The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 14 November 1, 997

agna married Wilf on All Saints’ Day, the first of November, a day of alternating sunshine and showers of rain.

The compound was familiar to Ragna now. It smelled of stables, unwashed men, and fish being boiled in the kitchen. It was noisy: dogs barked, children screeched, men yelled, and women cackled; the blacksmith hammered out horseshoes and the carpenters split tree trunks with their axes. The west wind blew the clouds across the sky, and the shadows of clouds chased one another over the thatched roofs.

Ragna took breakfast in her house, with just her servants present. She needed a peaceful morning to prepare herself for the ceremony. She felt nervous about how she would look and whether she would play her part correctly. She wanted everything to be perfect for Wilf.

She had been desperately impatient for this day to come, and now she longed for it to be over. Pageantry and ritual were commonplace in her life; what she needed was to lie down with her husband at night. She had resisted the temptation to anticipate the wedding, but it had been a strain. However, she was glad now that she had been firm, for Wilf’s desire for her had become stronger every day he waited. She saw it in his eyes, and the way his hand lingered on her arm, and the yearning in his goodnight kiss.

They had spent many hours together just talking. He had told her about his childhood, the death of his mother, the shock of his father’s remarriage to Gytha, and the arrival in his life of two younger half brothers.

However, he did not like to answer questions. She had discovered this when she asked him about his quarrel with King Ethelred. It was an offense to his pride to be interrogated like a prisoner of war.

Ragna and Wilf had hunted together once, in the forest between Shiring and Dreng’s Ferry. They had stayed overnight in Wilf’s hunting lodge, remote and isolated, with stables, kennels, stores, and a large house where everyone slept in the rushes on the floor. That evening Wilf had talked at length about his father, who had also been ealdorman of Shiring. The position was not hereditary, and as Wilf had recounted the power struggle that had followed his father’s death, Ragna had learned a good deal about English politics.

Now, on the day of her wedding, she was glad she knew Wilf so much better than she had when she arrived in Shiring.

She had wanted a peaceful morning today, but she did not get it. Her first visitor was Bishop Wynstan, his cloak dripping with rain. He was followed in by Cnebba carrying a stilyard, a straight-beam balance, plus a small box probably containing weights.

Ragna was polite. “Good morning, my lord bishop, I hope I see you in good health.”

Wynstan took the courtesies as read and got right down to business. “I’m here to check your dowry.”

“Very well.” Ragna had been expecting this, and became alert for any tricks Wynstan might be up to.

Hanging from the rafters were several ropes used for various purposes, including keeping food out of the reach of mice. Cnebba now attached the stilyard to one such rope.

The iron bar of the balance had two unequal sides: the shorter side had a hanging tray in which to place the item to be weighed, and the longer bore a weight that could slide along a graduated scale. With nothing in the tray and the sliding weight at the innermost mark, the two sides balanced and the bar swung gently in the air.

Cnebba then placed his box on the table and opened it. The weights inside were squat lead cylinders, each with a silver coin embedded in its top to guarantee that it was officially verified. Wynstan said: “I borrowed these from the Shiring mint.”

Cat moved to pick up a small chest that contained the dowry, but Ragna held up a hand to detain her. Ragna did not trust Wynstan. With Cnebba here to defend him, Wynstan might be tempted to just walk off with the chest under his arm. “Cnebba can leave us now,” Ragna said.

“I prefer him to stay,” said Wynstan.

“Why?” said Ragna. “Can he weigh coins better than you?”

“He’s my bodyguard.”

“Of whom are you afraid? Me? My maid, Cat?”

Wynstan looked at Bern but decided not to answer Ragna’s question. “Very well,” he said. “Wait outside, Cnebba.”

The bodyguard left.

Ragna said: “Let’s check the balance.” She put a five-pound weight in the tray, causing the short arm of the stilyard to drop. Then she moved the slide on the opposite side outward until the two arms were in balance. The slide stood at the five-pound mark. The balance was accurate.

Ragna nodded to Bern, who picked up the chest and put it on the table. Ragna unlocked it with a key she had around her neck on a thong.

The chest contained four small leather bags. Ragna put one on the stilyard in place of the five-pound weight. The two arms balanced almost perfectly: the bag was slightly heavier. “The leather accounts for the insignificant extra weight,” Ragna said.

Wynstan waved a dismissive hand at that. He had a more important concern. He said: “Show me the coins.”

Ragna emptied the bag onto the table. Hundreds of small silver coins poured out, all of them English, with a cross on one side and the head of King Ethelred on the other. The marriage contract specified English pennies, which contained more silver than French deniers.

Wynstan nodded in satisfaction.

Ragna returned the silver coins to the bag then repeated the entire exercise with the remaining three bags. Each weighed exactly five pounds. The dowry was as promised. She put the bags back in the chest.

Wynstan said: “I’ll take it now, then.”

Ragna gave the chest to Bern. “When I’m married to Wilf.”

“But you’ll be married by noon today!”

“Then the dowry will be handed over at twelve o’clock.”

“That means this check has been pointless. In the next two hours you could steal fifty coins out of each bag.”

Ragna locked the chest, then handed the key to Wynstan. “There,” she said. “Now I can’t open it and you can’t steal it.”

Wynstan pretended to think she was taking caution to ridiculous extremes. “The guests are arriving already!” he said. “The oxen and pigs have been roasting all night. The barrels of ale have been tapped. The bakers have a hundred loaves in the ovens. Do you seriously believe Wilf is going to grab your dowry now and cancel the wedding?”

Ragna smiled sweetly. “I’m going to be your sister-in-law, Wynstan,” she said. “You must learn to trust me.”

Wynstan grunted and left.

Cnebba came back in and took away the stilyard and the weights. As he went out, Wigelm arrived. He had the family big nose and chin, and the same fair hair and mustache, but there was a petulant cast to his face, as if he perpetually felt unfairly treated. He had on the clothes he had worn yesterday, a black tunic and a brown cloak, as if to tell the world that today was not a special day as far as he was concerned. “So, my sister,” he said, “today you lose your virginity.”

Ragna blushed, for she had lost it four months ago.

Fortunately Wigelm misunderstood the cause of her embarrassment. “Ah, don’t be shy,” he said with a lascivious chuckle. “You’ll enjoy it, I promise you.”

You have no idea, Ragna thought.

Wigelm was followed in by a short, voluptuous woman of about his own age, thirty. She was attractive in a plump way, and walked with the sway of a woman who knows she is sexy. She did not introduce herself, and Wigelm made no effort to explain her presence, so Ragna said to her: “I don’t think we’ve met.”

She did not reply, but Wigelm said: “My wife, Milly.”

Ragna said: “I’m glad to see you, Milly.” On impulse she stepped forward and kissed Milly’s cheek. “We are to be sisters,” she said.

Milly’s response was cool. “How strange that is,” she said, “when we hardly speak each other’s language.”

“Oh, anyone can learn a new language,” Ragna said. “All it takes is a little patience.”

Milly looked around the interior of the house. “I was told you had a carpenter in to transform the place,” she said.

“Edgar of Dreng’s Ferry has been working here for the past week.”

“It looks much the same to me.”

It had been a bit decrepit when Milly had been in charge of it, and no doubt this explained Milly’s unfriendliness: she must have felt slighted when Ragna insisted on improvements. Ragna shrugged and said: “Just a few running repairs,” making light of it.

Gytha came in, and Wigelm said: “Good day to you, Mother.” Gytha wore a new dress, dark gray with a red lining that showed in flashes, and her long gray hair was pinned up in an elaborate hat.

Ragna immediately felt wary. Gytha sometimes made the servants laugh by imitating Ragna’s accent. Cat had reported this to her mistress. Ragna had vaguely noticed the women smiling occasionally when she said something not intended to be amusing, and she guessed that her way of speaking had become a joke in the compound. She could live with that, but she was disappointed in Gytha, whom she wanted as a friend.

However, Gytha now surprised her by saying something kind. “Do you need any help with your dress and hair, Ragna? I’m ready, and I’ll be happy to send you one or two of my maids if you like.”

“I don’t need extra help, but thank you for being so thoughtful,” Ragna said. She meant it: Gytha was the fourth in-law to call on her this morning, but the first to say something nice. Ragna had not yet succeeded in winning the affections of her husband’s family, a project she had thought would be easier.

When Dreng limped in she almost groaned aloud.

The ferryman wore a cone-shaped hat that was so tall it looked comical. “I just dropped by to pay my respects to the lady Ragna on this auspicious morning,” he said, bowing low. “We’re already acquainted, aren’t we, cousin-in-law to be? You honored my humble alehouse with a visit on your journey here. Good morning, cousin Wigelm, I hope I see you well; and you, cousin Milly; and the lady Gytha—I never know whether to call you cousin or aunt.”

“More distant than either,” said Gytha sourly.

Ragna noted that Dreng was not warmly received by the family, no doubt because he so obviously exaggerated his closeness to them as a way of enhancing his own status.

Dreng pretended to misunderstand Gytha. “It is a long way to come, thank you for your concern, and of course I have a bad back—a Viking knocked me off my horse at the battle of Watchet, you know—but I couldn’t possibly miss this great occasion.”

Wilf walked in, and suddenly Ragna felt that all was well. He took her in his arms and kissed her passionately in front of everyone. He adored her, and the unfriendliness of his family meant nothing.

She broke the embrace, panting, and tried not to look triumphant.

Wilf said: “The clouds have blown away and the sky is blue. I was afraid we might have to move the banquet indoors, but now I think we can eat outside as planned.”

Dreng nearly burst with excitement. “Cousin Wilf!” he said, his voice breaking into a falsetto bleat. “I hope I see you well, such a pleasure to be here, I offer you a thousand congratulations, your bride is an angel, indeed an archangel!”

Wilf gave a nod of patient tolerance, as if to acknowledge that although Dreng was a fool he was family. “I welcome you, Dreng, but I think this house is getting crowded. My bride needs time to herself as she prepares for the wedding. Out, all of you, come on!”

It was exactly what Ragna wanted him to say, and she smiled in gratitude.

The family trooped out. Before Wilf went he kissed her again, longer this time, until she felt they were in danger of starting the honeymoon right there and then. Finally he pulled away, breathing hard. “I’ll welcome the guests,” he said. “Bar the door and give yourself an hour of peace.” He went out.

Ragna let out a long sigh. What a family, she thought: a man like a god, and relatives like a pack of yapping hounds. But she was marrying Wilf, not Wigelm or Dreng or Gytha or Milly.

She sat on a stool for Cat to do her hair. As the maid combed, teased, and pinned, Ragna made herself calm. She knew how to behave at ceremonies: move slowly, smile at everyone, do what you’re told, and if no one tells you what to do, stand still. Wilf had outlined the program to her, and she had memorized every word. She might still make mistakes, not knowing anything about English rituals, but if she did she would just smile and try again.

Cat finished the hairdo with a silk scarf the color of autumn chestnuts. It covered Ragna’s head and neck and was held in place by an embroidered headband. Now Ragna was ready for the dress. She had bathed earlier and was already wearing the plain tan linen underdress, which would hardly be seen. Over it she donned a wool dress in a color between green and blue that seemed to make her eyes brighter. It had flared sleeves, the cuffs of which were embroidered with a geometric pattern in gold thread. Cat put a silver cross on a silk band around Ragna’s neck so that it hung outside the dress. Finally she put on a blue cloak with a gold-colored lining.

When she was fully dressed, Cat stared at her and burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” Ragna said.

Cat shook her head. “Nothing,” she sobbed. “You’re so beautiful.”

There was a knock at the door and a voice called: “The ealdorman is ready.”

Bern said gruffly: “That’s a bit sooner than expected!”

“You know Wilf,” said Ragna. “He’s impatient.” She raised her voice to speak to the man outside. “The bride is ready whenever Wilf cares to come and get her.”

“I’ll tell him.”

A few minutes went by, then there was a banging at the door, and Wilf’s voice said: “The ealdorman comes for his bride!”

Bern picked up the chest containing the dowry. Cat opened the door. Wilf stood outside in a red cloak. Ragna held her head high and walked out.

Wilf took her arm and they walked slowly across the compound to the front of the great hall. A great cheer went up from the waiting crowd. Despite the morning’s showers, the townspeople had dressed up. None but the wealthiest could afford new complete outfits, but most had a new hat or kerchief, and the sea of brown and black was enlivened by celebratory flashes of yellow and red.

Ceremony was important. Ragna had learned from her father that gaining power was easier than keeping it. Conquest could be a matter merely of killing men and entering a stronghold, but holding on to power was never so simple—and appearances were crucial. People wanted their leader to be big and strong and handsome and rich, and his wife to be young and beautiful. Wilf knew this as well as Ragna did, and together they were giving his subjects what they wanted, and thereby consolidating his authority.

Wilf’s family stood in front of the crowd in a semicircle. To one side Ithamar sat at a table with parchment, ink, and pens. Although a wedding was not a religious sacrament, the details of property transfers had to be written down and witnessed, and the people who could write were mostly clergy.

Wilf and Ragna faced each other and held hands. When the cheering died down, Wilf said in a loud voice: “I, Wilwulf, ealdorman of Shiring, take you, Ragna of Cherbourg, to be my wife, and I vow to love you and care for you and be true to you for the rest of my life.”

Ragna could not match the power of his voice, but she spoke clearly and confidently. “I, Ragna, daughter of Count Hubert of Cherbourg, take you, Wilwulf of Shiring, to be my husband, and I vow to love you and care for you and be true to you for the rest of my life.”

They kissed, and the crowd cheered.

Bishop Wynstan blessed the marriage and said a prayer, then Wilf took from his belt a large ornamental key. “I give you the key to my house, for it is now your house, to make a home for me by your side.”

Cat passed Ragna a new sword in a richly decorated sheath, and Ragna presented it to Wilf, saying: “I give you this sword so that you can guard our house, and protect our sons and daughters.”

The symbolic gifts having been exchanged, they moved to the more important financial transactions.

Ragna said: “As promised by my father to your brother Bishop Wynstan, I give you twenty pounds of silver.”

Bern stepped forward and placed the chest at Wilwulf’s feet.

Wynstan stepped out of the crowd to say: “I witness that the chest contains the agreed amount.” He handed the key to Wilf.

Wilf said: “Let the clerk record that I give you the Vale of Outhen, with its five villages and its quarry, and all the income therefrom, for you and your heirs to hold until the Day of Judgment.”

Ragna had not yet seen the Vale of Outhen. She had been told that it was a prosperous neighborhood. She already owned the district of Saint-Martin in Normandy, and her income would be doubled by the addition of the Vale of Outhen. Whatever problems the future held for her, money was unlikely to be among them.

Grants of territory such as this were the everyday currency of politics in Normandy as well as England. The sovereign gave lands to the great noblemen, who in turned parceled them out to lesser rulers—called thanes in England, knights in Normandy—thereby creating a web of people who were loyal because they had gained wealth and hoped for more. Every nobleman had to strike a careful balance between giving away enough to generate support and keeping enough to give him superiority.

Now, to everyone’s surprise, Wigelm stepped out of the crowd and said: “Wait.”

Wouldn’t it be just like him, Ragna thought, to spoil my wedding somehow?

Wigelm said: “The Vale of Outhen has been in our family for generations. I question whether my brother Wilf has the right to give it away.”

Bishop Wynstan said: “It’s in the marriage contract!”

“That doesn’t make it right,” Wigelm said. “It belongs in the family.”

“And it remains in the family,” said Wynstan. “It now belongs to Wilf’s wife.”

“And she will leave it to her children when she dies.”

“And they will be Wilf’s children, and your nephews and nieces. Why do you raise this objection today? You’ve known the details of the contract for months.”

“I raise it in front of witnesses.”

Wilf intervened. “Enough,” he said. “Wigelm, you’re not making any sense. Step back.”

“On the contrary—”

“Be quiet, or I shall become angry.”

Wigelm shut up.

The ceremony moved on, but Ragna was puzzled. Wigelm must have known that his protest would be spurned. Why had he chosen to court rejection at a very public moment? He could not possibly have expected Wilf to change his mind about Outhen. Why had he started a fight he was bound to lose? She shelved the mystery for later consideration.

Wilf said: “As a pious gift, to mark my wedding, I give the village of Wigleigh to the Church, specifically to the minster at Dreng’s Ferry, with the stipulation that the clergy there will pray for my soul, and the soul of my wife, and the souls of our children.”

This kind of gift was commonplace. When a man had achieved wealth and power, and was settling down with a wife to have children, his thoughts turned from earthly desires to heavenly blessings, and he did what he could to secure the comfort of his soul in the afterlife.

The formalities were coming to an end, and Ragna was happy that the ceremony had gone smoothly, except for Wigelm’s strange intervention. Ithamar was now writing the names of the witnesses to the marriage, starting with Wilf himself, and followed by all the important people there: Wynstan, Osmund, Degbert, and Sheriff Denewald. It was not a long list, and Ragna had expected other visiting clergy, perhaps the neighboring bishops—Winchester, Sherborne, and Northwood—and leading monks, such as the abbot of Glastonbury. But no doubt English customs were different.

She was sorry none of her family were present. But she had no relations in England, and the journey from Cherbourg could be long—it had taken her two weeks. It was never easy for a count to travel far from his domain, but she had hoped that her mother might make the effort, and perhaps bring her brother, Richard. However, Mother had been against this marriage, and perhaps she had been disinclined to give it her blessing.

She banished such thoughts.

Wilf raised his voice and said: “And now, friends and neighbors, let us feast!” The crowd cheered, and the kitchen staff began to bring out great platters of meat, fish, vegetables, and bread, plus jugs of ale for the common folk and mead for the special guests.

Ragna wanted nothing more than to get into bed with her husband, but she knew they had to join in the banquet. She would not eat much, but it was important for her to talk to as many people as possible. This was her chance to make a good impression on the townsfolk, and she seized it eagerly.

Aldred introduced her to Abbot Osmund, and she sat beside him for several minutes, asking questions about the monastery. She took the opportunity to praise Aldred, saying she shared his view that Shiring could become an international center of scholarship—under Osmund’s leadership, of course. Osmund was flattered.

She spoke to most of the leading townspeople: Elfwine, the master of the mint; the wealthy Widow Ymma, who traded in furs; the woman who owned the Abbey Alehouse, the most popular drinking place in town; the parchment maker; the jeweler; the dyer. They were pleased by her attention, for it marked them, in the eyes of their neighbors, as important people.

The task of chatting amiably to strangers became easier as the drink flowed. Ragna introduced herself to Sheriff Denewald, who was called Den, a tough-looking gray-haired man in his forties. He was at first wary of Ragna, and she guessed why: as a rival to Wilf he expected her to be hostile. But his wife was at his side, and Ragna asked her about their children, and discovered that their first grandchild had just been born, a boy; whereupon the tough sheriff turned into a doting grandpa and became misty-eyed.

As Ragna moved away from Sheriff Den, Wynstan approached her and said in a challenging tone: “What were you talking to him about?”

“I promised to tell him all your secrets,” she said, and she was rewarded by a momentary flash of anxiety in his eyes before he realized she was mocking him. She went on: “In fact I talked to Den about his new grandson. And now I have a question for you. Tell me about the Vale of Outhen, now that it’s mine.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about it,” said Wynstan. “I’ve been collecting the rents for Wilf, and I’ll continue to do the same for you. All you have to do is take the money when it comes in four times a year.”

She ignored that. “There are five villages and a quarry, I believe.”

“Yes.” He offered no additional information.

“Any mills?” she tried.

“Well, there’s a grindstone in each village.”

“No water mills?”

“Two, I think.”

She gave him a charming smile, as if he were being helpful. “Any mining? Iron ore, silver?”

“Certainly no precious metals. There might be one or two groups of iron smelters working in the woods.”

“You’re a bit vague,” she said mildly, holding her annoyance in check. “If you don’t know what’s there, how can you be sure they’re paying what they should?”

“I scare them,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “They wouldn’t dare cheat me.”

“I don’t believe in scaring people.”

“That’s all right,” said Wynstan. “You can leave it to me.” He walked away.

This conversation is not finished, Ragna thought.

When the guests could eat no more, and the barrels were dry, people began to drift away. At last Ragna began to relax, and sat down with a dish of roast pork and cabbage. While she was eating, Edgar the builder approached, greeted her politely, and bowed. “I believe my work on your house is finished, my lady,” he said. “With your permission, I will return to Dreng’s Ferry with Dreng tomorrow.”

“Thank you for what you’ve done,” she said. “It’s made the place much more comfortable.”

“I’m honored.”

She called Edgar’s attention to Dunnere the carpenter, who had passed out with his head on a table. “There’s my problem,” she said.

“I’m sorry to see that.”

“Did you enjoy the ceremony today?”

He looked thoughtful, and said: “No, not really.”

That surprised her. “Why?”

“Because I’m envious.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Of Wilf?”

“No—”

“Of me?”

He smiled. “Much as I admire the ealdorman, I don’t want to marry him. Aldred might.”

Ragna giggled.

Edgar became serious again. “I’m envious of anyone who gets to marry the one they love. That chance was snatched away from me. Now weddings make me sad.”

Ragna was only a little surprised by his candor. Men often confided in her. She encouraged it: she was fascinated by other people’s loves and hates. “What was the name of the woman you loved?”

“Sungifu, called Sunni.”

“You remember her, and all the things you did together.”

“What hurts me most is the things we didn’t do. We never cooked a meal together, washing vegetables, throwing herbs into the pot, putting bowls on our table. I never took her fishing in my boat—the boat I built was beautiful, that’s why the Vikings stole it. We made love many times, but we never lay awake in each other’s arms all night just talking.”

She studied his face, with its sparse beard and hazel eyes, and thought he was terribly young to have such grief. “I think I understand,” she said.

“I remember my parents taking us to the river in spring to cut fresh rushes for the house, when we three boys were little. There must have been some romantic story about that riverside, with its rushes; perhaps my parents had made love there before they got married. I didn’t think of that at the time—I was too young—but I knew they had a delicious secret that they loved to remember.” His smile was a sad smile. “Things like that—you put them all together, and they make up a life.”

Ragna was surprised to find that she had tears in her eyes.

Edgar suddenly looked embarrassed. “I don’t know why I told you all that.”

“You’ll find someone else to love.”

“I could, of course. But I don’t want someone else. I want Sunni. And she’s gone.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s unkind of me to tell sad stories on your wedding day. I don’t know what got into me. I apologize.” He bowed, and walked away.

Ragna thought over what he had said. His loss made her feel very fortunate to have Wilf.

She drained her cup of ale, got up from the trestle table, and returned to her house. Suddenly she felt weary. She was not sure why; she had done nothing physically exhausting. Perhaps it was the strain of being on display to the world for hours on end.

She took off her cloak and her overdress and lay on her mattress. Cat barred the door so that people such as Dreng could not barge in. Ragna thought about the evening ahead. At some point she would be summoned to Wilf’s house. To her surprise, she felt a bit nervous. That was silly. She had already had sexual intercourse with him: what was left to be nervous about?

She was also curious. When they had sneaked into the hay store at Cherbourg Castle at dusk, everything had been furtive and hurried and dimly lit. From now on they would make love at leisure. She wanted to spend time looking at his body, exploring it with her fingertips, studying and feeling the muscles and the hair and the skin and the bones of the man who was now her husband. Mine, she thought; all mine.

She must have dozed off, for the banging at the door woke her with a start.

She heard a muffled interchange, then Cat said: “It’s time.” Cat looked as excited as if it had been her own honeymoon night.

Ragna got up. Bern turned his back while she slipped out of her underdress and put on the new nightdress, dark ochre yellow, made especially for this occasion. She put on shoes, for she did not want to get into Wilf’s bed with muddy feet. Finally she donned her cloak.

“You two stay here,” she said. “I don’t want any fuss.”

In that she was disappointed.

When she stepped outside she saw that Wigelm and the men-at-arms were lined up to cheer her along. Mostly drunk after the party, they blew whistles and banged cooking pots and pans. Wynstan’s man Cnebba cavorted with a broomstick between his legs sticking up like a huge wooden penis, which made the men hoot with laughter.

Ragna was mortified, but tried not to show it: a protest by her would be seen as weakness. She walked slowly and with dignity between the two lines of mocking men. When they saw her hauteur they became more vulgar, but she knew she must not descend to their level.

At last she reached Wilf’s door, opened it, then turned to the men. Their noise diminished as they wondered what she would do or say.

She gave them a grin, blew a kiss, then quickly stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

She heard them cheering and knew she had done the right thing.

Wilf stood beside his bed, waiting.

He too wore a new nightshirt. It was the blue of a starling’s egg. She looked closely at his face and saw that he was remarkably sober for one who had appeared to be roistering all day. She guessed that he had been careful to limit his intake.

Impatiently, she dropped her cloak, kicked off her shoes, pulled the nightdress over her head, and stood naked in front of him.

He stared at her hungrily. “My immortal soul,” he said. “You’re even more beautiful than I remember.”

“You, now,” she said, indicating his nightshirt. “I want to look at you.”

He pulled it off.

She saw again the scars on his arms, the fair hair on his belly, the long muscles of his thighs. Without shame she gazed at his cock, which was becoming larger by the second.

Then she had had enough of looking. “Let’s lie down,” she said.

She wanted no teasing, no stroking and whispering and kissing: she wanted him inside her, right away. He seemed to guess that, for instead of lying beside her he got on top immediately.

When he entered her, Ragna sighed deeply and said: “At last.”