The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 32 July 1002

agna arrived at Sheriff Den’s compound an hour before dawn. The men, and a few women, were already gathering for the hue and cry, milling around in the dark, talking excitedly. The horses sensed the mood and stamped and snorted impatiently. Den finished saddling his black stallion then invited Ragna into his house so that they could talk in private.

Ragna’s panic was over and she had postponed her grief. She now knew what she had to do. She realized she was under attack by utterly ruthless people, but she was not defeated, and she was going to fight back.

And Den would be her principal ally—if she handled him right.

She said to him: “The slave Carwen knows exactly what happened in Wilf’s house tonight.”

“You don’t think it’s obvious,” he commented without surprise.

Good, she thought; he hasn’t prejudged the matter. “On the contrary, I think the obvious explanation is the wrong explanation.”

“Tell me why.”

“Firstly, Carwen did not seem to be unhappy. She was well fed, no one beat her, and she was sleeping with the most attractive man in town. What could she have been running from?”

“She may simply have been homesick.”

“True, though she showed no sign of it. But secondly, if she wanted to escape she could have gone at any time—she was never closely guarded. She could have left without killing Wilf or anyone else. Wilf slept heavily, especially after drink. She could have slipped away.”

“And if the guards happened to be awake?”

“She just would have said she was going to Gytha’s house, which is where she slept when Wilf didn’t want her. And then her absence might not have been noticed for a day or more.”

“All right.”

“But thirdly, and most importantly, I don’t believe that little girl could have killed either Wilf or Bern, let alone both. You saw the wounds. They were done with a strong arm by someone who had the confidence and the power to overcome two big men, both of whom were accustomed to violence. Carwen is fourteen.”

“It would be surprising, I agree. But if not her, who?”

Ragna had a strong suspicion, but she did not state it right away. “It must have been someone Bern knew.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Because Bern let the murderer enter the house. If it had been a stranger, Bern would have been on his guard. He would have stopped the visitor, questioned him, refused him entry, and fought with him—all outside the house, where the noise would have awakened the guards. And Bern’s body would have been found outside the house.”

“The killer could have dragged it inside.”

“The sound of the fight would have awakened Wilf, who would have got out of bed and attacked the intruder. Clearly that didn’t happen, for Wilf died in his bed.”

“So someone known to Bern appeared and was ushered into the house. As soon as they were inside, the unsuspecting Bern was surprised and killed quickly and silently. Then the visitor killed Wilf, and persuaded the slave to run away so that she would be blamed.”

“That’s what I think happened.”

“And the reason for the murder?”

“The key to that lies in two things that happened in the confusion immediately after the bodies were discovered. When everyone else was shocked and bewildered, Wigelm calmly made off with Wilf’s treasury.”

“Really?”

“And then someone stole mine.”

“This changes everything.”

“It means Wigelm is making a bid for power.”

“Yes—but that doesn’t prove he was the murderer. His power grab might be opportunistic. He could be taking advantage of something he didn’t instigate.”

“Possibly, but I doubt it. Wigelm is not sufficiently quick-thinking. This whole thing seems to me to have been carefully planned.”

“You may be right. It smells of Wynstan.”

“Exactly.” Ragna was pleased and relieved. Den had questioned her closely but had ended up coming around to her point of view. She moved on quickly. “If I am to defeat this coup, I need Carwen to tell her story at the shire court.”

“She may not be believed. The word of a slave . . .”

“Some people will believe her, especially when I explain what drove Wynstan to do this.”

Den did not comment on that. He said: “Meanwhile, you’re penniless. Your treasury has been stolen. You can’t win a power battle without money.”

“I can get more. Edgar will have money for me from the sale of stone at my quarry. And in a few weeks I’ll have my rents from Saint-Martin.”

“Presumably Wilf’s will was in the same chest?”

“Yes—but you have a copy.”

“However, the will has no force without the king’s approval.”

“All the same I’ll read it out in court. Wilf’s intentions prove Wynstan’s motive. The thanes will be influenced by that: they all want their dying wishes to be respected.”

“True.”

Ragna returned her attention to the day’s challenges. “None of this will matter unless you can catch Carwen.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“But don’t lead the hue and cry yourself. Send Wigbert.”

Den was surprised. “He’s reliable . . .”

“And as mean as a starving cat. But I need you here. They’ll do a lot of things, but they won’t actually murder me if you’re in town. They know you’d go after them, and you’re the king’s man.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Wigbert is more than capable of leading a hue and cry. He’s done it many times.”

“Where might Carwen have gone?”

“West, presumably. I imagine she wants to go home to Wales. Assuming she left here around midnight, she will have walked at least ten miles along the Glastonbury road by now.”

“She might take shelter somewhere near Trench, perhaps?”

“Exactly.” He glanced through the open door. “First light. Time for them to get started.”

“I hope they find her.”

Wynstan was satisfied with the progress. His plan had gone not perfectly but well enough. It had been a nasty shock to find Bern outside Wilf’s door, alert and sober, but Wynstan had reacted quickly and Wigelm had known what to do; and after that everything had happened as intended.

The story that Carwen had killed both Bern and Wilf was a good deal less plausible than Wynstan’s original, which was that she had cut Wilf’s throat while he slept; but people were fools and they seemed to believe it. They were all frightened of their slaves, Wynstan thought: the slaves had every reason to hate their owners, and if they had the chance, why would they not kill the people who had stolen their lives? A slave owner never slept easy. And all that stored-up fear burst like a boil when a slave was accused of murdering a nobleman.

Wynstan was hoping that the hue and cry would fail to find Carwen. He did not want her to tell her story in court. He would deny everything she said, and swear an oath, but a few might believe her rather than him. Much better if she vanished. Runaway slaves were usually caught, betrayed by their ragged clothes and their foreign accents and their pennilessness. However, Carwen had good clothes and some money, so she had a better-than-average chance.

Failing that, he had a contingency plan.

He was at the house of his mother, Gytha, with his brother, Wigelm, and their nephew Garulf late in the afternoon, waiting for the search party to return, when Sheriff Den appeared. With mock courtesy Wynstan said: “It’s an honor to receive a visit from you, sheriff, and all the more prized for its rarity.”

Den was impatient with facetious banter. A gray-haired man of about fifty, he had probably seen too much violence to be baited by mere jeering. He said: “You understand, don’t you, that not everyone is fooled?”

“I have no idea what you can be talking about,” said Wynstan with a smile.

“You think you’re clever, and you are, but there’s a limit to what you can get away with. And I’m here to tell you that you’re now perilously close to that limit.”

“It’s kind of you.” Wynstan continued to make fun of Den, but in fact he was paying close attention. This kind of threat from a sheriff to a bishop was unusual. Den was serious and he was not without power. He had authority, he had men-at-arms, and he had the ear of the king. Wynstan was only pretending not to care.

But what had prompted this display of menace? Not just the murder of Wilf, Wynstan thought.

In the next second he found out.

Den said: “Keep your hands off the lady Ragna.”

So that was it.

Den went on: “I want you to understand that if she should die, I will come after you, Bishop Wynstan.”

“How dreadful.”

“Not your brother or your nephew or any of your men—you. And I will never give up. I will bring you all the way down. You will live as a leper and die, as lepers do, in misery and filth.”

Despite himself Wynstan was chilled. He was thinking up a sarcastic riposte when Den simply turned around and left the house.

Wigelm said: “I should have ripped his guts open, the arrogant fool.”

Wynstan said: “He’s not a fool, unfortunately. If he was, we could ignore him.”

Gytha commented: “The foreign cat has got her claws into him.”

It was partly that, Wynstan had no doubt—Ragna had the ability to enchant most men—but there was something else. Den had long wanted to restrain the power of Wynstan’s family, and the murder of Ragna might provide him with a strong enough pretext, especially if it followed quickly after a power grab by Wynstan.

His ruminations were interrupted by Garulf’s bone headed friend Stiggy, who burst in, breathing hard, excited. He had gone with the hue and cry, under instructions from Wynstan, who had told him to race home ahead of the group if Carwen should be recaptured, a task so simple that even Stiggy could hardly fail to understand it.

“They got her,” he said now.

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“Shame.” It was time for the contingency plan. Wynstan got to his feet, and Wigelm and Garulf did the same. “Where was she?”

“In the woods this side of Trench. The dogs sniffed her out.”

“Did she say anything?”

“A lot of Welsh cursing.”

“How far behind you are they now?”

“At least an hour.”

“We’ll meet them on the road.” Wynstan looked at Garulf. “You know the plan.”

“I do.”

They went to the stables and saddled four horses, one each for Wynstan, Wigelm, and Garulf, plus a fresh mount for Stiggy; then they set out.

Half an hour later they came upon the hue and cry, now relaxed and triumphant. Wigbert, the sheriff’s quick-tempered captain, led the group, with Carwen stumbling along behind his horse, roped to his saddle, hands tied behind her back.

Wynstan said quietly: “All right, men, you know what you have to do.”

The four horsemen spread across the road in a line and reined in, forcing the hue and cry to halt. “Congratulations, everyone,” Wynstan said heartily. “Well done, Wigbert.”

“What do you want?” Wigbert said suspiciously, then added as an afterthought: “My lord bishop.”

“I will take charge of the prisoner now.”

There was a mutter of resentment from the group. They had captured the miscreant and they were looking forward to returning to the city in triumph. They would receive the congratulations of the citizenry and free drinks all evening in the alehouses.

Wigbert said: “My orders are to hand the prisoner over to Sheriff Den.”

“Your orders have been changed.”

“You must speak to the sheriff about that.”

Wynstan knew he was going to lose this argument, but he continued anyway, because it was merely a distraction. “I have already spoken to Den. His instructions are that you must hand over the prisoner to the victim’s brothers.”

“I can’t accept that from you, my lord bishop.” This time there was a distinct irony in the way he said my lord bishop.

Suddenly Garulf seemed to lose it. He yelled: “She killed my father!” then drew his sword and spurred his horse forward.

Those on foot scattered out of his way. Wigbert snarled a curse and drew his sword, but too late: Garulf was already past him. Carwen gave a cry of terror and cowered back, but she was roped to Wigbert’s saddle and unable to get away. Garulf was on her in a flash. Her hands were tied and she was defenseless. Garulf’s sword gleamed in the sunlight as he stabbed her in the chest. The momentum of man and horse drove the blade deep into her and she screamed. For a moment Wynstan thought Garulf would lift the girl and carry her away spitted on his weapon, but as his horse passed her she fell on her back and he was able to pull the sword out of her slender body. Blood spurted from the wound in her chest.

Amid howls of protest from the hue and cry, Garulf turned his horse, came back to where Wynstan was, and reined in, facing the crowd with his bloodstained sword held upright as if ready for more carnage.

Wynstan spoke loudly and insincerely. “You fool, you should not have killed her!”

“She stabbed my father in the heart!” Garulf shouted hysterically. Wynstan had instructed him to say these words, but his grief-stricken rage seemed genuine—which was strange, for Wynstan had told him who had really killed Wilf.

“Go!” said Wynstan. In a low voice he added: “Not too slow, not too fast.”

Garulf turned his horse then looked back. “Justice has been done!” he cried. He left at a trot, heading back toward Shiring.

Wynstan adopted a calming tone. “This should not have happened,” he said, although in fact all had gone exactly as he intended.

Wigbert was furious, but all he could do was protest. “He has murdered the slave!”

“Then he will be prosecuted in the shire court, and will pay the appropriate fine to the slave’s owner.”

Everyone looked at the girl bleeding to death on the ground.

Wigbert said angrily: “She knew what happened last night in Wilwulf’s house.”

“So she did,” said Wynstan.

Edgar’s canal was a success. It ran dead straight from the Outhenham quarry to the river, and was three feet deep for its entire length. Its clay sides were firm and slightly sloped.

He was working in the quarry today, using a hammer that had a short handle for accuracy and a heavy iron head for impact. He placed an oak wedge into a crack in the stone then hammered it with quick, powerful strokes, forcing the wedge deeper, widening the crack until a slab of stone fell away. It was a warm summer day, and he had taken off his tunic and wrapped it around his waist to be cooler.

Gab and his sons were working nearby.

Edgar was still mulling over Ragna’s visit to Dreng’s Ferry. “Sometimes it’s a comfort to be loved,” she had said, and he was sure she was speaking of his love for her. She had let him hold her hands. And afterward, she had said: “Will they know what we’ve been doing?” and he had asked himself what, exactly, they had been doing.

So she knew that he loved her, and she was glad that he loved her, and she felt that in holding hands they had done something that she would not like others to know about.

What did all this add up to? Could it possibly be that she returned his love? It was unlikely, almost impossible, but what else could it mean? He was not sure, but just thinking about it gave him a warm glow.

Edgar had won a large order for stone from Combe Priory, where the monks had royal permission to defend the town with an earth rampart and a stone barbican. Instead of carrying each stone half a mile to the river, Edgar had to transport it only a few yards to the head of the canal.

The raft was now almost completely loaded. Edgar had laid the heavy stones one deep on the deck, in order to spread the load and keep the vessel stable. He had to be careful not to overload the raft, otherwise it would sink below the surface.

He added one last stone and was getting ready to leave when he heard the distant drumbeat of fast horses. He looked to the north of the village. The roads were dry and he could see a cloud of dust approaching.

His mood changed. The arrival of a large number of men on horseback was rarely good news. Thoughtfully, he hooked his iron hammer into his belt, then locked the door of his house. He left the quarry and walked briskly to the village. Gab and his family followed.

Many others had the same idea. Men and women left the weeding of their fields and returned to the village. Others emerged from their houses. Edgar shared their curiosity but was more cautious. As he approached the center he ducked between two houses and took cover, creeping between the henhouses and the apple trees and the dunghills, progressing from one backyard to the next, listening.

The sound of the hooves diminished to a rumble then stopped, and he heard men’s voices, loud and commanding. He looked about for a vantage point. He could watch from a roof, but he would be noticed. At the back of the alehouse was a mature oak tree in full leaf. He scrambled up the trunk to a low bough and pulled himself into the foliage. Careful not to reveal himself, he climbed higher until he could see over the alehouse roof.

The horsemen had reined in on the green between the tavern and the church. They wore no armor, evidently feeling they had little to fear from peasants, but they carried spears and daggers, clearly ready to inflict violence. Most dismounted, but one remained on horseback, and Edgar recognized Wilwulf’s son Garulf. His companions were herding the villages together, an exercise in control that was superfluous since they were all pressing into the center anyway, anxious to find out what was going on. Edgar could see the gray hair of the village headman, Seric, speaking first to Garulf then to Garulf’s men, getting no responses. The shaven-headed village priest, Draca, was moving through the crowd looking fearful.

Garulf stood up in his stirrups. A man standing beside him shouted: “Silence!” and Edgar recognized Garulf’s friend Stiggy.

A few villagers who carried on talking were tapped on the head with clubs, and the crowd went quiet.

Garulf said: “My father, Ealdorman Wilwulf, is dead.”

There was a murmur of shock from the villagers.

Edgar whispered to himself: “Dead! How did that happen?”

Garulf said: “He died the night before last.”

Edgar realized that Ragna was now a widow. He felt hot, then cold. He became conscious of his heartbeat.

It makes no difference, he told himself; I must not get excited. She is still a noblewoman and I’m still a builder. Noble widows marry noble widowers. They never marry craftsmen, no matter how good.

All the same he did feel excited.

Seric voiced the question that had occurred to Edgar. “How did the ealdorman die?”

Garulf ignored Seric and said: “Our new ealdorman is Wilf’s brother Wigelm.”

Seric shouted: “That’s not possible. He cannot have been appointed by the king so soon.”

Garulf said: “Wigelm has made me lord of the Vale of Outhen.”

He was continuing to ignore the headman, who spoke for the villagers; and they began to mutter discontentedly.

“Wigelm can’t do that,” said Seric. “The Vale of Outhen belongs to the lady Ragna.”

Garulf said: “You also have a new village headman. It is Dudda.”

Dudda was a thief and a cheat, and everyone knew it. There were sounds of indignation from the crowd.

This was a coup, Edgar realized. What should he do?

Seric turned his back on Garulf and Stiggy, a deliberate act that repudiated their authority, and addressed the villagers. “Wigelm is not ealdorman, because he has not been appointed by the king,” he said. “Garulf is not lord of Outhen, because the valley belongs to Ragna. And Dudda is not headman, because I am.”

Edgar saw Stiggy draw his sword. “Look out!” he yelled, but at that moment Stiggy ran his sword into Seric’s back until it stuck out the front of his belly. Seric cried out like a wounded animal and collapsed. Edgar found himself breathing hard, as if he had run a mile. It was the shock of such a cold-blooded murder.

Stiggy calmly drew his sword out of Seric’s guts.

Garulf said: “Seric is not your headman now.”

The men-at-arms laughed.

Edgar had seen enough. He was horrified and frightened. His first instinct was to tell Ragna what he had seen. He climbed rapidly down from the tree. But when he reached the ground he hesitated.

He was close to the river and could swim across and get on the Shiring road in a couple of minutes. That way he would have a good chance of getting away without being seen by any of Garulf’s men. He could leave his raft and his load of stone at the quarry: Combe Priory would have to wait.

But his horse, Buttress, was at the quarry, and so was Ragna’s money. Edgar had almost a pound of silver for her in his chest, the proceeds of sales of stone, and she might need that money.

He made a snap decision. He had to risk his life by staying in Outhenham a few minutes longer. Instead of heading for the river he ran in the opposite direction, toward the quarry.

It took him only a few minutes to get there. He unlocked his house and retrieved his money chest from its hiding place. He tipped Ragna’s money into a leather purse that he attached to his belt, then locked up his house again.

Buttress stepped onto the raft willingly, being used to sailing. Brindle jumped on, too, eager as ever despite her age. Then Edgar untied the raft and pushed off.

He had never before noticed how slowly the raft traveled along the canal. There was no stream to drive it, so the only impetus came from the pole he wielded. He pushed with all his might, but his speed barely increased.

As he passed along the ends of the backyards, the noise from the village green increased in volume—and, he thought, anger. Despite the murder of Seric, the villagers were courageously protesting against Garulf’s announcements. There was going to be more violence, he had no doubt. Could he bypass it?

He drew level with the oak that had concealed him, and began to hope that he would get away without being noticed. A moment later that hope was dashed. He saw two men and a woman running from the alehouse toward the river. By their dress he knew they were villagers. A man-at-arms came after them, sword in hand, and Edgar recognized Bada. Fighting had broken out.

Edgar cursed. He could not pass them: they were faster than the raft. This was dangerous. If he was captured, Garulf would not let him leave Outhenham. He was known to be an associate of Ragna’s, and in the middle of a coup that might be enough reason for Garulf to kill him.

One of the peasant men stumbled and fell. Edgar saw that he had floury white streaks in his dark beard: he was Wilmund the baker, and the two with him were his wife, Regenhild, and their son, Penda, now nineteen and taller than ever.

Regenhild stopped and turned to help Wilmund. As Bada raised his sword she flew at him, weaponless, her hands extended to scratch his face. He swung his sword through the air uselessly and pushed her away with his left hand, raising his right to strike at Wilmund again.

Then Penda intervened. He picked up a rock the size of a fist and hurled it. It hit Bada in the chest, hard enough to throw him off balance so that his second sword stroke also went wild.

The raft drew level with the fighters.

Edgar was full of fear, and desperate to get away, but he could not watch and do nothing while people he knew were murdered. He dropped his pole, leaped from the raft to the bank of the canal, and drew his iron-headed hammer from his belt.

Wilmund got to his knees. Bada thrust with his sword and this time hit his target, though obliquely. His point entered the soft part of Wilmund’s thigh, next to the hip, and went in deep. Regenhild screamed and knelt beside her husband. Bada lifted his weapon to dispatch her.

Edgar ran at him, hammer raised high, and hit him with all his might.

At the last moment Bada moved to the left, and Edgar’s hammer landed on his shoulder. There was an audible snap as a bone broke. Bada roared with pain. His right arm went limp and his sword fell from his hand. He dropped to the ground, groaning.

But Bada was not alone. Pounding steps from the village alerted Edgar. He looked back to see another man-at-arms approaching. It was Stiggy.

Regenhild and Penda got Wilmund to his feet. He was crying out in agony but he managed to put one foot in front of the other and the three of them staggered away. Stiggy ignored the helpless peasants and headed for Edgar, who with his hammer in his hand was evidently the one who had wounded Stiggy’s comrade Bada. Edgar knew he was only moments away from death.

He turned and dashed toward the canal. The raft had drifted several yards. He heard running steps behind him. Reaching the edge he leaped through the air and landed on the stones.

Turning back, he saw the baker’s family disappear into the houses. They were safe, at least for now.

He saw Stiggy picking up rocks from the ground.

Fighting down panic he lay flat, sticking his hammer into his belt, and rolled into the water on the far side of the raft just as a large rock flew over his head. Brindle jumped into the water alongside him.

He grabbed the side of the raft with one hand and ducked his head. He heard a series of thuds and guessed that Stiggy’s rocks were hitting the quarry stones. He heard Buttress’s hooves stamp, and hoped his pony would not be hurt.

His feet touched the far bank of the canal. He turned in the water and pushed the raft in the direction of the river as hard as he could. He put his face above the surface just long enough to fill his lungs, then submerged again.

He noticed a slight change in the water temperature and guessed he was at the end of the canal and feeling the colder river water.

The raft emerged from the mouth of the canal and he felt the current. He put his head up—and saw Stiggy leap from the bank toward the raft.

The distance looked too great, and he allowed himself to hope that Stiggy would land in the water or, even better, miss by an inch and injure himself on the timbers. But Stiggy just made it. For a moment he stood precariously on the edge of the raft, windmilling his arms, and Edgar prayed he would fall backward into the river; but he regained his balance and crouched with both hands flat on the cargo of quarry stones.

Then he stood up and drew his sword.

Edgar knew he was in danger, more danger than he had faced since he confronted a Viking in Sunni’s dairy at Combe. Stiggy was standing on the deck with a sword in his hand and Edgar was in the water with a hammer in his belt.

Perhaps, he thought hopefully, Stiggy would jump into the river to grapple, thereby losing the advantage of a solid footing. In the water, the short-handled hammer would be easier to deploy than the long sword.

Unfortunately there was a limit to Stiggy’s stupidity. He remained on the raft and thrust at Edgar. Edgar dodged the sword and ducked under the raft.

Here Stiggy could not hurt him, but on the other hand Edgar could not breathe. He was a strong swimmer and could hold his breath for a long time, but eventually he would have to put his head up above the surface again.

He might have to abandon the raft. He still had Ragna’s money and the hammer. He swam as deep as he could go, hoping to get beyond the length of Stiggy’s sword, then turned away from the raft and moved toward the far bank, fearing that at any second he would feel the point of the sword in his back. The water became shallower and he knew he was at the river’s edge. He rolled over and surfaced, gasping.

He was several yards from the raft. Stiggy stood on the deck, sword in hand, looking around desperately, not seeing Edgar lying in the shallows.

If Edgar could crawl a few yards and vanish into the woods before Stiggy spotted him he could get away. Stiggy would not know where he had gone. Edgar would be sorry to lose Buttress, but his life was more precious. Alive, he could build another raft and buy another pony.

Then Brindle came out of the water, shook herself dry, and barked at Stiggy, who looked at the dog, then spotted Edgar. Too late, Edgar thought, and got to his feet.

Stiggy sheathed his sword, picked up the pole, and pushed the raft toward the bank.

Edgar was no match for Stiggy, who was taller and heavier and well practiced in violence. He realized his only chance would be to attack Stiggy as soon as he jumped, before he had the chance to steady himself on land and draw his sword.

Edgar drew the hammer from his belt and ran along the bank after the raft, which was slowly drifting downstream. Stiggy poled toward the water’s edge. They were on a collision course.

Stiggy drew his sword and jumped, and Edgar saw his chance.

The man-at-arms landed in the shallows and Edgar lashed out with his hammer; but Stiggy stumbled and Edgar missed, landing only a glancing blow on Stiggy’s left arm.

Stiggy stepped onto the riverside mud and reached for his sword.

Edgar was quick. He kicked Stiggy, striking his knee. It was not a severe blow but it sufficed to keep Stiggy off balance. Drawing his sword, Stiggy swung wildly, missing Edgar, then slipped on the mud and fell.

Edgar jumped onto Stiggy’s chest, landing with his knees, feeling ribs break, getting too close for Stiggy to use his long sword.

Edgar knew he probably had the chance to strike one blow, no more. The first might be the last, so it had to be fatal.

He swung the short hammer as he did when forcing an oak wedge into a crack in the limestone quarry, putting all the power of his right arm into the one blow that had to save his life. His arm was strong, the hammerhead was iron, and Stiggy’s forehead was mere skin and bone. It was like breaking thick ice on a winter pond. Edgar felt the hammer smash the skull and saw it plunge into the soft brain beneath. Stiggy’s body went limp.

Edgar remembered Seric, the wise headman, the caring grandfather, and he saw again the way Stiggy had plunged his sword into that good man’s body; and as he looked at Stiggy’s smashed head he thought: I just made the world a better place.

He looked across the river. No one had seen the fight. No one would know who had killed Stiggy. Garulf and his men did not know that Edgar was in the vicinity, and the villagers would not tell them.

Then he realized that the raft was a giveaway. If he left it here it would be obvious that he had killed Stiggy and fled.

He waded to the raft, accompanied by Brindle, and climbed aboard. He gave the trembling Buttress a reassuring pat. He retrieved the pole, which Stiggy had dropped in the water.

Then he pushed off, heading downstream toward Dreng’s Ferry.

It was a hot day in the compound. Ragna got a large, shallow bronze bowl from the kitchen and filled it with cool water from the well. She placed the bowl in front of her house and let her sons play with the water. The twins, eighteen months old, splashed with their hands and screamed with laughter. Osbert devised an elaborate game with several wooden cups, pouring one into another. Soon they were all soaking wet and happy.

Watching them, Ragna experienced a rare moment of contentment. These boys would grow up to be men like her father, she thought: strong but not cruel, wise but not sly. If they became rulers, they would enforce the laws, not their own whims. They would love women without using them. They would be respected, not feared.

Her mood was soon spoiled. Wigelm approached her and said: “I must speak to you.”

Wigelm might have been mistaken for Wilf, though not for long. He had the same big nose, fair mustache, and jutting chin, and he walked with the same swagger; but he had none of Wilf’s easy charm, and always looked as though he were on the point of making a complaint.

Ragna was certain that Wigelm had been involved somehow in the murder of Wilf. She might never know the details, now that Carwen had been killed, but she had no doubt. She felt a loathing so intense that it nauseated her. “I have no wish to talk to you,” she said. “Go away.”

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said.

She was mystified. “What are you talking about?” she said. “Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re an angel. There is no one like you.”

“This is a crude joke.” She looked around. “Your dopey friends are at the side of the house, listening and sniggering, hoping you’ll make a fool of me. Go away.”

He produced an arm ring from inside his tunic. “I thought you might like to have this.” He offered it to her.

She took it. It was silver with an engraved pattern of intertwining serpents, beautifully done, and she recognized it instantly. It was the one she had bought from Cuthbert and given to Wilf on their wedding day.

Wigelm said: “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“Why? You stole Wilf’s treasury and found this in the chest. But I’m Wilf’s heir, so the arm ring is already mine. I won’t thank you until you give me back everything.”

“That might be possible.”

Here it comes, she thought. Now I’ll find out what he really wants. She said: “Possible? How?”

“Marry me.”

She let out a short, sharp laugh, shocked by the absurdity of the proposal. “Ridiculous!” she said.

Wigelm flushed angrily, and she sensed that he wanted to hit her. He clenched his fists but restrained himself from raising them. “Do not dare to call me ridiculous,” he said.

“But you’re already married—to Milly, Inge’s sister.”

“I have put her aside.”

“I’m afraid I don’t like your English ‘putting aside.’”

“You’re not in Normandy now.”

“Doesn’t the English Church forbid the marriage of a widow to a near kinsman? You’re my brother-in-law.”

“Half brother-in-law. That’s separation enough, according to Bishop Wynstan.”

She realized she had taken the wrong tack. People like Wigelm could always find ways around the rules. Feeling exasperated, she said: “You don’t love me! You don’t even like me.”

“But our marriage will solve a political problem.”

“How flattering for me.”

“I’m Wilf’s half brother and you’re his widow. If we married, no one could challenge us for the ealdormanry.”

“Us? You’re saying we would rule together? Do you imagine I’m stupid enough to believe you?”

Wigelm looked angry and frustrated. He was telling a completely dishonest story and he was not smart enough to make it even halfway believable. Realizing that Ragna was not so easily fooled, he did not know what to say next. He tried to look as confident and charming as Wilf. “You will come to love me, once we’re married,” he said.

“I will never love you.” How much clearer could she make it? “You are all the bad things about Wilf and none of the good. I hate and loathe you, and that will never change.”

“Bitch,” he muttered, and walked away.

Ragna felt as if she had been in a fight. Wigelm’s proposal had been shocking and his persistence had been brutal. She felt battered and exhausted. She leaned against the side of her house and closed her eyes.

Osbert started to cry. He had got mud in his eye. She picked him up and washed his face with her sleeve, and he was quickly pacified.

She no longer felt shaky. It was strange how the needs of children swamped everything else—for women, at least. No crude English thane was as tyrannical as a baby.

Her breathing returned to normal as she watched the children playing with the water. But once again she did not enjoy the peaceful moment for long. Bishop Wynstan appeared. “My brother Wigelm is very upset,” he said.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Ragna said impatiently. “Don’t pretend he’s lovelorn.”

“We both know that love has nothing to do with this.”

“I’m glad you’re not as stupid as your brother.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not much of a compliment.”

“Take care,” he said with suppressed anger. “You’re not in a strong position to insult me and my family.”

“I’m the ealdorman’s widow, and nothing you can do will change that. My position is strong enough.”

“But Wigelm is in control of Shiring.”

“I’m still lord of the Vale of Outhen.”

“Garulf went there yesterday.”

Ragna was startled. She had not heard about this.

Wynstan went on: “He told the villagers that Wigelm has made him lord of Outhen.”

“They will never accept him. Seric, the headman—”

“Seric is dead. Garulf made Dudda headman.”

“Outhen is mine! It’s in the marriage contract that you negotiated!”

“Wilf had no right to give it to you. It’s been in our family for generations.”

“All the same he did give it to me.”

“He obviously intended a lifetime gift. Wilf’s lifetime, not yours.”

“That’s a lie.”

Wynstan shrugged. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t have to do anything. King Ethelred will appoint the new ealdorman, not you.”

“I thought you might be laboring under that illusion,” Wynstan said, and the seriousness of his tone chilled Ragna. “Let me explain to you what the king has on his mind today. The Viking fleet is still in English waters—they spent the winter at the Isle of Wight instead of returning home. Ethelred has now negotiated a truce with them—for which he must pay twenty-four thousand pounds of silver.”

Ragna was shocked. She had never heard of such a large sum of money.

“You may imagine,” Wynstan went on, “that the king is preoccupied with raising money. On top of that he is planning his wedding.”

Ethelred had been married to Elfgifu of York, who had died giving birth to their eleventh child.

Wynstan went on: “He is going to marry Emma of Normandy.”

Ragna was surprised again. She knew Emma, the daughter of Count Richard of Rouen. Emma had been a child of twelve when Ragna left Normandy five years ago. She would now be seventeen. It occurred to Ragna that a young Norman woman marrying the English king could become an ally.

Wynstan had a different agenda. “With all that to worry about, how much time do you think the king is going to spend deciding who is to be the new ealdorman of Shiring?”

Ragna said nothing.

“Very little,” said Wynstan, answering his own question. “He will look at who is in control of the region and simply ratify that person. The de facto ruler will become the de jure ealdorman.”

If that were true, Ragna thought, you would not be so keen for me to marry Wigelm. But she did not say it, because she had been struck by another thought. What would Wynstan do when she steadfastly refused Wigelm’s proposal? He would cast about for an alternative solution. There might be several options open to him, but one stood out to Ragna.

He could kill her.