“Go on.”

“Merchants here in Cherbourg sell goods to Combe, especially barrels of cider, wheels of cheese, and fine linen cloth.”

He nodded. “Often of high quality.”

“But we’re constantly obstructed by the authorities at Combe.”

He frowned in annoyance. “I am the authority at Combe.”

Ragna pressed on. “But your officials seem to be able to do anything they like. There are always delays. Men demand bribes. And there’s no knowing how much duty will be charged. In consequence, merchants avoid sending goods to Combe if they can.”

“Duty must be charged. I’m entitled to it.”

“But it should be the same every time. And there should be no delays and no bribes.”

“That would create difficulties.”

“More than a Viking raid?”

“Good point.” Wilwulf looked thoughtful. “Are you telling me that this is what your father wants?”

“No. I haven’t asked him, and I’m not representing him. He’ll speak for himself. I’m just offering you advice based on my close knowledge of him.”

The hunters were getting ready to depart. Count Hubert called: “We’ll go back past the quarry—there are sure to be more boar around there.”

Wilwulf said to Ragna: “I’ll think about this.”

They mounted and headed off. Wilwulf rode next to Ragna, not speaking, lost in thought. She was pleased with the conversation. She had got him interested at last.

The weather warmed up. The horses went faster, knowing they were on the way home. Ragna was beginning to think the hunt was over when she saw a patch of churned-up ground where the boar had been digging for roots and moles, both of which they liked to eat. Sure enough, the dogs picked up the scent.

They charged off again, horses following the dogs, and soon Ragna spotted the prey: a group of males this time, three or perhaps four. They ran through a copse of oak and beech and then divided, three heading along a narrow path and the fourth crashing through a thicket. The hunt followed the three, but Wilwulf went after the fourth, and Ragna did the same.

It was a mature beast with long canine teeth curving out of its mouth, and despite its peril, it cannily uttered no sound. Wilwulf and Ragna rode around the thicket and sighted the boar ahead. Wilwulf jumped his horse over a large fallen tree. Ragna, determined not to be left behind, went after him, and Astrid made the jump, just.

The boar was strong. The horses kept pace but could not close with it. Every time Ragna thought she or Wilwulf was almost near enough to strike, the beast would suddenly change direction.

Ragna was vaguely aware that she could no longer hear the rest of the hunt.

The boar crashed into a clearing with no cover, and the horses put on a burst of speed. Wilwulf came up on the beast’s left, Ragna on its right.

Wilwulf drew level and stabbed. The boar dodged at the last moment. The blade of the spear entered its hump, wounding it but not slowing it down. It swerved and charged directly at Ragna. She leaned left and jerked at the reins, and Astrid turned toward the boar, sure-footed despite her speed. Ragna rode straight at the boar with her spear pointing down. The beast tried to dodge again, but too late, and Ragna’s weapon went straight into its open mouth. She gripped the handle tightly, pushing until the resistance threatened to dislodge her from her saddle; then she let go. Wilwulf wheeled his horse and struck again, penetrating the boar’s thick neck, and it fell.

They dismounted, flushed and panting. Ragna said: “Well done!”

“Well done to you!” said Wilwulf, and then he kissed her.

The kiss began as an exuberant congratulatory peck on the lips, but quickly changed. Ragna sensed his sudden desire. She felt his mustache as his mouth moved hungrily on her lips. She was more than willing, and opened her mouth eagerly to his tongue. Then they both heard the hunt coming toward them, and they broke apart.

A moment later they were surrounded by the other hunters. They had to explain how the kill had been a joint effort. The boar was the biggest of the day, and they were congratulated again and again.

Ragna felt dazed by the excitement of the kill, and even more by the kiss. She was glad when everyone mounted and headed home. She rode a little apart from the rest so that she could think. What did Wilwulf mean by the kiss, if anything?

Ragna did not know much about men, but she realized that they were happy to grab a random kiss with a beautiful woman more or less any time. They were also capable of forgetting it quite soon. She had sensed his quickening interest in her, but perhaps he had enjoyed her the way he might have enjoyed a plum, thinking no more about it afterward. And how did she feel about the kiss? Although it had not lasted long, it had shaken her. She had kissed boys before, but not often, and it had never been like that.

She remembered bathing in the sea as a child. She had always loved the water, and was now a strong swimmer, but once when little she had been bowled over by a huge breaking wave. She had squealed, then found her feet, and finally rushed right back into the surf. Now she remembered that feeling of being completely helpless to resist something both delightful and a little bit frightening.

Why had the kiss been so intense? Perhaps because of what had happened before it. They had discussed Wilwulf’s problem like equals, and he had listened to her. This despite the outward impression he gave of being a typical aggressively masculine nobleman who had no time for women. And then they had killed a boar together, collaborating as if they had been a hunting team for years. All that, she thought on reflection, had given her a degree of trust in him that meant she could kiss him and enjoy it.

She wanted to do it again; she had no doubt about that. She wanted to kiss him for longer next time. But did she want anything else from him? She did not know. She would wait and see.

She resolved not to change her attitude to him in public. She would be cool and dignified. Anything else would be noticed. Women picked up on that sort of thing the way dogs scented boar. She did not want the castle maids gossiping about her.

But it would be different in private—and she was determined to get him alone at least one more time before he left. Unfortunately no one had any privacy except the count and countess. It was difficult to do anything in secret at a castle. Peasants were luckier, she thought; they could sneak off into the woods, or lie down unseen in a big field of ripe wheat. How was she going to arrange a clandestine meeting with Wilwulf?

She arrived back at Cherbourg Castle without finding an answer.

She left Astrid to the stable hands and went into the keep. Her mother beckoned her to the private quarters. Genevieve was not interested in hearing about the hunt. “Good news!” she said, her eyes gleaming. “I’ve been talking to Father Louis. He starts for Reims tomorrow. But he told me he approves of you!”

“I’m very glad,” said Ragna, not sure she meant it.

“He’s says you’re a bit forward—as if we didn’t know—but he believes you’ll become less so with maturity. And he thinks you’ll be a strong support for Guillaume when he becomes the count of Reims. Apparently you resolved the problem at Saint-Martin skillfully.”

“Does Louis feel that Guillaume is in need of support?” Ragna asked suspiciously. “Is he weak?”

“Oh, don’t be so negative,” her mother said. “You may have won a husband—be happy!”

“I am happy,” said Ragna.

She found a place where they could kiss.

As well as the castle there were many other buildings within the wooden stockade: stables and livestock barns; a bakery, a brewery and a cookhouse; houses for families; and storerooms for smoked meat and fish, flour, cider, cheese, and hay. The hay store was out of use in July, when there was plenty of new grass for the livestock to graze.

The first time, Ragna took him there under the pretext of showing him a place where his men could temporarily store their weapons and armor. He kissed her as soon as she closed the door, and the kiss was even more exciting than the first time. The building quickly became a place of regular assignation. As night fell—late in the evening at this time of year—they would leave the keep, as most people did in the hour before bedtime, and go separately to the hay store. The room smelled moldy, but they did not care. They caressed each other more intimately with each passing day. Then Ragna would call a halt, panting, and leave quickly.

They were scrupulously discreet, but they did not completely fool Genevieve. The countess did not know about the hay store, but she could sense the passion between her daughter and the visitor. However, she spoke indirectly, as was always her preference. “England is an uncomfortable place,” she said one day, as if making small talk.

“When were you there?” Ragna asked. It was a sly question, for she already knew the answer.

“I’ve never been,” Genevieve admitted. “But I’ve heard that it’s cold and it rains all the time.”

“Then I’m glad I don’t have to go there.”

Ragna’s mother could not be shut down that easily. “Englishmen are untrustworthy,” she went on.

“Are they?” Wilwulf was intelligent and surprisingly romantic. When they met in the hay store he was gently tender. He was not domineering, but he was irresistibly sexy. He had dreamed one night of being tied up with a rope made of Ragna’s red hair, he told her, and he had woken up with an erection. She found that thought powerfully arousing. Was he trustworthy? She thought he was, but evidently her mother disagreed. “Why do you say that?” Ragna asked.

“Englishmen keep their promises when it suits their convenience, and not otherwise.”

“And you believe that Norman men never do that?”

Genevieve sighed. “You’re clever, Ragna, but not as clever as you think you are.”

That’s true of a lot of people, Ragna thought, from Father Louis all the way down to my seamstress, Agnes; why shouldn’t it be true of me? “Perhaps you’re right,” she said.

Genevieve pushed her advantage. “Your father has spoiled you by teaching you about government. But a woman can never be a ruler.”

“That’s not so,” Ragna said, speaking more heatedly than she had intended. “A woman can be a queen, a countess, an abbess, or a prioress.”

“Always under the authority of a man.”

“Theoretically, yes, but a lot depends on the character of the individual woman.”

“So you’re going to be a queen, are you?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to be, but I’d like to rule side by side with my husband, talking to him as he talks to me about what we need to do to make our domain happy and prosperous.”

Genevieve shook her head sadly. “Dreams,” she said. “We all had them.” She said no more.

Meanwhile, Wilwulf’s negotiations with Count Hubert progressed. Hubert liked the idea of smoothing the passage of Norman exports through the port of Combe, since he profited by levies on all ships entering and leaving Cherbourg. The discussions were detailed: Wilwulf was reluctant to reduce customs duties and Hubert would have preferred none at all, but both agreed that consistency was important.

Hubert questioned Wilwulf about getting the approval of King Ethelred of England for the agreement they were negotiating. Wilwulf admitted that he had not sought prior permission, and said rather airily that he would certainly ask the king to ratify the deal, but he felt sure that would be a mere formality. Hubert confessed privately to Ragna that he was not really satisfied with this, but he thought he had little to lose.

Ragna wondered why Wilwulf had not brought one of his senior counselors with him to help, but she eventually realized that Wilwulf did not have counselors. He made many decisions at shire court, with his thanes in attendance, and he sometimes took advice from a brother who was a bishop, but much of the time he ruled alone.

Eventually Hubert and Wilwulf came to an agreement and Hubert’s clerk drew up a treaty. It was witnessed by the bishop of Bayeux and several Norman knights and clergymen who were in the castle at the time.

Then Wilwulf was ready to go home.

Ragna waited for him to speak about the future. She wanted to see him again, but how was that possible? They lived in different countries.

Did he see their romance as merely a passing thing? Surely not. The world was full of peasant girls who would not hesitate to spend a night with a nobleman, not to mention slave girls who had no choice in the matter. Wilwulf must have seen something special in Ragna, to contrive to meet her in secret every day only to kiss and caress her.

She could have asked him outright what his intentions were, but she hesitated. It did a girl no good to seem needy. Besides, she was too proud. If he wanted her, he would ask; and if he did not ask, then he did not want her enough.

His ship awaited him, the wind was favorable, and he was planning to leave the next morning, when they met at the hay store for the last time.

The fact that he was leaving, and that she did not know whether she would ever see him again, might have dampened her ardor, but in the event it did the opposite. She clung to him as if she could keep him in Cherbourg by holding on tightly. When he touched her breasts, she was so aroused that she felt moisture trickle down the inside of her thigh.

She pressed her body to his so that she could feel his erection through their clothes, and they moved together as if in intercourse. She lifted the long skirt of her dress up around her waist, to feel him better. That only made her desire stronger. In some deep cellar of her mind she knew that she was losing control, but she could not make herself care.

He was dressed like her except that his tunic was knee length, and somehow it got lifted up and pushed aside. Neither of them was wearing underwear—they donned it only for special reasons, such as comfort when riding—and with a thrill she felt his bare flesh against her own.

A moment later he was inside her.

She vaguely heard him say something like: “Are you sure . . . ?”

She replied: “Push, push!”

She felt a sudden sharp pain, but it lasted only seconds, and then all was pleasure. She wanted the feeling to go on forever, but he moved faster, and suddenly they were both shaking with delight, and she felt his hot fluid inside her, and it seemed like the end of the world.

She held on to him, feeling that her legs might give way at any moment. He kept her close for a long time, then at last drew back a little to look at her. “My word,” he said. He looked as if something had surprised him.

When at last she could speak, she said: “Is it always like that?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “Hardly ever.”

The servants slept on the floor, but Ragna and her brother, Richard, and a few of the senior staff had beds, wide benches up against the wall with linen mattresses stuffed with straw. Ragna had a linen sheet in summer and a wool blanket when it was cold. Tonight, after the candles had been snuffed, she curled up under her sheet and remembered.

She had lost her virginity to the man she loved, and it felt wonderful. Furtively, she pushed a finger inside herself and brought it out sticky with his fluid. She smelled its fishy smell, then tasted it and found it salty.

She had done something that would change her life, she knew. A priest would say she was now married in the eyes of God, and she felt the truth of that. And she was glad. The thrill that had overwhelmed her in the hay store was the physical expression of the togetherness that had grown so fast between them. He was the right man for her, she knew that for certain.

She was also committed to Wilwulf in a more practical way. A noblewoman had to be a virgin for her husband. Ragna could certainly never wed anyone other than Wilwulf now, not without a deception that could blight the marriage.

And she might be pregnant.

She wondered what would happen in the morning. What would Wilwulf do? He would have to say something: he knew as well as she did that everything was changed now that they had done what they had done. He must speak to her father about their marriage. There would be an agreement about money. Both Wilwulf and Ragna were nobility, and there might be political consequences to discuss. Wilwulf might need King Ethelred’s permission.

He needed to discuss it with Ragna, too. They had to talk about when they would marry, and where, and what the ceremony would be like. She looked forward eagerly to that.

She was happy, and all these issues could be dealt with. She loved him and he loved her, and they would be partners together throughout their lives.

She thought she would not close her eyes all night, but she soon fell into a heavy sleep, and did not wake until it was full daylight and the servants were clattering bowls on the table and bringing in huge loaves from the bakery.

She leaped up and looked around. Wilwulf’s men-at-arms were packing their few possessions into boxes and leather bags, ready to depart. Wilwulf himself was not in the hall: he must have gone out to wash.

Ragna’s parents came out of their quarters and sat at the head of the table. Genevieve was not going to be happy about this morning’s news. Hubert would be less dogmatic, but nevertheless his permission would not be readily given. They both had other plans for Ragna. But if necessary she would tell them she had already lost her virginity to Wilwulf, and they would have to give in.

She took some bread, spread it with a paste made of crushed berries and wine, and ate hungrily.

Wilwulf came in and took his place at the table. “I’ve spoken to the captain,” he said to everyone. “We leave in an hour.”

Now, Ragna thought, he will tell them; but he drew his knife, cut a thick slice of ham from a joint, and began to eat. He’ll speak after breakfast, she thought.

Suddenly she was too tense to eat. The bread seemed to stick in her throat, and she had to take a mouthful of cider to help her swallow. Wilwulf was talking to her father about the weather in the Channel and how long it would take to reach Combe, and it was like a speech in a dream, words that made no sense. Too quickly the meal came to an end.

The count and countess decided to walk down to the waterfront and see Wilwulf off, and Ragna joined them, feeling like an invisible spirit, saying nothing and following the crowd, ignored by all. The mayor’s daughter, a girl of her own age, saw her and said: “Lovely day!” Ragna did not reply.

At the water’s edge Wilwulf’s men hitched up their tunics and prepared to wade out to their vessel. Wilwulf turned and smiled at the family group. Now, surely, he would say: “I want to marry Ragna.”

He bowed formally to Hubert, Genevieve, Richard, and finally Ragna. He took both her hands in his and said in halting French: “Thank you for your kindness.” Then, incredibly, he turned away, splashed through the shallows, and climbed aboard the ship.

Ragna could not speak.

The sailors untied the ropes. Ragna could not believe what she was seeing. The crew unfurled the sail. It flapped for a moment then caught the wind and swelled. The ship picked up pace.

Leaning on the rail, Wilwulf waved once, then turned away.