The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 26 March 1001

hings did not work out the way Ragna expected. Wilf slept with Carwen every night for eight weeks, then he went to Exeter.

At first Ragna was baffled. How could he bear to spend that much time with a thirteen-year-old girl? What did he and Carwen talk about? What could an adolescent girl have to say that could possibly interest a man of Wilf’s age and experience? In bed with Ragna, in the mornings, he had chatted about the problems of governing the ealdormanry: collecting taxes, catching criminals, and most of all defending the region from Viking attacks. He certainly did not discuss those issues with Carwen.

He still chatted to Ragna, just not in bed.

Gytha was delighted with the change and made the most of it, never missing an opportunity to refer to Carwen in Ragna’s presence. Ragna was humiliated, but hid her feelings behind a smile.

Inge, who hated Ragna for taking Wilf from her, was delighted to see Ragna supplanted and, like Gytha, tried to rub it in. But she did not have Gytha’s nerve. She said: “Well, Ragna, you haven’t spent a night with Wilf for weeks!”

“Nor have you,” Ragna replied, and that shut her up.

Ragna made the best of her new life, but with bitterness in her heart. She invited poets and musicians to Shiring. She doubled the size of her home, making it a second great hall, to accommodate her visitors—all with Wilf’s permission, which he gave readily, so eager was he to placate her while he fucked his slave girl.

She worried that as Wilf’s passion for her faded so her political position might weaken, therefore to compensate she strengthened her relationships with other powerful men: the bishop of Norwood, the abbot of Glastonbury, Sheriff Den, and others. Abbot Osmund of Shiring was still alive but bedridden, so she befriended Treasurer Hildred. She invited them to her house to listen to music and hear poems declaimed. Wilf liked the idea that his compound was becoming a cultural center: it enhanced his prestige. Nevertheless, his great hall continued to feature jesters and acrobats, and the discussion after dinner was of swords and horses and battleships.

Then the Vikings came.

They had spent the previous summer peacefully in Normandy. No one in England knew why, but all were grateful, and King Ethelred had felt confident enough to go north and harry the Strathclyde Britons. But this spring the Vikings came back with a vengeance, a hundred ships with prows like curved swords sailing fast up the river Exe. They found the city of Exeter strongly defended, but mercilessly ravaged the countryside round about.

All this Shiring learned from messengers who came to seek help. Wilf did not hesitate. If the Vikings took control of the area around Exeter, they would have a base easily accessible from the sea, and from there they could attack anywhere in the West Country at will. They would be only a step from conquering the region and taking over Wilf’s ealdormanry—something they had already achieved in much of the northeast of England. That outcome could not be contemplated, and Wilf assembled an army.

He discussed strategy with Ragna. She said he should not simply dash there with a small Shiring force and attack the Vikings as soon as he could find them. Speed and surprise were always good, but with an enemy force this large there was a risk of early defeat and humiliation. Wilf agreed, and said he would first make a tour of the West Country, recruiting men and swelling his ranks, in the hope of having an overwhelming army by the time he met the Vikings.

Ragna knew this would be a dangerous time for her. Before Wilf left she needed to establish publicly that she was his deputy. Once he was gone, her rivals would try to undermine her while he was not there to protect her. Wynstan would not go with Wilf to fight the Vikings, for as a man of God he was forbidden to shed blood, and he generally kept that rule, while breaking many others. He would remain in Shiring, and would certainly attempt to take charge of the ealdormanry with Gytha’s backing. Ragna would need to be on her guard every day.

She prayed that Wilf would spend one night with her before leaving, but it did not happen, and her bitterness deepened.

On the day he was to depart, Ragna stood with him at the door of the great hall while Wuffa brought his favorite horse, Cloud, an iron-gray stallion. Carwen was nowhere to be seen: no doubt Wilf had said good-bye to her privately, which was considerate of him.

In front of everyone, Wilf kissed Ragna on the lips—for the first time in two months.

She spoke loudly so that all could hear. “I promise you, my husband, that I will rule your ealdormanry well in your absence,” she said, with emphasis on the word rule. “I will dispense justice as you would, and safeguard your people and your wealth, and I will allow no one to prevent me from doing my duty.”

It was an obvious challenge to Wynstan, and Wilf understood that. His feelings of guilt were still causing him to give Ragna anything she asked for. “Thank you, my wife,” he said equally loudly. “I know you will rule as I would if I were here.” He, too, emphasized rule. “Who defies the lady Ragna, defies me,” he said.

Ragna lowered her voice. “Thank you,” she said. “And come back safe to me.”

Ragna became quiet, deep in thought, hardly talking to the people around her. Gradually she realized she had to face up to a hard fact: Wilf would never love her the way she wanted to be loved.

He was fond of her, he respected her, and sooner or later he would probably begin to spend some nights with her again. But she would always be just one of the mares in his stable. This was not the life she had dreamed of when she fell in love with him. Could she get used to it?

The question made her want to cry. She held her feelings in during the day, when she was with others, but at night she wept, heard only by the intimates who shared her house. It was like a bereavement, she thought; she had lost her husband, not to death, but to another woman.

She decided to make her usual Lady Day visit to Outhenham, in the hope that it would give her something to think about other than the shipwreck of her life. She left the children with Cat, and took Agnes with her as her personal maid.

She entered Outhenham with a smile on her face and a stone in her heart. However, the village raised her spirits. It had prospered in the three years of her rule. They called her Ragna the Just. No one had done well when everyone was cheating and stealing. Now, with Seric in charge, people were more willing to pay their dues, knowing they were not being robbed, and they worked harder when they felt confident they would reap the rewards.

She slept at Seric’s house and held court in the morning. She ate a light midday meal, for there would be a feast later. She had arranged to visit the quarry in the afternoon, and when she was ready, she found Edgar waiting for her, wearing a blue cloak. He had his own horse now, a sturdy black mare called Buttress. “May I show you something on the way?” he asked as she got on her own mount.

“Of course.”

She thought he seemed uncharacteristically nervous. Whatever he had to say to her must be important to him, she guessed. Everyone had important things to say to the ealdorman’s wife, but Edgar was special, and Ragna was intrigued.

They rode to the riverside, then followed the cart track that led to the quarry. On one side were the backs of village houses, each with its small plot of land containing a vegetable garden, some fruit trees, one or two animal shelters, and a dunghill. On the other side was the East Field, partly ploughed, the damp clay furrows gleaming, though no work was being done as it was a holiday.

Edgar said: “Notice that the gap between the East Field and the village gardens is wide.”

“Much wider than necessary, enough for two roads.”

“Exactly. Now, it takes most of a day for two men to bring a boatload of stone from the quarry along this track to the river. That makes our stone more expensive. If they use a cart it’s easier, but it takes about the same length of time.”

She guessed he was making an important point, but she did not yet see it. “Is this what you want to show me?”

“When I tried to sell stone to the monastery at Combe, they told me they have started to buy it from Caen, in Normandy, because that’s cheaper.”

She was interested. “How can that be?”

“It travels all the way on one ship, down the Orne River to the sea, and across the Channel to Combe harbor.”

“And our problem is that our quarry isn’t on a river.”

“Not quite.”

“What does that mean?”

“The river is only half a mile away.”

“But we can’t make that half mile disappear.”

“I think we can.”

She smiled. She could see that he was enjoying this gradual revelation. “How?”

“Dig our own channel.”

That surprised her. “What?”

“They’ve done it at Glastonbury,” he said with the air of one who produces a winning card. “Aldred told me.”

“Dig our own river?”

“I’ve worked it out. Ten men with picks and shovels would take about twenty days to dig a channel three feet deep and a bit wider than my raft, from the river to the quarry.”

“Is that all?”

“The digging is the easy part. We might need to reinforce the banks, depending on the consistency of the soil as we dig down, but I can do that myself. More difficult is getting the depth right. Obviously it has to go down far enough to make sure water flows in from the river. But I think I can work that out.”

He was smarter than Wilf and perhaps even than Aldred, she thought, but all she said was: “What would it cost?”

“Assuming we don’t use slaves—”

“I’d rather not.”

“Then a halfpenny a day for each man plus a penny a day for a ganger, so one hundred and twenty pennies, which is half a pound of silver; and we’d have to feed them, as most of them would be away from home.”

“And it would save money in the long term.”

“A lot of money.”

Ragna felt bucked up by Edgar and his project. It would be a great new thing. It was costly, but she could afford it.

They arrived at the quarry. There were two houses now. Edgar had built a place for himself so that he did not have to share with Gab and his family. It was a fine house, with walls of vertical planks linked by tongue-and-groove joints. It had two shuttered windows, and the door was made of a single piece of oak. The door had a lock, and Edgar inserted a key and turned it to open the door.

Inside, it was a masculine domain, with pride of place given to tools, coils of rope and balls of cord, and harness. There was a barrel of ale but no wine, a truckle of hard cheese but no fruit, no flowers.

On the wall Ragna noticed a sheet of parchment hanging from a nail. Looking more closely she saw a list of customers, with details of the stones they had received and the money they had paid. Most craftsmen kept track of such things with notches on sticks. “You can write?” she said to Edgar.

He looked proud. “Aldred taught me.”

He had kept that quiet. “And obviously you can read.”

“I could if I had a book.”

Ragna resolved to give him a present of a book when his canal was finished.

She sat on the bench and he drew a cup of ale from the barrel for her. “I’m glad you don’t want to use slave labor,” he said.

“What makes you say that?”

“There’s something about having slaves that brings out the worst in people. Slave owners become savage. They beat and kill and rape as if it were all right.”

Ragna sighed. “I wish all men were like you.”

He laughed.

She said: “What?”

“I remember having exactly the same thought about you. I asked you to find me a farm, and you just said yes, without hesitation, and I said to myself: Why aren’t they all like her?”

Ragna smiled. “You’ve cheered me up,” she said. “Thank you.” Impulsively she sprang to her feet and kissed him.

She meant to kiss his cheek but somehow she kissed his mouth. Her lips were on his for only a moment, and she would have thought nothing of it, but he was startled. He jumped back, away from her, and his face turned deep red.

She realized right away that she had made a mistake. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that. I was just grateful to you for making me feel better.”

“I didn’t know you were feeling bad,” he said. He was beginning to recover his composure, but she noticed that he touched his mouth with his fingertips.

She was not going to explain to him about Carwen. “I’m missing my husband,” she said. “He’s raising an army to fight the Vikings. They’ve sailed up the river Exe. Wilf is very worried.” She saw a shadow cross his face at the mention of Vikings, and she remembered that they had killed his lover. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

He shook his head. “It’s all right. But there’s something else I need to mention to you.”

Ragna was grateful for the change of subject. “Go on.”

“Your maid Agnes is wearing a new ring.”

“Yes. Her husband gave it to her.”

“It’s made of silver wires twisted together, and has an amber stone.”

“It’s rather pretty.”

“It put me in mind of the pendant that was stolen from your courier Adelaide. It was made of silver wires with an amber stone.”

Ragna was startled. “I never noticed that!”

“I remember thinking that the amber would have suited you.”

“But how could Agnes have a ring made of Adelaide’s pendant?”

“The pendant was stolen and refashioned to disguise it. The question is how her husband got it.”

“She’s married to Offa, the reeve of Mudeford.” Ragna began to see the connections. “He probably bought it from a jeweler in Combe. That jeweler knows the go-between, and the go-between knows where Ironface is to be found.”

“Yes,” said Edgar.

“The sheriff needs to question Offa.”

“Yes,” said Edgar.

“Offa may have bought the ring innocently.”

“Yes,” said Edgar.

“I don’t want to risk getting Agnes’s husband in trouble.”

“You have to,” said Edgar.

Edgar escorted Ragna back to the center of the village and left her surrounded by a crowd. He slipped away and returned to the quarry. He set Buttress to graze at the edge of the wood. Then, at last, he lay down in his house and thought about that kiss.

He had been surprised and discomfited. He knew he must have blushed. He had jumped away. She had seen all of that, and had apologized for embarrassing him. But what she saw was only the surface. Something else happened, deep down, and he had managed to keep it hidden. When Ragna’s lips touched his, he had found himself instantly and totally overwhelmed by love for her.

A clap of thunder, a bolt of lightning, a man stricken in a second—

No, it had only seemed that way. Lying in the rushes by his fireplace, alone, eyes closed, he examined his soul and saw that he had fallen in love with her long ago. For years he had told himself that he had lost his heart to Sungifu, and no one could take her place. But at some point—he could not tell when—he had begun to love Ragna. He had not known it at the time, but it seemed obvious now.

In his memory he relived the last four years and realized that Ragna had become the most important person in his life. They helped each other. He liked nothing better than talking to her—how long had that been his favorite occupation? He admired her brains and her determination and especially the way she combined unchallengeable authority with a common touch that made people love her.

He liked her, he admired her, and she was beautiful. That was not the same as the fire of passion, but it was like a pile of summer-dry wood that would burst into flames with a single spark, and today’s kiss had been the spark. He wanted to kiss her again, kiss her all day, all night—

Which would never happen. She was the daughter of a count: even if she had been single she would never marry a mere builder. And she was not single. She was married to a man who must never, ever find out about that kiss, for if he did he would have Edgar killed in a heartbeat. Worse, she showed every sign of loving her husband. And if that were not enough, she had three sons with him.

Is there something wrong with me? Edgar asked himself. I used to love a dead girl, now I love a woman who might as well be dead for all the chance I have of being with her.

He thought of his brothers, happily sharing a wife who was coarse and self-centered and not very intelligent. Why can’t I be like them, and take whatever woman comes my way? How could I be so foolish as to fall for a married noblewoman? I’m supposed to be the clever one.

He opened his eyes. There would be a feast in the village tonight. He could be near Ragna all evening. And tomorrow he would start work on the canal. That would give him plenty of reasons to talk to her over the next few weeks. She would never kiss him again, but she would be part of his life.

That would have to be enough.

Ragna spoke to Sheriff Den as soon as she got back to Shiring. She was eager to catch Ironface, who was a blight on the entire district. And Wilf would be very pleased to come home and find she had solved that problem—the kind of thing Carwen could never achieve.

The sheriff was equally keen, and agreed with her that Offa might provide clues to the whereabouts of the outlaw. They decided to question Offa the following morning.

Ragna just hoped she was not going to learn that Agnes and Offa were guilty of something, perhaps receiving stolen property.

At dawn the next day Ragna met Den outside the home of Offa and Agnes. It had been raining all night and the ground was sodden. Den was accompanied by Captain Wigbert, two other men-at-arms, and two servants with shovels. Ragna wondered what the shovels were for.

Agnes opened the door. When she saw the sheriff and his men, she looked frightened.

Ragna said: “Is Offa here?”

“What on earth do you want Offa for, my lady?”

Ragna felt sorry for her, but had to be stern. Ragna was the ruler of the ealdormanry, and she could not show indulgence during a criminal inquiry. She said: “Be quiet, Agnes, and speak when you’re spoken to. You’ll find out everything soon enough. Now let us in.”

Wigbert told the two men-at-arms to stay outside but beckoned the servants to follow him.

Ragna saw that the house was comfortably furnished, with wall hangings to keep out the draughts, a bed with a mattress, and a row of metal-rimmed cups and bowls on a table.

Offa sat up in bed, threw off a thick wool blanket, and stood up. “What’s the matter?”

Ragna said: “Agnes, show the sheriff the ring you were wearing in Outhenham.”

“I still have it on.” She held out her left hand to Den.

Ragna said: “Offa, where did you get this?”

He thought for a moment, scratching his twisted nose, as if he was trying to remember—or thinking of a plausible story. “I bought it in Combe.”

“Who sold it to you?” She was hoping to be given the name of a jeweler, but she was disappointed.

“A French sailor,” said Offa.

If this was a lie, it was a clever one, Ragna thought. A particular Combe jeweler could have been questioned, but a foreign sailor could not be found.

She said: “His name?”

“Richard of Paris.”

It was a name you might make up on the spur of the moment. There were probably hundreds of men called Richard of Paris. She began to feel suspicious of Offa, but she hoped for Agnes’s sake that her suspicions were unfounded. She said: “Why was a French sailor selling women’s jewelry?”

“Well, he told me he had bought it for his wife, then regretted the purchase when he lost all his money at dice.”

Ragna could usually tell when people were lying, but she could not read Offa. She said: “Where had Richard of Paris bought the ring?”

“I assumed he got it from a Combe jeweler, but he didn’t say. What is this about? Why are you questioning me? I paid sixty pennies for that ring. Is there something wrong?”

Ragna guessed that Offa must have known or at least suspected that the ring was stolen property, but wanted to protect whoever had sold it to him. She was not sure what to ask next. After a pause, Den took over. Turning to the two servants he said brusquely: “Search the house.”

Ragna was not sure how that would help. They needed to loosen Offa’s tongue, not search his home.

There were two locked chests and several boxes storing food. Ragna watched patiently while the servants went through everything thoroughly. They patted down the clothing hanging from pegs, dipped into a barrel of ale all the way to the bottom, and overturned all the rushes on the floor. Ragna was not sure what they were looking for, but in any event they found nothing of interest.

Ragna was relieved. She wanted Offa to be innocent, for Agnes’s sake.

Then Den said: “The fireplace.”

Now Ragna saw what the shovels were for. The servants used them to scoop up the embers in the fire and throw them through the door. The hot logs hissed as they hit the wet ground outside.

Soon the earth below the fireplace was revealed, then the servants began to dig.

A few inches down their shovels hit wood.

Offa ran out of the door. It happened so fast that no one in the house could stop him. But there were two men-at-arms outside. Ragna heard a roar of frustration and the sound of a heavy body hitting the mud. A minute later the men-at-arms brought Offa back, each man holding one of his arms very firmly.

Agnes began to sob.

“Keep digging,” Den told the servants.

A few minutes later they pulled a wooden chest a foot long out of the hole. Ragna could see by the way they handled it that it was heavy.

It was not locked. Den lifted the lid. Inside were thousands of silver pennies, together with a few items of jewelry.

Den said: “The proceeds of many years of thievery—plus a few souvenirs.”

On top of it all was a belt of soft leather with a silver buckle and strap end. Ragna gasped.

Den said: “Do you recognize something?”

“The belt. It was to be my present to Wilf—until it was stolen by Ironface.”

Den turned to Offa. “What is Ironface’s real name, and where does he hide out?”

“I don’t know,” said Offa. “I bought that belt. I know I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

Den nodded to Wigbert, who stood in front of Offa. The two men-at-arms gripped Offa tighter.

Wigbert took from his belt a heavy club made of polished oak. With a swift movement he smashed the club into Offa’s face. Ragna cried out, but Wigbert ignored her. With a rapid series of well-aimed blows he hit Offa’s head, shoulders, and knees. The crack of the hard wood hitting bones sickened Ragna.

When he paused, Offa’s face was covered in blood. He was unable to stand, but the men-at-arms held him upright. Agnes moaned as if in pain herself.

Den repeated: “What is Ironface’s real name, and where does he hide out?”

Through smashed teeth and bloody lips Offa said: “I swear I don’t know.”

Wigbert raised the club again.

Agnes shrieked: “No, please, don’t! Ironface is Ulf! Don’t hit Offa again, please!”

Den turned to Agnes. “The horse catcher?” he said.

“Yes, I swear it.”

“You’d better be telling me the truth,” said Den.

Edgar did not believe that Ulf the horse catcher was Ironface. He had met Ulf a few times and recalled him as a small man, though energetic and strong, as he would need to be to tame wild forest ponies. Edgar had vivid memories of the two occasions on which he had seen Ironface, and felt sure the man was of medium height and build. “Agnes might be mistaken,” he said to Den, when the sheriff came to Dreng’s Ferry on his way to arrest Ulf.

“You might be mistaken,” said Den.

Edgar shrugged. Agnes could have been lying, too. Or she might have shouted out a name at random, just to stop the torture, having in fact no idea whose head was inside the rusty iron helmet.

Edgar and the other men of the village joined Den and his group. Den had no need of reinforcements, but the villagers did not want to miss the excitement, and they had the excuse that they were responsible for upholding the law in their hundred.

On the way they picked up Edgar’s brothers, Erman and Eadbald.

A dog barked as they approached Theodberht Clubfoot’s sheepfold. Theodberht and his wife asked what they were doing, and Den said: “We’re looking for Ulf the horse catcher.”

“You’ll find him at home this time of year,” said Theodberht. “The wild horses are hungry. He puts out hay and they come to him.”

“Thanks.”

A mile or so farther on they came to Ulf’s fenced corral. The mastiff tied up by the gate did not bark, but the horses neighed, and soon Ulf and his wife, Wyn, came out of the house. As Edgar had remembered, Ulf was a slight man with muscles like ropes, somewhat shorter than his wife. Both had dirty faces and hands. Edgar remembered that Wyn had had a brother, called Begstan, who had died around the time Edgar and his family moved to Dreng’s Ferry. Dreng had been suspicious about the death, because the body had not been buried at the minster.

The sheriff’s men surrounded them, and Den said to Ulf: “I’ve been told that you’re Ironface.”

“You been told wrong,” said Ulf. Edgar sensed that he was telling the truth about that but hiding some other knowledge.

Den told the men to search the place.

Wigbert said to Ulf: “You’d better tie that mastiff up close to the fence, because if he goes for one of my people I’ll put my spear through his chest faster than you can blink.”

Den shortened the rope so that the mastiff could not move more than a few inches.

They searched the ramshackle house. Wigbert came out with a chest and said: “He’s got more money than you’d think—there’s four or five pounds of silver in here, I’d say.”

Ulf said: “My life savings. That’s twenty years of hard work, that is.”

It might be true, Edgar thought. In any event the sum of money was not really enough to prove criminality.

Two men with shovels walked around the outside of the corral, scanning the ground for signs of a place where Ulf might have buried something. They jumped the fence and did the same inside the corral, making the wild horses retreat nervously. They found nothing.

Den began to look frustrated. Speaking quietly to Wigbert and Edgar, he said: “I don’t believe Ulf is innocent.”

“Not innocent, no,” said Edgar. “But he’s not Ironface. Seeing him again makes me sure.”

“So why do you say he’s not innocent?”

“Just a hunch. Perhaps he knows who Ironface is.”

“I’m going to arrest him anyway. But I wish we’d found something incriminating.”

Edgar looked around. Their house was ramshackle, with a sagging roof and holes in the wattle-and-daub walls; but Wyn looked well fed and her coat was fur-lined. The pair were not poor, just slovenly.

Edgar looked at the mastiff’s shelter. “Ulf is kind to his dog,” he said. Not many people bothered to keep the rain off a guard dog. Frowning, he went closer. The mastiff growled a threat, but he was securely tied. Edgar took his Viking ax from his belt.

Ulf said: “What are you doing?”

Edgar did not reply. With a few blows of the ax he demolished the dog’s shelter. Then he used the blade to excavate the ground beneath. After a few minutes his ax rang on something metal.

He knelt by the hole he had dug and began to scoop out the mud with his hands. Slowly the round outline of a rusty iron object began to emerge. “Ah,” he said as he recognized the shape.

Den asked: “What is it?”

Edgar pulled the object out of the hole and held it up triumphantly. “Ironface’s helmet,” he announced.

“That settles it,” said Den. “Ulf is Ironface.”

Ulf said: “I’m not, I swear!”

Edgar said: “It’s true. He’s not.”

“Then who does the helmet belong to?” asked Den.

Ulf hesitated.

“If you won’t say, it’s you.”

Ulf pointed at his wife. “It’s hers! I swear it! Wyn is Ironface!”

Den said: “A woman?”

Wyn suddenly dashed away, dodging the sheriff’s men near her. They turned to give chase and crashed into one another. Others followed, a few crucial seconds too late; and it looked as if she might get away.

Then Wigbert threw his spear. It struck Wyn’s hip and she fell to the ground.

She lay facedown, moaning in pain. Wigbert went to her and pulled his spear out of her body.

In the fall her left sleeve had been pushed up her arm. On the soft, pale skin at the back of her upper arm was a scar.

Edgar remembered a moonlit night at the farmhouse, only a few days after he and his family had arrived at Dreng’s Ferry. The farm had been silent until Brindle barked. Edgar had seen someone in an iron helmet running away with the piglet under his arm, and had brought the thief down with his Viking ax.

And Ma had cut the throat of one of the other two thieves. That must have been Begstan, the brother of Wyn.

Edgar knelt beside Wyn and measured her scar against blade of his ax. They were exactly the same length.

“That settles it,” he said to Den. “I gave her that scar. She’s Ironface.”

Ragna felt terrible. She had brought Agnes here from Cherbourg and had happily consented to her marriage to Offa. Now Ragna had to preside over a trial that could end in a death sentence for Offa. She was desperate to pardon Offa, but she had to uphold the law.

The shire court was a small affair this time. Most of the thanes and other notables who normally attended were away with Wilwulf, fighting the Vikings. Ragna sat under a makeshift canopy. The world seemed to be waiting for spring: it was a cold day, overcast and intermittently wet, with no hint in it of warm sunshine to come.

The big event was the trial of Wyn, now known to be Ironface. Offa was accused with her, along with Ulf, both clearly Wyn’s collaborators. They all faced the death penalty.

Ragna was not sure how much Agnes had understood of her husband’s crimes. In a moment of desperation she had shouted that Ulf was Ironface, so she must have suspected something; but she had named the wrong person, which suggested she had not actually known the truth. There was a generally agreed legal principle that a wife was not guilty of her husband’s crimes unless she collaborated, and on balance, Ragna and Sheriff Den had decided not to prosecute Agnes.

All the same Ragna felt torn. Could she now condemn Offa to death and leave Agnes a widow?

She knew she should. She had always argued for the rule of law. She had a reputation for scrupulous fairness. In Normandy they had called her Deborah, after the biblical judge, and in Outhenham she was Ragna the Just. She believed that justice ought to be objective, and it was not acceptable that powerful men should influence a court to rule in favor of their kin; and she had argued the point fiercely. She had been disgusted when Wilwulf condemned Cuthbert for forgery and let Wynstan get away with it. She could not now do a similar thing herself.

The three accused stood in a line, bound hand and foot to discourage escape attempts. Ulf and Wyn were dirty and ragged, Offa was upright and well dressed. Wyn’s rusty iron helmet stood on a low table in front of Ragna’s seat, next to the holy relics on which witnesses had to swear.

Sheriff Den was the accuser, and his oath helpers included Captain Wigbert, Edgar the builder, and Dreng the ferryman.

Both Wyn and Ulf admitted their guilt and said that Offa had bought some of the loot from them and had sold it in Combe.

Offa denied everything, but his only oath helper was Agnes. Nevertheless, a small part of Ragna’s mind hoped he would come up with a defense that would permit her to find him innocent, or at least give him a reduced sentence.

Sheriff Den told the story of the arrest, then recited the list of people who had been robbed—and in a few cases killed—by the person who had worn the helmet. The notables attending the court, mostly senior clergy and those thanes who were too old or infirm to fight, muttered their anger at the people who had terrorized the road to Combe, used by most of them.

Offa defended himself spiritedly. He said that Wyn and Ulf were lying. He swore that the stolen goods found in his house had been bought in good faith at jewelry shops. When he had tried to run away from Sheriff Den he had simply been in a panic, he claimed. He said that when his wife had named Ulf she was just picking someone at random.

No one believed a word of it.

Ragna said the consensus was that all three accused were guilty, and there was no disagreement.

At that moment, Agnes threw herself on the wet ground in front of Ragna, sobbing, and said: “Oh, but my lady, he’s a good man, and I love him!”

Ragna felt as if there were a knife in her heart, but she kept her voice level. “Every man who ever robbed or raped or murdered had a mother, and many had wives who loved them and children who needed them. But they killed other women’s husbands, and sold other men’s children into slavery, and took other people’s life savings to spend in alehouses and brothels. They must be punished.”

“But I’ve been your maid for ten years! You have to help me! You have to pardon Offa, or he will be hanged!”

“I serve justice,” Ragna said. “Think of all the people who have been wounded and robbed by Ironface! How would they feel if I set him free because he’s married to my seamstress?”

Agnes screeched: “But you’re my friend!”

Ragna longed to say, Oh, very well, perhaps Offa meant no harm, I will not condemn him to death. But she could not. “I’m your mistress, and I’m the ealdorman’s wife. I will not twist justice for you.”

“Please, madam, I beg you!”

“The answer is no, Agnes, and that is the end of the matter. Someone take her away.”

“How could you do this to me?” As the sheriff’s men took hold of Agnes, her face twisted in hatred. “You’re killing my husband, you murderer!” Drool came from her mouth. “You witch, you devil!” She spat, and the saliva landed on the skirt of Ragna’s green dress. “I hope your husband dies, too!” she screamed, and then they dragged her away.

Wynstan watched the altercation between Ragna and Agnes with great interest. Agnes was in a poisonous rage, and Ragna felt guilty. Wynstan could use that, although he did not immediately see how.

The guilty were hanged at dawn the next day. Later Wynstan gave a modest banquet for the notables who had attended the court. March was not a good month for a feast, because the year’s lambs and calves had not yet been born; so the table in the bishop’s residence was laid with smoked fish and salt meat, plus several dishes of beans flavored with nuts and dried fruit. Wynstan made up for the poor food by serving plenty of wine.

He listened more than he talked during the meal. He liked to know who was prospering or running out of money, which noblemen bore grudges against others, and what the ugly rumors were, whether true or false. He was also mulling over the Agnes question. He made only one significant contribution to the conversation, and that had to do with Prior Aldred.

The frail Thane Cenbryht of Trench, too old for battle, mentioned that Aldred had visited him and asked for a donation to the priory at Dreng’s Ferry, either money or—preferably—a grant of land.

Wynstan knew about Prior Aldred’s fundraising. Unfortunately he had enjoyed some successes, albeit small: the priory was now landlord of five hamlets in addition to Dreng’s Ferry. However, Wynstan was doing all he could to discourage donors. “I hope you weren’t overgenerous,” he said.

“I’m too poor to be generous,” said the thane. “But what makes you say that?”

“Well . . .” Wynstan never missed an opportunity to belittle Aldred. “I hear unpleasant stories,” he said, feigning reluctance. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say too much, as it may be no more than gossip, but there’s talk of orgies with slaves.” This was not even gossip: Wynstan was making it up.

“Oh, dear,” said the thane. “I only gave him a horse, but now I wish I hadn’t.”

Wynstan pretended to backtrack. “Well, the reports may not be true—although Aldred has misbehaved before, when he was a novice at Glastonbury. Right or wrong, I would have clamped down right away, if only to dispel rumors, but I’m no longer in authority at Dreng’s Ferry.”

Archdeacon Degbert, at the other end of the table, said: “More’s the pity.”

Thane Deglaf of Wigleigh started talking about the news from Exeter, and no more was said about Aldred; but Wynstan was satisfied. He had planted a doubt, not for the first time. Aldred’s ability to raise funds was severely limited by the perpetual undercurrent of nasty tales. The monastery at Dreng’s Ferry must always be a backwater, with Aldred doomed to spend the rest of his life there.

When the guests left, Wynstan retired to his private room with Degbert and they discussed how the court had gone. Ragna had dispensed justice rapidly and fairly, it could not be denied. She had a good instinct for guilt and innocence. She had shown much mercy to the unfortunate and none to the wicked. Naively, she made no attempt to use the law to further her own interests by winning friends and punishing enemies.

In fact she had made an enemy of Agnes—a foolish mistake, in Wynstan’s view, but one that he might be able to exploit.

“Where do you think Agnes could be found at this hour?” he asked Degbert.

Degbert rubbed his bald pate with the palm of his hand. “She’s in mourning, and will not leave her house without a pressing reason.”

“I might pay her a visit.” Wynstan stood up.

“Shall I come with you?”

“I don’t think so. This will be an intimate little chat: just the grieving widow and her bishop, come to give her spiritual consolation.”

Degbert told Wynstan where Agnes lived, and Wynstan put on his cloak and went out.

He found Agnes at her table, sitting over a bowl of stew that appeared to have gone cold without being touched. She was startled to see him and jumped to her feet. “My lord bishop!”

“Sit down, sit down, Agnes,” Wynstan said in a low, quiet voice. He studied her with interest, never having taken much notice of her before. She had bright blue eyes and a sharp nose. Her face had a shrewd look that Wynstan found attractive. He said: “I come to offer you God’s solace in your time of grief.”

“Solace?” she said. “I don’t want solace. I want my husband.”

She was angry, and Wynstan began to see how he could make use of that. “I can’t bring back your Offa, but I might be able to give you something else,” he said.

“What?”

“Revenge.”

“God offers me that?” she said skeptically. She was quick-witted, he realized. That made her all the more useful.

“God’s ways are mysterious.” Wynstan sat down and patted the bench beside him.

Agnes sat. “Revenge on the sheriff, who prosecuted Offa? Or Ragna, who condemned him to death? Or Wigbert, who hanged him?”

“Whom do you hate most?”

“Ragna. I’d like to claw her eyes out.”

“Try to stay calm.”

“I’m going to kill her.”

“No, you’re not.” A plan had been forming gradually in Wynstan’s mind, and now he saw it entire. But would it work? He said: “You’re going to do something much smarter,” he said. “You’re going to take revenge on her in ways that she will never know about.”

“Tell me, tell me,” said Agnes breathlessly. “If it hurts her, I’ll do it.”

“You’re going to go back to her house and return to your old position of seamstress there.”

“No!” Agnes protested. “Never!”

“Oh, yes. You’re going to be my spy in Ragna’s house. You’ll tell me everything that goes on there, including those things that are meant to be kept secret—especially those things.”

“She’ll never take me back. She’ll suspect my motives.”

That was what Wynstan feared. Ragna was no fool. But her instinct was to look for the best in people, not the worst. Besides, she was terribly sorry about what had happened to Agnes—he had seen that at the trial. “I think Ragna feels horribly guilty about sentencing your husband to death. She’s desperate to make up for that somehow.”

“Is she?”

“She may hesitate, but she’ll do it.” Even as he said it, he wondered if it was true. “And then you will betray her, just as she betrayed you. You will ruin her life. And she will never know.”

Agnes’s face shone. She looked like a woman in the ecstasy of sexual intercourse. “Yes!” she said. “Yes, I’ll do it!”

“Good girl,” said Wynstan.

Ragna looked at Agnes, feeling an agony of conscience and regret.

Yet it was Agnes who apologized. “I have done you a terrible wrong, my lady,” she said.

Ragna was sitting on a four-legged stool by the fire. She felt that it was she who had done Agnes a wrong. She had killed the woman’s husband. It had been the right decision, but it felt dreadfully cruel.

She hesitated to show her feelings. She let Agnes remain standing. She thought: What should I do?

Agnes said: “You might have had me flogged for the things I said to you, but you did nothing, which was more kindness than I deserved.”

Ragna waved a dismissive hand. Insults uttered in anger were the least of her concerns.

Cat, who was listening, took a different view. She said severely: “It was a lot more kindness than you deserved, Agnes.”

Ragna said: “That’s enough, Cat. I can speak for myself.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady.”

Agnes said: “I have come to ask your forgiveness, my lady, even though I know I don’t merit it.”

Ragna felt that they both needed forgiveness.

Agnes said: “I have lain awake nights thinking and I can see, now, that you did the right thing, the only thing you could. I’m so sorry.”

Ragna did not like apologies. When there was a rift between people it could not be mended by the utterance of a form of words. But she wanted to heal this rift.

Agnes went on: “I couldn’t think straight at the time, I was too distraught.”

Ragna thought: I, too, might curse someone who let my husband be executed, even if he deserved his punishment.

Ragna wondered what to say. Could she reconcile with Agnes? Wilf would have scoffed at the idea, but he was a man.

From a practical point of view she would like to have Agnes back. It was difficult for Cat to manage Ragna’s three sons plus her own two daughters, all under the age of two. Since Agnes left, Ragna had been looking for a replacement, but she had not found the right sort of woman. If Agnes were to come back, that problem would be solved. And the children liked her.

Could she trust Agnes, after what had happened?

“You don’t know what it’s like, my lady, to find that you have chosen the wrong husband.”

Ah, but I do, Ragna thought; then she realized this was the first time she had admitted that to herself.

She felt a surge of compassion. Whatever sins Agnes had committed had been done under the strong influence of Offa. She had married a dishonest man, but that did not make her a dishonest woman.

“It would mean so much to me if you would just say a kind word before I go,” Agnes said, and she did seem pathetic. “Just say ‘God bless you,’ please, my lady.”

Ragna could not refuse her. “God bless you, Agnes.”

“May I just kiss the twins? I do miss them so.”

She did not have children of her own, Ragna reflected. “All right.”

Agnes expertly picked up both babies at the same time, holding one in each arm. “I do love you both,” she said.

Colinan, the younger twin by a few minutes, was the more advanced. He met Agnes’s eye, gurgled, and smiled.

Ragna sighed and said: “Agnes, do you want to come back?”