The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 11 Early October 997

s Ragna drew nearer to Shiring, her heart filled with apprehension.

She had embarked on this adventure eagerly, impatient for the pleasures of marriage with the man she loved, careless of perils. Bad weather delays had been frustrating. Now she was more aware, with every mile she traveled, that she did not really know what she had let herself in for. All of the short time she and Wilwulf had spent together had been at her home, where he was a stranger trying to fit in. She had never seen him in his own place, never watched him move among his own people, never heard him talk to his family, his neighbors, his subjects. She hardly knew him.

When at last she came in sight of his city, she stopped and took a good look.

It was a big place, several hundred homes clustered at the foot of a hill, with a damp mist drifting over the thatched roofs. It was surrounded by an earth rampart, no doubt for defense against Vikings. Two large churches stood out, pale stone and wet shingles against the mass of brown timber. One appeared to be part of a group of monastic buildings enclosed by a ditch and a fence and was undoubtedly the abbey where the handsome Brother Aldred was in charge of the scriptorium. She looked forward to seeing Aldred again.

The other church would be the cathedral, for alongside it was a two-story house that must be the home of the bishop, Wilwulf’s brother Wynstan, soon to be Ragna’s brother-in-law. She hoped he would act like a kind of older brother to her.

A stone building with no bell tower was probably the home of a moneyer, containing a stock of silver metal that had to be guarded from thieves. England’s currency was trusted, she had learned: the purity of its silver pennies was carefully regulated by the king, who imposed brutal punishments for forgery.

There would be more churches in a town of this size, but they were probably built of timber, just like houses.

On top of the hill, dominating the town, was a stockaded compound, twenty or thirty assorted buildings enclosed by a stout fence. That must be the seat of government, the residence of the ealdorman, the home of Wilwulf.

And my home too now, Ragna thought nervously.

It had no stone buildings. That did not surprise her: it was only recently that the Normans had begun to build stone keeps and gatehouses, and most of them were simpler and cruder than her father’s castle at Cherbourg. She would undoubtedly be a little less safe here.

She had known in advance that the English were weak. The Vikings had first raided this country two centuries ago and the English still had not been able to put a permanent stop to it. People here were better at jewelry and embroidery than at fighting.

She sent Cat and Bern ahead to warn of her arrival. She followed slowly, to give Wilwulf time to prepare a welcome. She had to suppress the urge to kick Astrid into a canter. She was desperately keen to hold Wilwulf in her arms, and she resented every moment’s delay, but she was eager to make a dignified entrance.

Despite the drizzle of cold rain, the town was busy with commerce: people buying bread and ale, horses and carts delivering sacks and barrels, peddlers and prostitutes walking the mud streets. But business stopped as Ragna and her entourage approached. They formed a large group, richly dressed, and her men-at-arms all sported the severe haircut that marked them distinctively as Norman. People stared and pointed. They probably guessed who Ragna was: the forthcoming wedding was surely general knowledge in the town, and the people must have long anticipated her arrival.

Their looks were wary, and she guessed they were not certain how to respond to her. Was she a foreign usurper, come to steal the most eligible man in the west of England away from more deserving local girls?

She noticed that her men had instinctively formed a protective ring around her. That was a mistake, she realized. The people of Shiring needed to see their princess. “We look too defensive,” she said to Bern. “This won’t do. You and Odo ride ten paces ahead, just to clear the way. Tell the rest to fall back. Let the townsfolk see me.”

Bern looked worried, but he changed the formation as instructed.

Ragna began to interact with the people. She met the eyes of individuals and smiled at them. Most people found it hard not to return a smile, but here she sensed a reluctance. One woman gave a tentative wave, and Ragna waved back. A group of thatchers putting a roof on a house stopped work and called out to her: they spoke English with a broad accent that she could not understand, so she was not sure whether their shouted comments represented enthusiasm or mockery, but she blew them a kiss. Some onlookers smiled in approval. A little crowd of men drinking outside an alehouse waved their caps in the air and cheered. Other bystanders followed suit. “That’s better,” said Ragna, her anxiety easing a little.

The noise drew people out of their houses and shops to see what was going on, and the crowd thickened ahead. Everyone followed behind the entourage, and as Ragna headed up the hill to the compound the buzz became a roar. She was infected by their enthusiasm. The more she smiled, the more they cheered; and the more they cheered, the happier she felt.

The wooden stockade had a big double gate, and both sides stood wide. Just inside, another crowd had gathered, presumably Wilwulf’s servants and hangers-on. They applauded as Ragna came into view.

The compound was not very different from that at Cherbourg apart from the lack of a castle. There were houses, stables, and storerooms. The kitchens were open-sided. One house was double-size, and had small windows at both ends: that would be the great hall, where the ealdorman held meetings and hosted banquets. The other houses would be homes for important men and their families.

The crowd formed two lines and clearly expected Ragna to ride between them to the great hall. She went slowly, taking time to look at the faces and smile at individuals. Almost every expression was welcoming and happy; just a handful were stonily noncommittal, as if warily withholding judgment, waiting for further evidence that she was all right.

Outside the door of the long house stood Wilwulf.

He was just as she remembered him, tall and loose-limbed, with a mane of fair hair and a mustache but no beard. He wore a red cloak with an enameled brooch. His smile was broad but relaxed, as if they had parted company only yesterday, rather than two months ago. He stood in the rain without a hat, not caring about getting wet. He spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome.

Ragna could restrain herself no longer. She leaped off her horse and ran to him. The onlookers cheered at this display of uncontained enthusiasm. His smile became wider. She threw herself into his arms and kissed him passionately. The cheering became thunderous. She put her arms around his neck and jumped up with her legs around his waist, and the crowd went wild.

She kissed him hard, but not too long, then put her feet on the ground again. A little vulgarity went a long way.

They stood grinning at each other. Ragna was thinking about making love with him, and she felt he knew what was in her mind.

They let the people cheer for a minute, then Wilwulf took her hand and they walked side by side into the great hall.

A smaller crowd waited there, and there was more applause. As Ragna’s eyes grew accustomed to the dimmer light, she saw a group of a dozen or so people, more richly dressed than those outside, and she guessed these were Wilwulf’s family.

One stepped forward, and she recognized the large ears and the close-set eyes. “Bishop Wynstan,” she said. “I’m pleased to see you again.”

He kissed her hand. “I’m glad that you’re here, and proud of the modest part I played in making the arrangements.”

“For which I thank you.”

“You’ve had a long journey.”

“I’ve certainly got to know my new country.”

“And what do you think of it?”

“It’s a bit wet.”

Everyone laughed, which pleased Ragna, but she knew this was not the moment for candid honesty, and she added an outright lie. “The English people have been friendly and kind. I love them.”

“I’m so glad,” said Wynstan, apparently believing her.

Ragna almost blushed. She had been miserable ever since she set foot in England. The alehouses were dirty, the people were unfriendly, ale was a poor substitute for cider, and she had been robbed. But no, she thought, that was not the whole truth. Mother Agatha had welcomed her, and that ferry boy had been zealously helpful. No doubt the English were a mixture of good and bad, as were the Normans.

And the Normans had no one like Wilwulf. As she made small talk with the family, pausing often to search her memory for the right Anglo-Saxon word, she glanced at him every chance she got, feeling a jolt of pleasure each time she recognized a familiar feature: his strong jaw, his blue-green eyes, the blond mustache she was longing to kiss again. Each time she looked she found he was staring at her, wearing a proud smile with a hint behind it of impatient lust. That made her feel good.

Wilwulf introduced another tall man with a bushy blond mustache. “Allow me to present my younger half brother, Wigelm, the lord of Combe.”

Wigelm looked her up and down. “My word, you are very welcome,” he said. His words were kind but his grin made Ragna uneasy, even though she was accustomed to men staring at her body. Wigelm confirmed her instinctive dislike by saying: “I’m sure Wilf explained to you that we three brothers share everything, including our women.”

This joke caused the men to laugh uproariously. The women present did not find it so hilarious. Ragna decided to ignore it.

Wilwulf said: “And this is my stepmother, Gytha.”

Ragna saw a formidable woman of about fifty. She was short—her sons must have inherited the build of their late father, Ragna guessed. Her long gray hair framed a handsome face, with strongly marked eyebrows. Ragna imagined shrewdness and a sturdy will. She sensed that this woman was going to be a force in her life, for good or ill. She offered a fulsome compliment: “How proud you must be, to have given England these three remarkable men.”

“You’re very kind,” said Gytha, but she did not smile, and Ragna foresaw that Gytha would be slow to succumb to her charm.

Wilwulf said: “Gytha will show you around the compound, then we’ll have dinner.”

“Splendid,” said Ragna.

Gytha led the way. Ragna’s maids were waiting outside. Ragna said: “Cat, come with me. The rest of you, wait.”

Gytha said: “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of everything.”

Ragna was not ready to surrender control. She asked Cat: “Where are the men?”

“In the stables, seeing to the horses.”

“Tell Bern to stay with the baggage until I send for him.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Gytha led Ragna around. It was clear, from the deference showed to Gytha, that she was the boss, in charge of Wilwulf’s domestic life. That would have to change, Ragna thought. She was not going to be told what to do by her stepmother-in-law.

They walked past the slave quarters and entered the stable. The place was crowded, but Ragna noticed that the English stable hands were not talking to the Normans. That would not do. She put her arm around Bern. Raising her voice, she said: “You Englishmen, this is my friend Bern the Giant. He’s very gentle with horses”—she took his hand and held it up—“and with women.” There was a low chuckle from the men. They always bantered about penis size, which was said to be correlated with hand size, and Bern’s hands were huge. “He’s gentle with women,” she repeated, and now they were smiling, for they knew the gag was coming. She gave an arch look and said: “He needs to be.”

They all laughed, and the ice was broken.

Ragna said: “When my men make mistakes speaking your language, be nice to them, and maybe they’ll teach you some words of Norman French. Then you’ll know what to say to any French girls you may meet . . .”

They laughed again, and she knew she had bonded with them. She went out before the laughter died away.

Gytha showed her a double-size building that was barracks for the men-at-arms. “I won’t go in,” Ragna said. It was a male dormitory, and for her to enter might be too forward. There was a narrow line between a delightfully flirtatious woman and a contemptible tart, and a foreigner had to be especially careful not to cross it.

However, she noticed a lot of men milling around outside, and recalled that the stables had been crowded. “So many men,” she said to Gytha. “Is something going on?”

“Yes. Wilf is mustering an army.” That was the second time Ragna had heard someone call him “Wilf.” It was obviously the familiar short form of his name. “The South Welsh have raided across the border,” Gytha went on. “They sometimes do at this time of year—after the harvest, when our barns are full. But don’t worry, Wilf won’t go until after the wedding.”

Ragna felt a chill of fear. Her husband was going into battle right after they got married. It was normal, of course; she had seen her father ride off many times, armed to the teeth, to kill or be killed. But she never got used to it. It scared her when Count Hubert went to war, and it would scare her when Wilwulf did the same. She tried to put it out of her mind. She had other things to think about.

The great hall was in the center of the compound. To one side was an assortment of domestic buildings: the kitchen, the bakery, the brewhouse, and several stores. On the other side were individual residences.

Ragna went into the kitchen. As was usual, the cooks were men, but they were assisted by half a dozen women and girls. She greeted the men politely, but she was more interested in the females. A big, good-looking woman of about thirty struck her as the type who might be a leader. Ragna said to her: “Dinner smells good!”

The woman gave her a friendly smile.

Ragna asked: “What’s your name?”

“Gildathryth, my lady, called Gilda for short.”

Next to Gilda was a girl washing mud off a huge stack of small purplish carrots. She looked a bit like Gilda, and Ragna said: “Is this pretty child related to you?” It was a fairly safe guess: in a small community most people were related somehow.

“My daughter Wilnod,” Gilda said proudly. “Twelve years old.”

“Hello, Wilnod. When you grow up, will you make lovely dinners, like Mummy?”

Wilnod was too shy to speak, but she nodded.

“Well, thank you for washing the carrots,” Ragna said. “When I eat one, I will think of you.”

Wilnod beamed with pleasure.

Ragna left the kitchen.

Over the next few days she would speak to everyone who lived or worked in the compound. It would be hard to remember all the names, but she would do her best. She would ask about their children and grandchildren, their ailments and their superstitions, their homes and their clothes. She would not need to pretend interest: she had always been curious about the everyday lives of the people around her.

Cat would find out more, especially as her English became more confident. Like Ragna, she befriended people quickly, and soon the maids would share gossip with her: which laundress had a lover, which stable hand liked to lie with men rather than women, who was stealing from the kitchen, which man-at-arms was afraid of the dark.

Ragna and Gytha moved toward the houses. Most of them were half the length of the great hall, but they were not all of the same quality. All had stout corner posts and thatched roofs. Most had walls of wattle-and-daub, upright branches interwoven with horizontal twigs and covered with a mixture of mud and straw. The three best houses were immediately behind the great hall. They had walls of upright planks neatly joined edge to edge and footed in a heavy timber sill beam.

Ragna said: “Which one is Wilwulf’s?”

Gytha pointed to the central building. Ragna walked to the entrance. Gytha said: “Perhaps you should wait for an invitation.”

Ragna smiled and walked in.

Cat followed her, and Gytha was the reluctant last.

Ragna was pleased to see a low bed, plenty wide enough for two, with a big mattress and an inviting pile of brightly dyed blankets. Otherwise the place had a military air, with sharpened weapons and gleaming armor hanging from pegs around the walls—perhaps ready for Wilwulf’s coming conflict with the South Welsh. His other possessions were stored in a few large wooden chests. A wall tapestry showed a hunting scene, well executed. There appeared to be no materials for writing or reading.

Ragna walked out again and turned toward the back of Wilwulf’s home. Another fine house stood behind it. As Ragna headed that way, Gytha said: “Perhaps I should show you your house.”

Ragna was not willing to be told what to do by Gytha, and she felt the need to make that clear sooner rather than later. Without stopping she said: “Whose house is this one?”

“That’s mine. You can’t go in.”

Ragna turned. “No building in this compound is closed to me,” she said quietly but firmly. “I am about to marry the ealdorman. Only he tells me what to do. I will be the mistress here.”

She went into the house.

Gytha followed her.

The place was richly furnished. There was a comfortable cushioned chair like those used by kings. On a table was a basket of pears and a small barrel of the type that usually contained wine. Costly wool dresses and cloaks hung from pegs.

Ragna said: “Very nice. Your stepson is good to you.”

“And why shouldn’t he be?” Gytha said defensively.

“Quite.” Ragna went out.

Gytha had said Perhaps I should show you your house, and that suggested that Ragna would have a home separate from Wilwulf’s. This was not an unusual arrangement, but somehow she had not anticipated it. The wife of a wealthy nobleman often had a nearby second house for babies and children and their nursemaids; she would spend some nights there and others with her husband. However, Ragna did not expect to spend any nights apart from Wilwulf before a baby made it necessary. The separate house seemed premature. She wished Wilwulf had talked to her about it. But they had had no chance to talk about anything.

She was uncomfortable, the more so because it was Gytha who was telling her about it. Ragna knew that mothers could be irrationally hostile to their sons’ women, and that probably applied to stepmothers, too. Ragna recalled an incident in which her brother, Richard, had been caught embracing a laundress on the ramparts of the castle at Cherbourg. Their mother, Genevieve, had wanted to have the girl flogged. It was natural that she should not want a servant to be impregnated with her son’s child, but Richard had only been stroking the girl between her legs, and Ragna was pretty sure all adolescent boys did that whenever they got the chance. Clearly there had been more to Genevieve’s rage than simple prudence. Could a mother, or even a stepmother, be jealous of her son’s lovers? Was Gytha unfriendly to Ragna because they were rivals for Wilwulf’s affection?

Ragna was wary about this, but in the end, not deeply anxious. She knew how Wilwulf felt about her and she was confident she could hold and keep his love. If she wanted to spend every night in his bed she would do so, and she would make sure he was happy about it.

She turned her steps toward the last of the three houses.

“That’s Wigelm’s place,” Gytha said, but this time she did not try to stop Ragna entering.

The interior of Wigelm’s home had a temporary look, and Ragna supposed he spent a lot of time at Combe, the town of which he was lord. But he was here now, sitting with three other young men around a jug of ale, throwing dice and betting silver pennies. He stood up when he saw Ragna. “Come in, come in,” he said. “The house suddenly seems warmer.”

She immediately regretted entering, but she was not willing to retreat hastily, as if scared. She was making a point of her right to go anywhere. She ignored Wigelm’s banter and said: “Aren’t you married?”

“My wife is at Combe, supervising the rebuilding of our home there after the Viking raid. But she will be here for your wedding.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mildburh, called Milly for short.”

“I look forward to meeting her.”

Wigelm came closer and lowered his voice to a more intimate tone. “Will you sit down and share a cup of ale with me? We’ll teach you to play at dice if you like.”

“Not today.”

Casually, he put his hands on her breasts and squeezed. “My, they really are big, aren’t they?”

Cat made an indignant noise.

Ragna stepped back and pushed his hands away. “But they’re not for you,” she said.

“I’m just checking the goods before my brother buys them.” He shot an arch look at his pals, and on cue, they burst out laughing.

Ragna glanced at Gytha and saw the trace of a smirk on her lips.

Ragna said: “Next time the Vikings raid, I hope you brave men will be there to meet them.”

Wigelm was silenced, unable to work out whether that was a compliment or a curse.

Ragna took the opportunity to make her exit.

A man could be fined for touching the breast of a woman, but Ragna was not going to make a court case out of the incident. However, she vowed to find a way to punish Wigelm.

Outside, she turned to Gytha and said: “So, Wilf has prepared a house for me?”

Her phrasing was deliberate. It was Wilwulf’s responsibility to make sure she was comfortable. He had probably left it to Gytha to make the arrangements, but Ragna would complain to him if dissatisfied, not Gytha, and she wanted Gytha to understand that from the start.

“This way,” said Gytha.

Next to Wigelm’s home was a cheaper house with draughty wattle-and-daub walls. Gytha walked in and Ragna followed.

It was adequately furnished, with a bed, a table with benches, several chests, and plenty of wooden cups and bowls. There was a stack of firewood by the hearth and a barrel that presumably contained ale. The place lacked any touch of luxury.

It was a poor welcome, Ragna felt.

Gytha sensed Ragna’s reaction and said hesitantly: “No doubt you have brought your own personal choice of wall hangings and so on.”

Ragna had not. She had expected everything to be provided. She had money to buy whatever she needed, but that was not the point. “Blankets?” she said.

Gytha shrugged. “Why do you need blankets? Most people sleep in their cloaks.”

“I noticed that Wilf has plenty of blankets in his house.”

Gytha did not reply.

Ragna looked around the walls. “Not enough pegs,” she said. “You didn’t think a bride might have a lot of clothes to hang up?”

“You can put in more pegs.”

“I’ll have to borrow a hammer.”

Gytha looked puzzled, then realized that Ragna was being sarcastic. “I’ll send you a carpenter.”

“The place is too small. I have five maids and seven men-at-arms.”

“The men can be lodged in the town.”

“I prefer them near me.”

“That may not be possible.”

“We’ll see.” Ragna was angry and hurt. However, she needed to think and plan before taking action. She turned to Cat. “Fetch the other maids, and tell the men to bring the baggage.” Cat went out.

Gytha tried to regain the initiative. She adopted an authoritative tone and said: “You’ll live here, and when Wilf wants to spend the night with you he will either come here or invite you to his house. You should never go to his bed uninvited.”

Ragna ignored that. She and Wilf would work things out without the help of his stepmother. She resisted the temptation to say so.

She had had enough of Gytha. “Thank you for showing me around,” she said in a tone of dismissal.

Gytha hesitated. “I hope everything is all right.”

Gytha had probably expected a frightened young foreign girl who could be pushed around. Now, Ragna guessed, she was anxiously revising her opinion.

“We’ll see,” Ragna said tersely.

Gytha tried again. “What will you say to Wilf about your accommodation?”

“We’ll see,” Ragna repeated.

It must have been obvious that Ragna wanted Gytha to leave, but Gytha was ignoring her hints. She had been the senior female here for years, and perhaps she did not believe she could be given orders by another woman. Ragna had to be more forceful. “I have no further need for you at present, stepmother-in-law,” she said; and when Gytha still did not go out she raised her voice and added: “You may go.”

Gytha flushed with embarrassment and anger, but she went out at last.

Cat returned with the others, the men toting chests and bags. They stacked the luggage up against the wall. Cat said: “This place is crowded, with all of us in here.”

“The men must sleep elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere in the town. But don’t unpack. Just what we need for one night.”

Bishop Wynstan came through the open door. “Well, well,” he said, looking around. “So this is your new house.”

“So it seems,” Ragna said.

“Is it not satisfactory?”

“I’ll discuss it with Wilf.”

“Good idea. He wishes for nothing more than your happiness.”

“I’m glad.”

“I’ve come for your dowry.”

“Really?”

Wynstan frowned severely. “You did bring it?”

“Of course.”

“Twenty pounds of silver. That was what I agreed with your father.”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps you would let me have it.”

Ragna did not trust Wynstan, and this request sharpened her misgivings. “I shall give it to Wilf when we are married. That was what you agreed with my father.”

“But I must count it.”

Ragna did not want Wynstan to know even which box it was in. “You may count it on the morning of the wedding. Then, after the vows have been taken, it will be handed over—to my husband.”

Wynstan gave her a look that mingled dislike with respect. “As you wish, of course,” he said, and he went out.

Ragna got up before dawn the next day.

She thought carefully about what to wear. Yesterday she had arrived in a fawn dress and a red cloak, a fetching outfit, but the clothes had been damp and muddy, and she had not looked her best. Today she wanted to be like a flower that had bloomed at daybreak. She chose a yellow silk dress with embroidery at the neck, cuffs, and hem. Cat washed the corners of her eyes and brushed her thick red hair, then tied a green scarf over her head.

While it was still dark, Ragna ate some bread dipped in weak ale and concentrated on what she was about to do. She had spent much of the night thinking over her strategy. Wigelm must be punished, but that was a secondary matter. Her big task was to prove that she, not Gytha, was now in charge of Wilf’s home life. Ragna did not want a quarrel, but she could not let Gytha’s rule continue even for a day, because every moment that she seemed to accept it left her weaker. She had to take immediate action.

It was risky, though. She might displease her husband-to-be, and that would be bad enough; but worse, she might lose the battle, and a victory for Gytha at this stage could be permanent.

Cat handed her the armband she had bought from Cuthbert in Dreng’s Ferry, and Ragna slipped it into the leather purse attached to her belt.

She stepped outside. There was a faint silvery glow on the eastern horizon. It had rained in the night, and the ground was muddy underfoot, but the day promised to be bright. Down in the dark town, the monastery bell tolled for the morning office of Prime. The compound was just beginning to come alive: she saw a boy slave in a threadbare tunic carrying a pile of firewood, then a strong-armed maid with a pail of fresh milk that steamed in the morning air. Everyone else was out of sight, probably still warm in bed, eyes shut tight, pretending it was not yet day.

Ragna crossed the compound to Wilf’s house.

There was one other person in view. A young woman stood outside Gytha’s door, leaning against the wall, yawning. She caught sight of Ragna and stood upright.

Ragna smiled. Gytha was keeping her under surveillance, not taking any chances. As it happened, that suited Ragna’s purpose today.

She went to Wilf’s door, watched by the maid.

It suddenly occurred to her that Wilf might bar his door at night: some people did. That could spoil her plan.

But when she lifted the latch the door opened, and she relaxed. Perhaps Wilf thought that to lock his door at night might make him seem timorous in the eyes of his men.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the watching maid scurry inside Gytha’s house.

Wilf had another reason for feeling confident. As Ragna stepped inside, she heard a deep growl. Wilf had a dog to warn him of intruders.

Ragna looked toward where she knew the bed to be. There was a glow from the embers of the fire, and a faint light coming through the small windows. She saw a figure sit upright in the bed and reach for a weapon.

Wilf’s voice said: “Who’s there?”

Ragna said quietly: “Good morning, my lord.”

She heard him chuckle. “It’s a good morning now that you’re here.” He lay down again.

There was a movement on the floor, and she saw a big mastiff resume his position lying by the fire.

She sat on the edge of the bed. This was a delicate moment. Her mother had urged her not to lie with Wilf until after the ceremony. He would want it, Genevieve had said, and Ragna had known that she would want it, too. But she was determined to resist the temptation. She could not say exactly why this was so important, especially as they had already done it once. Her feelings had to do with how happy they both would feel about their marriage when at last they were able to yield to their desires without guilt or fear.

All the same, she kissed him.

She leaned over his broad chest. She grasped the hem of his blanket in both hands, keeping it in place as an additional barrier between their bodies. Then she slowly lowered her head until their lips met.

He made a low sound of satisfaction.

She ran her tongue around his mouth, feeling his soft lips and the bristle of his mustache. He buried one big hand in the thickness of her hair, dislodging her scarf. But when his other hand reached for her breast she pulled away. “I have a gift for you,” she said.

“You have several,” he said in a voice thick with desire.

“I brought you a belt from Rouen with a lovely silver buckle, but it was stolen from me on the journey.”

“Where?” he said. “Where were you robbed?” He was responsible for law and order, she knew, and any theft reflected on him.

“Between Mudeford and Dreng’s Ferry. The thief wore an old helmet.”

“Ironface,” he said angrily. “The reeve of Mudeford has searched the forest but can’t find his hideout. I’m going to tell him to search again.”

She had not meant to complain, and she was sorry she had angered him. She moved quickly to rescue the romantic atmosphere. “I got you something else, something better,” she said. She got up, looked around, and spotted the whiteness of a candle. She lit it at the fire and stood it on a bench near the head of the bed. Then she took out the armband she had bought from Cuthbert.

“What’s this?” he said.

She brought the candle closer so that he could examine it. He ran a finger over the incised lines of the complex pattern, engraved in the silver and picked out with niello. “It’s exquisite work,” he said, “but it still has a bold, manly look about it.” He slipped it up his left arm, over the elbow. It fitted closely to the muscles of his upper arm. “You have such good taste!” he said.

Ragna was thrilled. “It looks magnificent.”

“I shall be the envy of all England.”

That was not quite what Ragna wanted to hear. She did not want to be a symbol of greatness, like a white horse, or an expensive sword.

He said: “I want to spend all day kissing you.”

That was more like it, and she leaned toward him again. Now he was more assertive, and when he grasped her breast and she tried to pull away he prevented her, and drew her toward him. She became a little anxious. She still had the physical advantage while he was lying down, but if it came to a real struggle she could not resist him.

Then came the interruption she was expecting. The dog growled, the door creaked, and Gytha’s voice said: “Good morning, my son.”

Ragna took her time breaking the clinch: she wanted Gytha to see how much Wilf wanted her.

Gytha said: “Oh! Ragna! I didn’t know you were here.”

Liar, thought Ragna. The maid had told Gytha that Ragna had gone into Wilf’s house, and Gytha had dressed hastily and come to see what was going on.

Ragna turned slowly. She was entitled to kiss her fiancé, and she took pains not to look guilty. “Mother-in-law,” she said. “Good morning.” She was polite, but she allowed a hint of irritation into her voice. Gytha was the intruder here, the one who had ventured where she had no right to go.

Gytha said: “Shall I send the barber to shave your chin, Wilf?”

“Not today,” he said with a touch of impatience. “I’ll shave on the morning of the wedding.” He spoke as if she should have known this, and it was obvious that she had asked only because she needed a pretext for being there.

Ragna rearranged her headdress, taking more time than she needed, underlining the fact that Gytha had intruded upon a moment of intimacy. While tying the scarf she said: “Show Gytha your gift, Wilf.”

Wilf pointed to the band on his arm. It glinted in the firelight.

“Very attractive,” said Gytha without warmth. “Silver is always good value.” It was cheaper than gold, she was implying.

Ragna ignored the jibe. “And now, Wilf, I must ask you for something.”

“Anything, my beloved.”

“You’ve put me in a very poor house.”

He was startled. “Have I?”

His surprise confirmed Ragna’s suspicion that he had left this to Gytha. Ragna said: “It has no window, and the walls let in the cold air at night.”

Wilf looked at Gytha. “Is this true?”

She said: “It’s not that bad.”

That answer angered Wilf. “My fiancée deserves the best of everything!” he said.

“It’s the only house available,” Gytha protested.

Ragna said: “Not quite.”

“There is no other empty house,” Gytha insisted.

“But Wigelm doesn’t really need a house for himself and his men-at-arms,” Ragna said in a tone of gentle rationality. “His wife isn’t even here. Their home is at Combe.”

Gytha said: “Wigelm is the ealdorman’s brother!”

“And I am the ealdorman’s bride.” Ragna was working hard to suppress her anger. “Wigelm is a man, with a man’s simple needs, but I am a bride preparing for my wedding day.” She turned her gaze to Wilf. “Which of us do you wish to favor?”

There was only one possible answer a bridegroom could make. “You, of course,” he said.

“And after the wedding,” she said, holding Wilf’s gaze, “I will be closer to you at night, for Wigelm’s house is right next door.”

He smiled. “That clinches it.”

Wilf had made up his mind, and Gytha gave in. She was too wise to argue when she had already lost. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll swap Ragna and Wigelm.” She could not resist adding: “Wigelm won’t like it.”

Wilf said crisply: “If he complains, just remind him which brother is the ealdorman.”

Gytha bowed her head. “Of course.”

Ragna had won, and Wilf was displeased with Gytha. Ragna decided to push her luck. “Forgive me, Wilf, but I need both houses.”

Gytha said: “What on earth for? No one has two houses.”

“I want my men nearby. At present they’re lodged in the town.”

Gytha said: “Why do you need men-at-arms?”

Ragna gave her a haughty look. “It is my preference,” she said. “And I am about to be the ealdorman’s wife.” She turned her face to Wilf.

Now he was losing patience. “Gytha, give her what she wants, and no more arguments.”

“Very well,” said Gytha.

“Thank you, my love,” said Ragna, and she kissed him again.