The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 7 Late August 997

agna was not pregnant.

She had suffered agonies of apprehension for two weeks after Wilwulf left Cherbourg. To be impregnated and deserted was the ultimate humiliation, especially for a noble maiden. A peasant’s daughter who suffered the same fate would be equally mocked and scorned, but might eventually find someone to marry her and take on the raising of another man’s child. A lady would be shunned by every man of her class.

However, she had escaped that fate. The arrival of the monthly blood had been as welcome as sunrise.

After that she should have hated Wilwulf, but she found she could not. He had betrayed her, but she still yearned for him. She was a fool, she knew. Anyway, it hardly mattered, for she would probably never see him again.

Father Louis had gone home to Reims without spotting the early signs of Ragna’s romance with Wilwulf, and it seemed he had reported that Ragna would make a suitable wife for the young Viscount Guillaume, for Guillaume himself had arrived at Cherbourg to make the final decision.

Guillaume thought Ragna was perfect.

He kept telling her so. He studied her, sometimes touching her chin to move her face a little to one side or the other, up or down, to catch the light. “Perfect,” he would say. “The eyes, green like the sea, such a shade as I never saw before. The nose, so straight, so fine. The cheekbones, perfectly matched. The pale skin. And most of all, the hair.” Ragna kept her hair mostly covered, as did all respectable women, but a few locks were artfully allowed to escape. “Such a bright gold—angels’ wings must be that color.”

She was flattered, but she could not help feeling that he was looking at her as he might have admired an enameled brooch, the most prized of his collection. Wilwulf had never told her she was perfect. He had said: “By the gods, I can’t keep my hands off you.”

Guillaume himself was very good-looking. As they stood on the high parapet of Cherbourg Castle, looking down at the ships in the bay, the breeze tousled his hair, which was long and glossy, dark brown with auburn lights. He had brown eyes and regular features. He was much more handsome than Wilwulf, but all the same the castle maids never blushed and giggled when he walked by. Wilwulf exerted a masculine magnetism that Guillaume just did not have.

He had just given Ragna a present, a silk shawl embroidered by his mother. Ragna unfolded it and studied the design, which featured intertwining foliage and monstrous birds. “It’s gorgeous,” she said. “It must have taken her a year.”

“She has good taste.”

“What is she like?”

“She’s absolutely wonderful.” Guillaume smiled. “I suppose every boy thinks his mother is wonderful.”

Ragna was not sure that was true, but she kept the thought to herself.

“I believe a noblewoman should have complete authority over everything to do with fabrics,” he said, and Ragna sensed she was about to hear a prepared speech. “Spinning, weaving, dyeing, stitching, embroidery, and of course, laundry. A woman should rule that world the way her husband rules his domain.” He spoke as if he were making a generous concession.

Ragna said flatly: “I hate all that.”

Guillaume was startled. “Don’t you do embroidery?”

Ragna resisted the temptation to prevaricate. She did not want him to suffer any misapprehensions. I am what I am, she thought. She said: “Lord, no.”

He was baffled. “Why not?”

“I love beautiful clothes, like most people, but I don’t want to make them. It bores me.”

He looked disappointed. “It bores you?”

Perhaps it was time to sound more positive. “Don’t you think a noblewoman has other duties, too? What about when her husband goes to war? Someone has to make sure the rents are paid and justice is dispensed.”

“Well, yes, of course, in an emergency.”

Ragna decided she had made herself clear enough. She conceded a point in the hope of lowering the temperature. “That’s what I mean,” she said untruthfully. “In an emergency.”

He looked relieved, and changed the subject. “What a splendid view.”

The castle provided a lookout over the surrounding countryside, so that hostile armies could be seen from afar, in time for defensive preparations—or flight. Cherbourg Castle also looked out to sea, for the same reason. But Guillaume was studying the town. The river Divette meandered left and right through the timber-and-thatch houses before reaching the waterfront. The streets were busy with carts going to and from the harbor, their wooden wheels raising dust from the sun-dried roads. The Vikings no longer moored here, as Count Hubert had promised Wilwulf, but several ships of other nations were tied up and others were anchored farther out. An incoming French vessel was low in the water, perhaps bringing iron or stone. Behind it, in the distance, an English ship was approaching. “A commercial city,” Guillaume commented.

Ragna detected a note of disapproval. She asked him: “What kind of city is Reims?”

“A holy place,” he said immediately. “Clovis, king of the Franks, was baptized there by Bishop Remi long ago. On that occasion, a white dove appeared with a bottle, called the Holy Ampulla, containing sacred oil that has been used since for many royal coronations.”

Ragna thought there must be some buying and selling in Reims, as well as miracles and coronations, but once again she held back. She seemed always to be holding back when she talked to Guillaume.

Her patience was running low. She told herself she had done her duty. “Shall we go down?” she said. Insincerely she added: “I can’t wait to show this lovely shawl to my mother.”

They descended the wooden steps and entered the great hall. Genevieve was not in sight, which gave Ragna an excuse to leave Guillaume and enter the private apartment of the count and countess. She found her mother going through her jewel box, selecting a pin for her dress. “Hello, dear,” said the countess. “How are you getting on with Guillaume? He seems lovely.”

“He’s very fond of his mother.”

“How nice.”

Ragna showed her the shawl. “She embroidered this for me.”

Genevieve took the shawl and admired it. “So kind of her.”

Ragna could hold out no longer. “Oh, mother, I don’t like him.”

Genevieve made an exasperated noise. “Give him a chance, won’t you?”

“I’ve tried, I really have.”

“What’s wrong with him, for goodness’ sake?”

“He wants me to be in charge of fabrics.”

“Well, naturally, when you’re the countess. You don’t think he should sew his own clothes, do you?”

“He’s prissy.”

“No, he’s not. You imagine things. He’s perfectly all right.”

“I wish I were dead.”

“You’ve got to stop pining for that big Englishman. He was completely unsuitable, and anyway, he’s gone.”

“More’s the pity.”

Genevieve turned around to face Ragna. “Now listen to me. You can’t remain unmarried much longer. It will begin to look permanent.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“Don’t even say that. There’s no place for a single noblewoman. She’s no use, but she still requires gowns and jewels and horses and servants, and her father gets tired of paying out and getting nothing back. What’s more, the married women hate her, because they think she wants to steal their husbands.”

“I could become a nun.”

“I doubt that. You’ve never been particularly devout.”

“Nuns sing and read and take care of sick people.”

“And sometimes they have loving relationships with other nuns, but I don’t think that’s your inclination. I remember that wicked girl from Paris, Constance, but you didn’t really like her.”

Ragna blushed. She had had no idea that her mother knew about her and Constance. They had kissed and touched each other’s breasts and watched each other masturbate, but Ragna’s heart had not been in it, and eventually Constance had turned her attention to another girl. How much had Genevieve guessed?

Anyway, mother’s instinct was right: a love affair with a woman was never going to be what made Ragna happy.

“So,” Genevieve resumed, “Guillaume is probably an advantageous choice at this point.”

An advantageous choice, thought Ragna; I wanted a romance that would make my heart sing, but what I’ve got is an advantageous choice.

All the same, she thought she would have to marry him.

In a somber mood she left her mother. She passed through the great hall and went out into the sunshine, hoping that might cheer her up.

At the gate of the compound was a small group of visitors, presumably off one of the two ships she had seen approaching earlier. At the center of the group was a nobleman with a mustache but no beard, presumably an Englishman, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought it was Wilwulf. He was tall and fair, with a big nose and a strong jaw, and there flashed into her mind an entire fantasy in which Wilwulf had come back to marry her and take her away. But a moment later she realized that this man’s head was tonsured, and he wore the long black robe of a clergyman; and as he drew nearer she saw that his eyes were closer together, his ears were huge, and although he might have been younger than Wilwulf his face was already lined. He walked differently, too: where Wilwulf was confident, this man was arrogant.

Ragna’s father was not in sight, nor were any of his senior clerks, so it was up to Ragna to welcome the visitor. She went up to him and said: “Good day to you, sir. Welcome to Cherbourg. I am Ragna, the daughter of Count Hubert.”

His reaction startled her. He stared at her keenly, and a mocking smile played under his mustache. “Are you, now?” he said as if fascinated. “Are you really?” He spoke good French with an accent.

She did not know what to say in reply, but her silence did not seem to bother the visitor. He looked her up and down as he might have studied a horse, checking all the key points. His gaze began to feel rude.

Then he spoke again. “I am the bishop of Shiring,” he said. “My name is Wynstan. I am the brother of Ealdorman Wilwulf.”

Ragna was unbearably agitated. Wynstan’s mere presence was thrilling. He was Wilwulf’s brother! Every time she looked at Wynstan she thought about how close he was to the man she loved. They had been raised together. Wynstan must know Wilwulf intimately; must admire his qualities, understand his weaknesses, and recognize his moods so much better than Ragna could. And he even looked a bit like Wilwulf.

Ragna told her lively maid, Cat, to flirt with one of Wynstan’s bodyguards, a big man called Cnebba. The bodyguards spoke nothing but English, so communication was difficult and unreliable, but Cat thought she had understood a little about the family. Bishop Wynstan was, in fact, the half brother of Ealdorman Wilwulf. Wilwulf’s mother had died, his father had remarried, and the second wife had borne Wynstan and a younger brother, Wigelm. The three formed a powerful triad in the west of England: one ealdorman, one bishop, and one thane. They were wealthy, although their prosperity was under threat from Viking raids.

But what brought Wynstan to Cherbourg? If the bodyguards knew, they were not saying.

Most likely the visit had to do with implementation of the treaty agreed between Wilwulf and Hubert. Perhaps Wynstan had come to check that Hubert was keeping his promise and refusing to let Vikings moor in Cherbourg harbor. Or perhaps the visit had something to do with Ragna.

She learned the truth that night.

After supper, as Count Hubert was retiring, Wynstan cornered him and spoke in a low voice. Ragna strained to hear but could not make out the words. Hubert replied equally quietly, then nodded and continued on to the private quarters, followed by Genevieve.

Not long afterward, Genevieve summoned Ragna.

“What’s happened?” Ragna said breathlessly as soon as she was in the room. “What did Wynstan say?”

Her mother looked thunderously cross. “Ask your father,” she said.

Hubert said: “Bishop Wynstan has brought a proposal of marriage to you from Ealdorman Wilwulf.”

Ragna could not conceal her delight. “I hardly dared hope for it!” she said. She had to restrain herself from jumping up and down like a child. “I thought he might have come about the Vikings!”

Genevieve said: “Please don’t think for one moment that we will consent to it.”

Ragna barely heard her. She could escape from Guillaume—and marry the man she loved. “He does love me, after all!”

“Your father has agreed to listen to the ealdorman’s offer, that’s all.”

Hubert said: “I must. To do otherwise would rudely suggest that the man is unacceptable on any terms.”

“Which he is!” said Genevieve.

“Probably,” said Hubert. “However, that’s the kind of thing one thinks but does not say. One has no wish to offend.”

Genevieve said: “Having listened to the terms, your father will politely refuse.”

Ragna said: “You’ll tell me what the offer is, Father, before you turn it down, won’t you?”

Hubert hesitated. He never liked to slam doors. “Of course I will,” he said.

Genevieve made a disgusted noise.

Ragna pushed her luck. “Will you let me attend your meeting with Wynstan?”

He said: “Are you capable of remaining silent throughout?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“I swear it.”

“Very well.”

“Go to bed,” Genevieve said to Ragna. “We’ll discuss this in the morning.”

Ragna left them and lay down in the hall, curled up on her bed by the wall. She found it difficult to keep still, she was so excited. He did love her!

As the rush lights were extinguished and the room became dark, so her heartbeat slowed and her body relaxed. At the same time, she began to think more clearly. If he did love her, why had he fled without explanation? Would Wynstan offer a justification for that? If not, she would ask for one directly, she decided.

That sobering thought brought her down to earth, and she fell asleep.

She woke at first light, and Wilwulf was the first thought to come into her mind. What would his offer be? Normally an aristocratic bride had to be guaranteed enough income to keep her if her husband died and she became a widow. If the children were likely to be heirs to money or titles, they might have to be brought up in the father’s country, even if he died. Sometimes the offer was conditional on the king’s approval. An engagement could be dismayingly like a commercial contract.

Ragna’s main concern was that Wilwulf’s offer should contain nothing that would give her parents reasons to object.

Once she was dressed, she wished she had slept later. The kitchen staff and the stable hands were always up early, but everyone else was still fast asleep, including Wynstan. She had to resist the temptation to grab him by the shoulder and shake him awake and question him.

She went to the kitchen, where she drank a cup of cider and ate a piece of pan bread dipped in honey. She took a half-ripe apple, went to the stables, and gave the apple to Astrid, her horse. Astrid nuzzled her gratefully. “You’ve never known love,” Ragna murmured in the horse’s ear. But it was not quite true: there were times, usually in summer, when Astrid carried her tail up and had to be roped in firmly to keep her away from the stallions.

The straw on the stable floor was damp and smelly. The hands were lazy about changing it. Ragna ordered them to bring fresh straw immediately.

The compound was coming awake. Men came to the well to drink, women to wash their faces. Servants carried bread and cider into the great hall. Dogs begged for scraps, and cats lay in wait for mice. The count and countess emerged from their quarters and sat at the table, and breakfast began.

As soon as the meal was over, the count invited Wynstan into the private apartment. Genevieve and Ragna followed, and they all sat in the outer chamber.

Wynstan’s message was simple. “When Ealdorman Wilwulf was here six weeks ago he fell in love with the lady Ragna. Back at home, he feels that without her his life is incomplete. He begs your permission, count and countess, to ask her to marry him.”

Hubert said: “What provision would he make for her financial security?”

“On their wedding day he will give her the Vale of Outhen. It’s a fertile valley with five substantial villages containing altogether about a thousand people, all of whom will pay her rent in cash or kind. It also has a limestone quarry. May I ask, Count Hubert, what the lady Ragna would bring to the marriage?”

“Something comparable: the village of Saint-Martin and eight smaller villages nearby amounting to a similar number of people, just over one thousand.”

Wynstan nodded but did not comment, and Ragna wondered if he wanted more.

Hubert said: “The income from both properties will be hers?”

“Yes,” said Wynstan.

“And she will retain both properties until her death, whereupon she may bequeath them to whomever she will?”

“Yes,” said Wynstan again. “But what about a cash dowry?”

“I had thought Saint-Martin would be sufficient.”

“May I suggest twenty pounds of silver?”

“I’ll have to think about that. Will King Ethelred of England approve of the marriage?”

It was usual to ask royal permission for aristocratic nuptials. Wynstan said: “I have taken the precaution of asking for his consent in advance.” He directed an oily smile at Ragna. “I told him that she is a beautiful and well-brought-up girl who will bring great credit to my brother, to Shiring, and to England. The king agreed readily.”

Genevieve spoke for the first time. “Does your brother live in a home like this?” She raised her hands to indicate the stones of the castle.

“Madam, no one lives in a building like this in England, and I believe there are few like it even in Normandy and the Frankish lands.”

Hubert said proudly: “That’s true. There is only one building like this in Normandy, at Ivry.”

“There are none in England.”

Genevieve said: “Perhaps that’s why you English seem so unable to protect yourselves from the Vikings.”

“Not so, my lady. Shiring is a walled town, strongly defended.”

“But clearly it doesn’t have a stone-built castle or keep.”

“No.”

“Tell me something else, if you will.”

“Anything, of course.”

“Your brother is somewhere in his thirties?”

“A young-looking forty, my lady.”

“How come he is unmarried, at that age?”

“He was married. In fact that’s why he did not propose marriage while he was here in Cherbourg. But sadly his wife is no longer with us.”

“Ah.”

So that was it, Ragna thought. He couldn’t propose in July because he was married then.

Her head filled with speculation. Why had he been unfaithful to his wife? Perhaps she had already been ill, and her death anticipated. She might have suffered a slow deterioration, and been unable for some time to perform her wifely duty—that would explain how come Wilwulf had been so hungry for love. Ragna had a dozen questions, but she had promised to remain silent, and she clenched her jaw in frustration.

Wynstan said: “May I take home a positive answer?”

Hubert replied: “We will let you know. We must consider what you’ve said very carefully.”

“Of course.”

Ragna tried to read Wynstan’s face. She had the feeling he was not enthusiastic about his brother’s choice. She wondered why he might be ambivalent. No doubt he wanted to succeed in the mission his high-ranking brother had given him. But perhaps there was something about it that he did not like. He could have a candidate of his own: aristocratic marriages were highly political. Or perhaps he just did not like Ragna—but that, she was aware, would be unusual in a normal, red-blooded man. Whatever the reason, he did not seem unduly dismayed by Hubert’s lack of enthusiasm.

Wynstan stood up and took his leave. As soon as the door closed behind him, Genevieve said: “Outrageous! He wants to take her to live in a wooden house and be a prey to Vikings. She could end up in the slave market at Rouen!”

“I think that’s perhaps a little exaggerated, my dear,” said the count.

“Well, there can be no doubt that Guillaume is superior.”

Ragna burst out: “I don’t love Guillaume!”

“You don’t know what love is,” her mother said. “You’re too young.

Her father said: “And you’ve never been to England. It’s not like here, you know. It’s cold and wet.”

Ragna felt sure she could put up with rain for the sake of the man she loved. “I want to marry Wilwulf!”

“You talk like a peasant girl,” said her mother. “But you’re the child of nobility, and you don’t have the right to marry anyone you choose.”

“I will not marry Guillaume!”

“Yes, you will, if your father and I say so.”

Hubert said: “In your twenty years you’ve never known what it’s like to be freezing cold or starving hungry. But there’s a price to be paid for your privileged existence.”

Ragna was silenced. Her father’s logic was more effective than her mother’s bluster. She had never thought of her life that way. She felt sobered.

But she still wanted Wilwulf.

Genevieve said: “Wynstan needs something to do. Take him for a ride. Show him the district.”

Ragna suspected her mother was hoping Wynstan would say or do something to put her off going to England. She really wanted to be alone with her thoughts, but she would entertain Wynstan and learn more about Wilwulf and Shiring. “I’ll be glad to,” she said, and she went out.

Wynstan agreed readily to the idea and together they went to the stable, taking Cnebba and Cat with them. On the way Ragna said quietly to Wynstan: “I love your brother. I hope he knows that.”

“He was anxious that the manner of his departure from Cherbourg may have soured any feelings you may have had for him.”

“I ought to have hated him, but I couldn’t.”

“I’ll reassure him of that as soon as I get home.”

She had a lot more to say to Wynstan, but she was interrupted by the noise of a small, excited crowd. Some yards beyond the stable two dogs were fighting, a short-legged black hound and a gray mastiff. The stable hands had come out to watch. They were yelling encouragement at the dogs and making bets on which would win.

Irritated, Ragna went into the stable to see if anyone was there to help saddle the horses. She saw that the hands had brought dry straw, as she had ordered, but all of them had abandoned their work for the dogfight, and most of the straw stood in a pile just inside the door.

She was about to go and drag one or two away from the excitement when her nostrils twitched. She sniffed and smelled burning. Her senses went on high alert. She spotted a wisp of smoke.

She guessed that someone had brought a brand from the kitchen to light a lamp in a dark corner then had abandoned the project and put the brand down carelessly when the fight began. Whatever the explanation, some of the new straw was smoldering.

Ragna looked around and saw a water barrel that supplied the horses’ needs, with a wooden bucket upside down on the floor nearby. She grabbed the bucket, filled it, and threw the water on the smoking straw.

She saw immediately that this would not be enough. In the few seconds it had taken her, the fire had grown, and now she saw flames licking up. She handed the bucket to Cat. “Throw more water on it!” she ordered. “We’ll go to the well.”

She ran out of the stable. Wynstan and Cnebba followed her. As she ran, she shouted: “Fire in the stable! Fetch buckets and pots!”

At the well she told Cnebba to operate the winch—he looked strong enough to do it tirelessly. Cnebba did not understand her, of course, but Wynstan rapidly translated into the guttural-sounding English language. Several people grabbed nearby containers and Cnebba started to fill them.

The hands were so wrapped up in the dogfight that none of them had yet become aware of the emergency. Ragna yelled at them, but failed to get their attention. She ran into the crowd, violently shoving men aside, and reached the fighting dogs. She grabbed the black dog by its back legs and lifted it off the ground. That stopped the fight. “Fire in the stable!” she yelled. “Form a line to the well and pass the water along.”

There was chaos for a few moments, but in commendably quick time the hands had formed a bucket chain.

Ragna went back inside the stable. The new straw was blazing fiercely and the fire had spread. The horses were neighing in fear, kicking out, and struggling to break the ropes that kept them in their places. She went to Astrid, tried to calm her, untied her, and led her out.

She saw Guillaume watching the activity. “Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Do something to help!”

He seemed surprised. “I don’t know what to do,” he said vaguely.

How could he be so useless? In exasperation she said: “You idiot, if you can’t think of anything else just piss on it!”

Guillaume looked insulted and stalked off.

Ragna gave Astrid’s rope to a little girl and ran back inside. She untied all the horses and let them run out, hoping they would not injure anyone in their panic. For a few seconds they constrained the firefighters, but their departure left room to maneuver, and after a few more minutes the flames were extinguished.

The thatched roof had not caught fire, the stable had been saved, and numerous costly horses had been spared from death.

Ragna stopped the bucket chain. “Well done, everyone,” she called. “We caught the blaze in time. No great damage has been done, and no people or horses are hurt.”

One of the men shouted: “Thanks to you, Lady Ragna!”

Several others agreed loudly, and then they all cheered.

She caught Wynstan’s eye. He was looking at her with something like respect.

She looked around for Guillaume. He was nowhere to be seen.

Someone must have heard what she said to Guillaume, for by suppertime everyone in the compound seemed to know about it. Cat told her they were all talking about it, and after that she noticed that when people caught her eye, they smiled at her, then murmured to one another and laughed, as if recalling the punch line of a joke. Twice she overheard someone say: “If you can’t think of anything else just piss on it!”

Guillaume left for Reims the next morning. He had been insulted and now he was the butt of a joke. His dignity could not stand it. His departure was quiet and unceremonious. Ragna had not wanted to humiliate him, but she could not help rejoicing to see him ride away.

Ragna’s parents’ resistance crumbled. Wynstan was told that his brother’s proposal was accepted, including the dowry of twenty pounds, and the wedding was fixed for All Saints’ Day, the first of November. Wynstan went back to England with the good news. Ragna would take a few weeks to get ready, then she would follow.

“You get your way, as you so often do,” Genevieve said to Ragna. “Guillaume doesn’t want you, I don’t have the energy to search for yet another French nobleman, and at least the English will take you off my hands.”

Hubert was more gracious. “Love triumphs in the end,” he said. “Just like in those old stories you love.”

“Quite,” said Genevieve. “Except that the stories usually end in tragedy.”