The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 25 January 1001

agna was giving birth to her second child, and it was going badly. Bishop Wynstan could hear her screams from where he sat in the home of his mother, Gytha. A steady rain outside did little to muffle the noise. Ragna’s cries gave Wynstan hope. “If mother and child die, all our problems are over,” he said.

Gytha picked up a jug. “I was like that with you,” she said. “It took a day and a night to get you out. No one thought either of us would survive.”

It sounded to him like an accusation. “Not my fault,” he said.

She poured more wine into his cup. “And then you were born howling and waving your fists.”

Wynstan did not feel comfortable in his mother’s house. She always had sweet wine and strong ale, bowls of plums and pears in season, ham and cheese on a platter, and thick blankets for cold nights, but for all that he was never at ease. “I was a good child,” he protested. “A scholar.”

“Yes, when forced. But if I took my eye off you, you would sneak away from your lessons to play.”

A childhood memory struck Wynstan. “You wouldn’t let me see the bear.”

“What bear?”

“Someone brought a bear on a chain. Everyone went to look at it. But Father Aculf wanted me to finish copying the Ten Commandments first, and you backed him.” Wynstan had sat with a slate and a nail, hearing the other boys laughing and yelling outside. “I kept making mistakes in the Latin, and by the time I got it right the bear had gone.”

She shook her head. “I don’t remember that.”

Wynstan remembered it vividly. “I hated you for it.”

“And yet I did it out of love.”

“Yes,” he said. “I suppose you did.”

She picked up his doubt. “You had to become a priest. Let peasant brats play.”

“Why were you so sure I should be a priest?”

“Because you’re a second son, and I’m a second wife. Wilwulf was going to inherit your father’s wealth, and probably become ealdorman, and you might have been an unimportant person, only wanted just in case Wilf should die. I was determined not to let that happen to us. The church was your route to power and wealth and high status.”

“And yours.”

“I’m nothing,” she said.

Her modesty was utterly insincere and he ignored it. “After me, you had no offspring for five years. Was that deliberate? Because of my difficult birth?”

“No,” she said indignantly. “A noblewoman does not shirk childbirth.”

“Of course.”

“But I had two miscarriages between you and Wigelm, not to mention a stillbirth later.”

“I remember the arrival of Wigelm,” Wynstan mused. “When I was five years old, I wanted to murder him.”

“An older child often has such feelings. It’s a sign of spirit. He rarely does anything about it, but I kept you away from Wigelm’s cradle just the same.”

“What was his delivery like?”

“Not so bad, though childbirth is rarely easy. The second child is normally less agonizing than the first.” She glanced in the direction of the noise. “Though clearly that’s not so for Ragna. Something may be going wrong.”

“Death in childbirth is a common occurrence,” Wynstan said cheerfully; then he caught a black look from Gytha and realized he had gone too far. She was on his side, whatever he did, but she was still a woman. “Who is attending Ragna?” he asked.

“A Shiring midwife called Hildi.”

“Local woman with heathen remedies, I suppose.”

“Yes. But if Ragna and the newborn were to die, that would still leave Osbert.”

Ragna’s first child was coming up to two years old, a ginger-haired baby Norman, named Osbert after Wilwulf’s father. Osbert was Wilf’s legitimate heir, and would be even if Ragna’s newborn died today. But Wynstan waved a hand dismissively. “A child without a mother is little threat,” he said. A two-year-old was not difficult to get rid of, he was thinking; but he did not say so, remembering Gytha’s black look.

She just nodded.

He studied her face. Thirty years ago that face had terrified him. She was in her middle fifties now, and her hair had been gray for years; but lately her dark eyebrows had grown silver strands, there were new little vertical lines above her upper lip, and her figure was not so much voluptuous as lumpy. But she still had the power to strike fear into his heart.

She was patient and still. Women could do that. Wynstan could not: he tapped his foot, shifted in his seat, and said: “Dear God, how much longer?”

“If the baby gets stuck, both mother and child usually die.”

“Pray for that. We need Garulf to inherit from Wilf. It’s the only way to hold on to everything we’ve won.”

“You’re right, of course.” Gytha made a sour face. “Although Garulf is not the wisest of men. Fortunately we can control him.”

“He’s popular. The men-at-arms like him.”

“I’m not sure why.”

“He’s always willing to buy a barrel of ale and let them take turns raping a prisoner.”

His mother gave him that look again. But her scruples were disposable. In the end she would do what was necessary for the family.

The screaming stopped. Wynstan and Gytha fell silent and waited, tense. Wynstan began to think his wish had come true.

Then they heard the unmistakable wail of a newborn. “It’s alive,” Wynstan said. “Hell.”

A minute later the door opened and a fifteen-year-old maid called Winthryth, daughter of Gilda, poked her head in, her hair wet with rain. “It’s a boy,” she said, grinning happily. “Strong as a bull calf and a big chin like his father’s.” She disappeared.

Wynstan muttered: “To hell with his damn chin.”

“So, the dice did not roll our way.”

“This changes everything.”

“Yes.” Gytha looked thoughtful. “This calls for a completely new approach.”

Wynstan was taken aback. “Does it?”

“We’ve been looking at this situation the wrong way.”

Wynstan did not see that, but his mother was usually right. “Go on,” he said.

“Our real problem is not Ragna.”

Wynstan raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t it?”

“Wilf is our problem.”

Wynstan shook his head. He did not see what she was getting at. But she was no fool, and he waited patiently to learn what she was thinking.

After a moment she said: “Wilf is so taken with her. He’s never before fallen so hard for a woman. He likes her, he loves her, and she seems to know how to please him in and out of bed.”

“That doesn’t stop him fucking Inge once in a while.”

Gytha shrugged. “A man’s love is never really exclusive. But Inge’s no great threat to Ragna. If Wilf had to choose between the two, he’d pick Ragna in a heartbeat.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance Ragna could be seduced into betraying him?”

Gytha shook her head. “She’s fond of that clever boy from Dreng’s Ferry, but nothing will ever come of it. He’s far beneath her.”

Wynstan remembered the boatbuilder from Combe who had moved to the farm at Dreng’s Ferry. He was a person of no importance. “No,” he said dismissively. “If she falls it will be for some good-looking town boy who charms his way up her skirt while Wilf is away fighting Vikings.”

“I doubt it. She’s too smart to jeopardize her position for a dalliance.”

“I agree, unfortunately.”

Winthryth surprised them by reappearing in the doorway, wetter than before but beaming even more. “And another boy!” she said.

Gytha said: “Twins!”

“This one smaller and dark-haired, but healthy.” Winthryth left.

“God damn them both,” said Wynstan.

Gytha said: “Now three males stand in Garulf’s way, instead of one.”

They were silent for a while. This was a major shift in the power politics of the ealdormanry. Wynstan mulled over the consequences, and he was sure his mother was doing the same.

Eventually he said frustratedly: “There must be something we can do to drive Wilf and Ragna apart. She’s not the only sexy woman in the world.”

“Perhaps another girl will come along and fascinate him. She’d be younger than Ragna, of course, and probably even more of a spitfire.”

“Can we make it happen?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you think it would work?”

“It might. And I can’t think of a better plan.”

“Where would we find such a woman?”

“I don’t know,” said Gytha. “Perhaps we could buy one.”

After a peaceful Christmas, Ironface struck again in January.

Edgar was preparing to build a smokehouse on his family’s farm. They often had more fish than they could sell, and their ceiling had started to look like an upside-down forest in winter, the eels like bare saplings growing down from the thatch. A stone-built smokehouse would have plenty of room and also be less likely to catch on fire. He was more and more confident as a stonemason. He had long ago finished buttressing the church, which was now stable. For two years he had been managing Ragna’s quarry at Outhenham, selling more stone than ever, making money for her and for himself. But demand was slack in winter and he had taken the opportunity to stockpile stones for his personal project.

His brother Eadbald appeared, rolling an empty barrel along the rough path on the bank of the river. “We need more ale,” he said. They could afford it now, thanks to the fishpond.

“I’ll give you a hand,” said Edgar. One man could manage an empty barrel but it took two to move a full one over uneven ground.

The two brothers took the empty to the alehouse, with Brindle trotting behind. While they were paying Leaf, two passengers arrived for the ferry. Edgar recognized them as Odo and Adelaide, a husband-and-wife courier team from Cherbourg. They had passed through Dreng’s Ferry two weeks earlier on their way to Shiring, accompanied by two men-at-arms, carrying letters and money to Ragna.

Edgar greeted them and said: “On your way home?”

Odo spoke with a French accent. “Yes, we hope to find a ship at Combe.” He was a big man of about thirty with fair hair cut in the Norman style, shaved to the scalp at the back. He wore a sturdy-looking sword.

They had no bodyguards, but this time they were not carrying a large sum of money.

Adelaide said excitedly: “We’re in a hurry, because we have good news to take home. The lady Ragna has given birth—to twin boys!” A small blonde, she was wearing a pendant of silver wire with an amber bead; it would suit Ragna, Edgar thought.

He was pleased about the twins. Wilwulf’s heir would probably be one of Ragna’s offspring now, rather than Inge’s son, Garulf, who was both stupid and brutal. “Good for Ragna,” he said.

Dreng, who had heard the announcement, said: “I’m sure everyone would like to drink a toast to the new young princelings!” He made it sound as if the ale would be on the house, but Edgar knew that was one of his tricks.

The Normans did not fall for it. “We want to get to Mudeford Crossing before nightfall,” Odo said, and they took their leave.

Edgar and Eadbald rolled their new, full barrel to the farmhouse, then Edgar resumed unloading his raft, roping the stones and dragging them from the waterside up the slope to the site of the smokehouse.

The winter sun was high and he was about to unload the last stone when he heard a shout from the other side of the river: “Help me, please!”

He looked across the water and saw a man with a woman in his arms. Both were naked and the woman appeared to be unconscious. Shading his eyes, he saw that they were Odo and Adelaide.

He jumped onto the raft and poled across the river. They had been robbed of everything, including their clothes, he guessed.

He reached the far bank and Odo stepped onto the raft, still cradling Adelaide, and sat down heavily on the one remaining rough-hewn quarry stone. He had blood on his face and one eye half closed, and some kind of injury to one leg. Adelaide’s eyes were shut and blood was congealing in her fair hair, but she was breathing.

Edgar felt a surge of compassion for the slight young figure, and a spasm of hatred for the men who had done this to her. He said: “There’s a nunnery on the island. Mother Agatha has some skill with injuries. Shall I take you straight there?”

“Yes, please, quickly.”

Edgar poled vigorously upstream. “What happened?” he said.

“It was a man in a helmet.”

“Ironface,” Edgar said, and he muttered ferociously: “The spawn of Satan.”

“And he had at least one companion. I was knocked unconscious. I suppose they left us for dead. When I came around we were naked.”

“They need weapons. It might have been your sword that attracted them. And Adelaide’s pendant.”

“If you know these men are in the forest, why don’t you capture them?” Odo’s tone was challenging, almost as if he thought Edgar condoned the thieves.

Edgar pretended not to notice the veiled accusation. “We’ve tried, believe me. We’ve searched every yard of the south bank. But they disappear into the undergrowth like weasels.”

“They had a boat. I saw it just before they attacked us.”

Edgar was startled. “What kind?”

“Just a small rowboat.”

“I didn’t know that.” Everyone had always assumed that Ironface hid out on the south bank, as he always robbed there; but if he had a boat then his hidey-hole could just as easily be on the north bank.

“Have you ever seen him?” Odo asked.

“I put an ax into his arm one night when he tried to steal our pig, but he got away. Here we are.” Edgar beached the raft on Leper Island and stood holding the rope while Odo stepped off, still holding Adelaide.

He carried her to the nunnery door, and Mother Agatha opened it. She ignored his nakedness and looked at the wounded woman.

Odo said: “My wife . . .”

“Poor woman,” said Agatha. “I will try to help her.” She reached for the unconscious form.

“I’ll bring her in.”

Agatha just shook her head silently.

Odo let her lift Adelaide from his arms. Agatha took the weight effortlessly and went back inside. An invisible hand closed the door.

Odo stood staring at the door for several moments, then turned away.

They boarded the raft. “I’d better go to the alehouse,” Odo said.

“You won’t be welcome there, with no money,” Edgar said. “But the monastery will take you in. Prior Aldred will give you a monk’s robe and some shoes, and clean your wounds, and feed you for as long as you need it.”

“Thank God for monks.”

Edgar poled across to the bank and tied up. “Come with me,” he said.

Odo stumbled as he disembarked, and went down on his knees. “Sorry,” he said. “My legs feel weak. I carried her a long way.”

Edgar hauled him up. “Just a bit farther.” He walked Odo to the building that had been the priests’ house and was now the monastery. He lifted the latch and half carried Odo inside. The monks were at dinner around the table, all but Aldred, who stood at the lectern Edgar had made, reading aloud.

He stopped when Edgar and Odo came in. “What happened?” he said.

“On his way home to Cherbourg Odo and his wife were beaten, robbed, stripped, and left for dead,” Edgar said.

Aldred closed the book and took Odo’s arm gently. “Come over here and lie down near the fire,” he said. “Brother Godleof, bring me some wine to clean his wounds.” He helped Odo lie down.

Godleof brought a bowl of wine and a clean rag, and Aldred began to wash the injured man’s bloody face.

Edgar said to Odo: “I’ll leave you. You’re in good hands.”

Odo said: “Thank you, neighbor.”

Edgar smiled.

Ragna named the elder twin Hubert, after her father, and called the younger Colinan. They were not identical, and it was easy to tell which was which because one was big and fair and the other small and dark. Ragna had enough milk to feed them both: her breasts felt swollen and heavy.

She had no shortage of help looking after them. Cat had been present at the birth and doted on them from the start. Cat had married Bern the Giant, and had a baby of her own the same age as Ragna’s Osbert. She seemed happy with Bern, although she had told the other women that his belly was so big that she always had to get on top. They had all giggled, and Ragna had wondered how men would feel if they knew the way women talked about them.

The seamstress Agnes was equally fond of the twins. She had married an Englishman, Offa, the reeve of Mudeford, but they had no children, and all her frustrated maternal feelings were focused on Ragna’s babies.

Ragna left the twins for the first time when she heard what had happened to Odo and Adelaide.

She was terribly worried. The couriers had come to England on a mission for Ragna’s benefit, and she felt responsible. The fact that they were Normans, as she was, made her sympathy sharper. She had to see them and find out how badly they were hurt and whether she could do anything for them.

She put Cat in charge of the children, with two wet nurses to make sure they did not go hungry. She took Agnes as her maid and Bern as her bodyguard. She packed clothes for Odo and Adelaide, having been told that they had been left naked. She rode out of the compound with a heavy heart: how could she leave her little ones behind? But she had her duty.

She missed them every minute of the two-day journey to Dreng’s Ferry.

She arrived late in the afternoon and immediately took the ferry to Leper Island, leaving Bern at the alehouse. Mother Agatha welcomed her with a kiss and a bony hug.

Without preamble Ragna said: “How is Adelaide?”

“Recovering fast,” Agatha said. “She’s going to be fine.”

Ragna slumped with relief. “Thank God.”

“Amen.”

“What injuries does she have?”

“She suffered a nasty blow to the head, but she’s young and strong, and it seems there are no long-term effects.”

“I’d like to speak to her.”

“Of course.”

Adelaide was in the dormitory. She had a clean rag tied over her blond head, and she was dressed in a drab nun’s shift, but she was sitting upright in bed, and she smiled happily when she saw Ragna. “My lady! You shouldn’t have troubled to come all this way.”

“I had to be sure you were recovering.”

“But your babies!”

“I’ll hurry back to them now that I’ve seen you’re all right. But who else would have brought you fresh clothes?”

“You’re so kind.”

“Nonsense. How is Odo? They told me he wasn’t hurt as badly as you.”

“Apparently he’s fine, but I haven’t seen him—men aren’t allowed here.”

“I’m going to have Bern the Giant escort you to Combe, whenever you both feel well enough to go.”

“I can go tomorrow. I don’t even feel ill.”

“All the same I’m going to lend you a horse.”

“Thank you.”

“You can ride Bern’s mount, and he can ride it back to Shiring after he’s seen you off on a ship to Cherbourg.”

Ragna gave Adelaide money and a few feminine necessities: a comb, a small jar of oil for cleaning her hands, and a linen loincloth. Then she took her leave—with another kiss from Agatha—and returned to the mainland.

Odo was at the priory with Aldred. His face was bruised, and he favored his left leg when he stood up and bowed to her, but he looked cheerful. She handed him the men’s clothes she had brought from Shiring. “Adelaide wants to leave tomorrow,” Ragna told him. “How do you feel?”

“I think I’m fully recovered.”

“Be guided by Mother Agatha. She has taken care of many sick people.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Ragna left the monastery and returned to the waterfront. She would take the ferry back to the island and spend the night in the nunnery.

Edgar was outside the alehouse. “I’m very sorry that this has happened to your couriers,” he said, although it obviously was not his fault.

Ragna said: “Do you think they were attacked by the same thieves who stole the wedding present I had for Wilf three years ago?”

“I’m sure of it. Odo described a man in an iron helmet.”

“And I gather that all efforts to catch him have failed.” Ragna frowned. “When he steals livestock he and his gang just eat it; and they keep weapons and money; but they must turn clothes and jewelry into cash. I wonder how they manage that?”

Edgar said thoughtfully: “Perhaps Ironface takes the stuff to Combe. There are several dealers in secondhand clothes there, and two or three jewelers. The jewelry can be melted down, or at least altered so that it’s not easily recognizable, and any distinctive clothes can be remade.”

“But outlaws look disreputable.”

“There must be people willing to buy things without asking too many questions.”

Ragna frowned. “I just think outlaws would be noticed. On the few occasions when I’ve seen such men they looked ragged and unhealthy and dirty. You lived in Combe. Do you recall men who looked as if they lived rough in the forest coming into town to sell things?”

“No. And I don’t remember people talking about such visitors, either. Do you think Ironface might use a go-between?”

“Yes. Someone respectable who has a reason for visiting Combe.”

“But that includes hundreds of people. It’s a big town. They go there to buy and sell.”

“Anyone you’d suspect, Edgar?”

“Dreng, the tavern keeper here, is evil enough, but he doesn’t like to travel.”

Ragna nodded. “This wants thinking about,” she said. “I’d like to put a stop to this lawlessness, and Sheriff Den feels the same way.”

“Don’t we all,” said Edgar.

Ragna and Cat were putting the twins down in their cots for an afternoon sleep when they heard a commotion outside. A girl howled in fury, several women began to shout, and then a lot of men started laughing and jeering. The twins closed their eyes, oblivious, and went to sleep in seconds, then Ragna stepped outside to see what the fuss was about.

It was cold. A north wind with ice in its blast scoured the compound. A crowd had gathered around a barrel of water. As Ragna got closer she saw that at the center of the group was a naked girl in a rage. Gytha and two or three other women were trying to wash her, using brushes and rags and oil and water, while others struggled to hold her still. As they poured cold water over her, she shivered uncontrollably while at the same time yelling a stream of what sounded to Ragna like swear words in Welsh.

Ragna said: “Who is she?”

The new head groom, Wuffa, standing in front of Ragna, replied without turning his head. “It’s Gytha’s new slave,” he said, then he shouted: “Scrub her tits!” and the men around him chortled.

Ragna could have stopped the mistreatment of an ordinary young woman, but not a slave. People were entitled to be cruel to slaves. There were some feeble laws against killing a slave for no good reason, but even they were difficult to enforce, and the punishments were mild.

The girl was about thirteen, Ragna saw. Her skin, when the dirt came off, was pale. The hair on her head and between her legs was dark, almost black. She had slender arms and legs and perfect, small breasts. Even though her face was twisted with fury, she was pretty.

Ragna said: “Why would Gytha want a slave girl?”

Wuffa turned to reply, grinning, but he realized who he was talking to and changed his mind. The grin vanished and he muttered: “I don’t know.”

Clearly he did know, but was embarrassed to say.

Wilf appeared out of the great hall and approached the crowd, evidently curious, as Ragna had been. She watched him, wondering how he would react to this. Gytha quickly ordered her companions to stop washing the girl and hold her still for Wilf to look at.

The crowd parted respectfully for the ealdorman to pass. The girl was more or less clean now. Her black hair hung wetly on either side of her face, and her skin glowed with the scrubbing it had suffered. Her scowl seemed only to make her more alluring. Wilf grinned broadly. “Who is this?” he said.

Gytha answered. “Her name is Carwen,” she said. “She’s a gift from me to you, to thank you for being the best stepson a mother could ask for.”

Ragna stifled a cry of protest. This was not fair! She had done everything to please Wilf and keep him loyal, and in the three years they had been married he had been a good deal more faithful than most English noblemen. He slept with Inge now and again, as if for old times’ sake, and he probably lay with peasant girls when he went away, but while he was here he hardly looked at other women. And now all her work was going to be undone by a slave girl—given to him by Gytha! Ragna knew right away that Gytha’s plan was to drive a wedge between her and Wilf.

Wilf stepped forward with his arms outstretched, as if to embrace Carwen.

She spat in his face.

Wilf stopped in his tracks, and the crowd went silent.

A slave could be executed for that. Wilf might well draw his knife and cut her throat on the spot.

He wiped his face with his sleeve, then put his hand on the hilt of the dagger in his belt. He stared at Carwen for a long moment. Ragna could not tell what he would do.

Then he took his hand off his knife.

He could still simply reject Carwen. Who wanted a gift that spat in your face? Ragna thought this might be her salvation.

Then Wilf relaxed. He grinned and looked around. The crowd tittered uneasily. Then Wilf began to laugh.

The crowd laughed with him, and Ragna knew that she was lost.

Wilf’s expression became serious again, and the crowd quietened.

He slapped the slave’s face once, hard. He had big, strong hands. Carwen cried out and began to weep. Her cheek turned bright red and a trickle of blood ran from her lips down her chin.

Wilf turned to Gytha. “Tie her up and put her in my house,” he said. “On the floor.”

He watched as the women tied the slave’s hands behind her back, with some difficulty as she struggled to resist. Once that was done, they tied her ankles.

The men in the crowd were looking at the naked girl but the women were surreptitiously watching Ragna. She realized they were curious to see how she would react. She did her best to keep her face a dignified blank.

Gytha’s women lifted the trussed Carwen and carried her to Wilf’s house.

Ragna turned and walked slowly away, feeling distraught. The father of her three sons was going to spend tonight with a slave girl. What was she to do?

She would not allow this to ruin her marriage, she resolved. Gytha could hurt her but not destroy her. She would keep her hold on Wilf somehow.

She entered her own house. Her servants did not speak to her. They had found out what was happening, and they could see the expression on her face.

She sat down, thinking. It would be a mistake to try to stop Wilf sleeping with Carwen, she saw right away. He would not heed her wishes—a man such as he did not take orders from a woman, even one he loved—and the demand would only sour his feelings. Should she pretend not to care? No, that would be going too far. The right note to strike might be rueful acceptance of a man’s desires. She could fake that, if she had to.

It was approaching suppertime. At all costs she must not appear defeated and sad. She had to look so gorgeous that he might even suffer a pang of regret at spending the night with another woman.

She picked a dark-yellow dress that she knew he liked. It was a bit tight across the bust, but that was good. She got Cat to tie up her hair in a kerchief of chestnut silk. She put on a cloak of dark red wool, to protect her back from the cold draughts that pierced the timber walls of the great hall. She finished the outfit with a brooch of gold-colored enamel inlay.

At supper she sat on Wilf’s right, as usual. He was in a convivial mood, bantering with the men, but every now and again she caught him looking at her with something in his eyes that intrigued her. It was not quite fear, but it was stronger than mere anxiety, and she realized that he was actually nervous.

How should she respond? If she showed her pain, he would feel manipulated and become angry, and then he would want to teach her a lesson, probably by paying all the more attention to Carwen. No, there had to be a more subtle way.

All through the meal Ragna made sure she was more alluring than ever, though she felt miserable. She laughed at Wilf’s jokes, and whenever he made some allusion to love or sex she looked at him from under her eyelids in a way that always made him feel amorous.

When the food was finished and the men were getting drunk, she left the table, along with most of the women. She returned to her own house, carrying a rush lamp to light her way. She did not take off her cloak, but stood in the doorway looking out, watching the movements dimly visible around the compound, thinking, trying out speeches in her mind.

Cat said: “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for a quiet moment.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want Gytha to see me going to Wilf’s house.”

Cat sounded fearful. “That’s where the slave is. What are you going to do to her?”

“I’m not sure. I’m thinking about it.”

“Don’t make Wilf angry with you.”

“We’ll see.”

A few minutes later Ragna saw a silhouette move from Gytha’s house to Wilf’s, carrying a candle. She guessed Gytha was checking on her gift, making sure Carwen was still presentable.

Ragna waited patiently. Soon Gytha left Wilf’s house and returned to her own. Ragna gave her a minute to settle. A woman and her drunk husband came out of the great hall and staggered across the compound. At last the coast was clear, and Ragna quickly crossed the short distance and went into Wilf’s house.

Carwen was still bound, but able to sit upright. Being naked, she was cold, and she had squirmed closer to the fire. The left side of her face bore a huge purple bruise where Wilf had slapped her.

Ragna sat on a stool and wondered whether the slave spoke English. She said: “I’m sorry this has happened to you.”

Carwen showed no response.

“I’m his wife,” Ragna said.

Carwen said: “Ha!”

So she understood.

“He’s not a cruel man,” Ragna went on. “At least, no more cruel than men generally are.”

Carwen’s face relaxed a fraction, perhaps with relief.

“He’s never hit me the way he hit you today,” Ragna said. “Mind you, I’ve been careful not to displease him.” She held up a hand as if to forestall argument. “I’m not judging you, just telling you how it is.”

Carwen nodded.

That was progress.

Ragna took a blanket from Wilf’s bed and put it around Carwen’s thin, white shoulders. “Would you like some wine?”

“Yes.”

Ragna went to the table and poured wine from a jug into a wooden cup. She knelt beside Carwen and held the cup to her lips. Carwen drank. Ragna half expected her to spit the wine at her, but she swallowed it gratefully.

Then Wilf came in.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he said immediately.

Ragna stood up. “I want to talk to you about this slave.”

Wilf folded his arms.

Ragna said: “Would you like a cup of wine?” Without waiting for an answer, she poured for two, handed him one, and sat down.

He sipped the wine and sat opposite her. His expression said that if she wanted a fight he would give her a damn good one.

A half-formed thought took more definite shape in Ragna’s mind and she said: “I don’t think Carwen should live in the slave house.”

Wilf looked surprised and did not know how to respond. This was the last thing he had been expecting. “Why?” he said. “Because the slave house is so filthy?”

Ragna shrugged. “It’s dirty because we lock them in at night and they can’t go outside to piss. But that’s not what bothers me.”

“What, then?”

“If she spends nights there, she’ll be fucked by one or more of the men, who probably have disgusting infections that she will pass to you.”

“I never thought of that. Where should she live?”

“We don’t have a spare house in the compound at the moment, and anyway a slave can’t have her own place. Gytha bought her, so perhaps Carwen should live with Gytha . . . when she’s not with you.”

“Good idea,” he said. He was visibly relieved. He had been expecting trouble, but all he got was a practical problem with a ready solution.

Gytha would be furious, but Wilf would not change his mind once he had given his agreement. For Ragna this was a small but satisfying act of revenge.

She stood up. “Enjoy yourself,” she said, though in truth she was hoping he would not.

“Thank you.”

She went to the door. “And when you tire of the girl, and you want a woman again, you can come back to me.” She opened the door. “Good night,” she said, and she went out.