The Evening and the Morning

CHAPTER 40 Summer 1006

agna moved into Edgar’s house.

It was Aldred’s idea. She asked him, as landlord, where she might set up home in King’s Bridge, and he told her he had been keeping the house empty in the hope that Edgar would return. Neither of them doubted that Edgar would want to live with Ragna—if he came home.

The place was the same size and shape as most houses, just better built. The edge-to-edge upright planks were sealed with wool soaked in tar, as in the hull of a ship, so that rain could not enter even in the stormiest weather. There was a second door, at one end of the building, leading out into an animal pen. There were smoke holes in the gable ends that made the air in the room more pleasant.

Edgar’s spirit was here, Ragna felt, in the combination of meticulousness and invention with which the house had been built.

She had been here once before. That was the occasion on which he showed her the box he had made for the book she had given him. She remembered the neat rack of tools, the wine barrel and the cheese safe, and Brindle wagging her tail—all gone now. She also remembered how he had held her hands while she wept.

She wondered where he was living now.

As she settled in, she hoped every morning that this would be the day the messengers returned with news of him, but no word came. Normandy was a big region, and Edgar might not even be there: he could have moved on to Paris or even Rome. The messengers might well have got lost. They could have been robbed and murdered. They might even have liked France better than England and decided not to come home.

Even if they found Edgar he might not want to return. He could be married. By now he could have a child learning to talk in Norman French. She knew she should not get her hopes up.

However, she was not going to live like a poor rejected woman. She was wealthy and powerful and she would show it. She hired a dressmaker, a cook, and three bodyguards. She bought three horses and employed a groom. She began to build stables and storehouses and a second house on the neighboring plot for all her extra servants. She made a trip to Combe and bought tableware, cooking equipment, and wall hangings. While there she commissioned a boatbuilder to make her a barge to take her from King’s Bridge to Outhenham. She also ordered a great hall to be built for herself at Outhenham.

She would visit Outhenham soon, to make sure Wigelm did not try to usurp her authority there; but for now she concentrated on her new life at King’s Bridge. In Edgar’s absence the main attraction of the place was Aldred’s school. Osbert was seven and the twins five, and all three had morning lessons six days a week, along with three novice monks and a handful of boys from the neighborhood. Cat did not want her daughters educated—she feared it would give them ideas above their station—but when the boys came home they shared what they had learned.

Ragna would never get used to being without Alain. She worried about him all the time: when she woke up she wondered if he was hungry, in the afternoon she hoped he was not tired, in the evening she knew he should soon be put to bed. Such hopeless thoughts gradually came to occupy her less, but her grief was always in the back of her mind. She refused to accept that her separation from her child was permanent. Something would happen. Ethelred might change his mind and order Wigelm to give the child back. Wigelm might die. Every night she thought about such happy possibilities, and every night she cried herself to sleep.

She renewed her acquaintance with Blod, Dreng’s slave. The two got on well, which was surprising: they were so far apart socially that they might have lived in different worlds. But Ragna enjoyed Blod’s no-nonsense attitude to life. And they shared a fondness for Edgar. At the alehouse Blod now brewed the beer, did the cooking, and took care of Dreng’s wife, Ethel. Happily, Blod was seldom prostituted these days, she told Ragna. “Dreng says I’m too old,” she said wryly, one day when Ragna went to the tavern to buy a barrel of ale.

“How old are you?” Ragna asked.

“Twenty-two, I think. But anyway I was always too sulky to please the men. So he’s bought a new girl, now that he’s making so much money on market days.” They were standing outside the brewhouse, and Blod pointed to a girl in a short dress who was dipping a bucket in the river. Her lack of any kind of hat or headdress marked her as a slave and a prostitute, but also revealed a head of thick, dark-red hair falling in waves to her shoulders. “That’s Mairead. She’s Irish.”

“She looks terribly young.”

“She’s about twelve—the age I was when I came here.”

“Poor girl.”

Blod was brutally practical. “If men are going to pay for sex, they want something they can’t get at home.”

Ragna studied the girl more carefully. There was a roundness to her that did not come from eating well. “Is she pregnant?”

“Yes, and she’s farther gone than she looks, but Dreng hasn’t realized yet. He’s ignorant about such things. However, he’s going to be furious. Men won’t pay as much for a pregnant woman.”

Despite Blod’s tough practicality, Ragna detected in her tone a fondness for Mairead, and she felt glad that the slave girl had someone to look out for her.

She paid Blod for the ale, and Blod rolled a barrel out of the brewhouse.

Dreng himself emerged from the henhouse with a few eggs in a basket. He was getting fat, and limping more than ever. He gave Ragna a cursory nod—he no longer troubled to toady to her, now that she had fallen from favor—and walked past. He was breathing hard even though he was hardly exerting himself.

Ethel came to the door of the alehouse. She, too, looked ill. She was in her late twenties, Ragna knew, but she appeared older. The cause was not just a decade of marriage to Dreng. According to Mother Agatha, Ethel had an internal ailment requiring that she rest.

Blod looked worried and said: “Do you need something, Ethel?” Ethel shook her head and took the eggs from Dreng, then disappeared back inside. “I have to look after her,” Blod said. “No one else will.”

“What about Edgar’s sister-in-law?”

“Cwenburg? You won’t see her taking care of her stepmother.” Blod began to push the barrel up the hill. “I’ll bring this to your house.” She leaned into her work. She was a strong woman, Ragna saw.

Across from Ragna’s house, Aldred was supervising a mixed group of monks and laborers who were pulling up tree stumps and clearing bushes on the site of the proposed new church. He saw Ragna and Blod, and came over. “You’ll have a rival soon,” he said to Blod. “I’m planning to build an alehouse here in the marketplace and lease it to a man from Mudeford.”

Blod said: “Dreng will be outraged.”

“He’s always outraged about something,” Aldred replied. “The town is big enough now for two alehouses. On market days we could do with four.”

Ragna said: “Is an alehouse an appropriate thing for a monastery to own?”

“This one will have no prostitutes,” Aldred said with a severe look.

Blod said: “Good for you.”

Ragna looked toward the river and saw two monks crossing the bridge on horseback. The King’s Bridge monks traveled a lot, now that the monastery owned property all over the south of England, but something about these two made her heart beat faster. Their clothes were grubby, the leather of their baggage looked battered, and their horses were tired. They had come a long way.

Aldred followed Ragna’s gaze, and spoke with a frisson of excitement. “Could those two be William and Athulf, back from Normandy at last?”

If so, Edgar was not with them. Ragna felt the pain of disappointment so severely that she winced as if she had been lashed.

Aldred hurried down the hill to meet them, and Ragna and Blod followed.

The monks dismounted and Aldred embraced them both. “You’ve come safely home,” he said. “Praise God.”

“Amen,” said William.

“Did you find Edgar?”

“Yes, though it took a long time.”

Ragna hardly dared to hope.

Aldred said: “And what did he say to our proposal?”

“He declined the invitation,” William said.

Ragna put her hands over her mouth to stop herself moaning in despair.

Aldred said: “Did he give a reason?”

“No.”

Ragna found her voice. “Is he married?”

“No . . .”

She heard the hesitation. “What, then?”

“People in the town where he’s living say he will marry the daughter of the master mason and eventually become master himself.”

Ragna began to cry. They were all looking at her now, but she cared nothing for her dignity. “He’s made a new life for himself there, then?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And he doesn’t want to leave it.”

“So it seems. I’m sorry.”

Ragna could not contain herself. She burst into sobs. She turned away and hurried up the slope, finding her way through a blur of tears to her house. Inside, she threw herself down in the straw and cried her heart out.

“I’ll go back to Cherbourg,” Ragna said firmly to Blod a week later.

It was a warm day, and the children were splashing in the shallows at the edge of the river. Ragna was sitting on the bench outside the alehouse, watching them and thirstily drinking a cup of Blod’s ale. On the pasture alongside the alehouse, a well-trained dog was watching over a small flock of sheep. The shepherd, Theodberht Clubfoot, was inside.

Blod was standing beside Ragna, having served her the drink then stayed to chat. “That’s a shame, my lady,” Blod said.

“Not necessarily.” Ragna was determined not to feel defeated. True, nothing had gone the way she planned, but she was going to make the best of things. She still had most of her life ahead of her, and she was going live it to the fullest.

Blod said: “When would you go?”

“Not yet. I need to spend time at Outhenham before I leave. Long term, my idea is to have two good houses, one here and one at Outhenham, and return to England every year or two to keep an eye on my property.”

“Why? You might get someone else to do the work so that you can just sit back and count the money.”

“I couldn’t do that. I always thought it was my destiny to be a ruler, dispensing justice, helping to make a place more prosperous.”

“It’s usually men who rule.”

“Usually, but not always. And I’ve never enjoyed idleness.”

“I’ve never tried it.”

Ragna smiled. “I feel sure you wouldn’t like it.”

Cwenburg, the wife of Erman and Eadbald, walked by with a basket of silvery fish fresh from the pond, some of them still flipping their tails. Ragna guessed she was heading for the house of Bucca Fish. Cwenburg had always been plump, Ragna recalled, but now she was quite fat. In her twenties she had lost the vigorous freshness of youth, and was no longer even mildly attractive. However, Edgar’s brothers seemed content with her. It was an unusual arrangement but it had worked for nine years now.

Cwenburg stopped to speak to Dreng, her father, who was just coming out of a storehouse with a wooden shovel in his hand. It was always a little surprising to see unkind, unpleasant people showing affection, Ragna mused. Then her thoughts were interrupted by an angry shout from inside the alehouse.

A moment later Theodberht hobbled out, fastening his belt. “She’s pregnant!” he said angrily. “I’m not paying a penny for a pregnant whore!”

Dreng came hurrying up, still holding the shovel. “What’s this?” he said. “What’s the matter?”

Theodberht repeated his complaint at the top of his voice.

“I didn’t know that!” said Dreng. “I paid a pound for her at Bristol market and that was not even a year ago.”

“Give me back that penny!” said Theodberht.

“Cursed girl, I’ll teach her a lesson.”

Ragna said: “It’s your fault she’s pregnant, Dreng—don’t you understand that?”

Dreng replied to Ragna with surly formality. “My lady, they only get pregnant if they enjoy the shagging, everyone knows that.” He fumbled in his belt purse and gave Theodberht a silver penny. “Have another cup of ale, my friend, forget about the whore.”

Theodberht took the money with ill grace and walked toward the pasture, whistling to his dog.

“He would have drunk a gallon of ale and stayed the night,” Dreng said sourly. “Might even have paid for another tumble in the morning. Now I’ve lost that money.” He limped inside.

Ragna said to Blod: “What a fool. If he prostitutes the poor girl she’s almost certain to get pregnant sooner or later—doesn’t he know that?”

“Who told you Dreng was a rational man?”

“I hope he isn’t going to punish that girl.”

Blod shrugged.

Ragna said: “The law is that a man can’t kill or beat a slave unreasonably.”

“But who says what is unreasonable?”

“I do, usually.”

They heard a cry of pain from inside, then a grunt of rage, then sobbing. Both women got to their feet, then hesitated. There was a silence for several seconds. Blod said: “If that’s all . . .”

Then they heard Mairead scream.

They rushed inside.

She was on the floor, covering her belly with her arms. She had a head wound, and bright red blood was soaking into her dark-red hair. Dreng stood over her, the shovel held in both hands and raised above his head. He was yelling incoherently. His wife, Ethel, was crouching in a corner, watching with a terrified face.

Ragna shouted: “Stop that at once!”

Dreng brought the shovel down hard on Mairead’s body.

Ragna repeated: “Stop that!”

From the corner of her eye she saw Blod grab the oak bucket that was kept on a peg behind the door. As Dreng raised the shovel to hit Mairead again, Blod lifted the heavy bucket to strike him. Then Dreng staggered.

He dropped the shovel, and one hand went to his chest.

Blod lowered the bucket.

Dreng groaned and fell to his knees, saying: “Jesus, it hurts!”

Ragna froze, staring at him. Why was he in pain? He had been giving a beating, not suffering one. Was this an act of a vengeful God?

Dreng toppled forward and fell with his face on the stone surround of the hearth. Ragna leaped to him, grabbed his ankles, and pulled him away from the flames. His body was limp. She rolled him over. His long nose had been smashed in the fall and there was blood all over his mouth and chin.

He was not moving.

She put her hand on his chest. He seemed not to be breathing. She could not feel a heartbeat.

She turned to Mairead. “How badly are you hurt?” she said.

“My head is agony,” she answered. She rolled over and sat upright with one hand on her belly. “But I don’t think he injured the baby.”

Ragna heard Cwenburg’s voice from the doorway. “Father! Father!”

Cwenburg ran in, dropped her basket of fish and fell to her knees beside Dreng. “Speak to me, Father!”

Dreng did not move.

Cwenburg looked over her shoulder at Blod. “You’ve killed him!” She leaped to her feet. “You murdering slave, I’m going to kill you!”

She flew at Blod, but Ragna intervened. She grabbed Cwenburg from behind, grasping both her arms, restraining her. “Stand still!” she commanded.

Cwenburg ceased to struggle but yelled: “She killed him! She hit him with that bucket!”

Blod still had the oak bucket in her hand. “I didn’t hit anyone,” she said. She put the bucket back on its peg. “Your father was the only person doing that.”

“Liar!”

“He used that shovel on Mairead.”

Ragna said: “She’s telling the truth, Cwenburg. Your father was beating Mairead and he suffered some kind of seizure. He fell facedown onto the hearth, and I pulled him out of the fire. But he was already dead.”

Cwenburg went limp. Ragna released her and she sat down abruptly on the floor, weeping. She was probably the only person who would weep for Dreng, Ragna thought.

Several villagers crowded into the alehouse, staring at the corpse in the center of the room. Then Aldred came in. Seeing the body on the floor he crossed himself and murmured a short prayer.

Ragna was the most high-ranking person there, but Aldred was the landlord, and normally took responsibility for justice. However, he had no interest in squabbles over precedence, and he came straight to Ragna and said: “What happened?”

She told him.

Ethel stood up and spoke for the first time. “What am I going to do?” she said.

Aldred said: “Well, you own the alehouse, now.”

Ragna had not thought of that.

Cwenburg made a sudden recovery. “No, she doesn’t.” She got to her feet. “My father wanted me to inherit the alehouse.”

Aldred frowned. “Did he make a will?”

“No, but he told me.”

“That doesn’t count. The widow inherits.”

“She can’t run an alehouse!” Cwenburg said scornfully. “She’s always sick. I can, especially with Erman and Eadbald to help me.”

Ragna was sure Edgar would disapprove of this. She said: “Cwenburg, you and Erman and Eadbald are already rich, with your fishpond and your water mill, and paid laborers who do all the work on your farm. Do you really want to rob a widow of her livelihood?”

Cwenburg was abashed.

Ethel said: “But I’m not very strong. I don’t think I can manage it.”

Blod said: “I’ll help you.”

Ethel came over to her. “Will you, really?”

“I’ll have to. You own me, now, as well as the house.”

Mairead stood the other side of Ethel. “You own me, too.”

“I’ll free you in my will, I promise. Both of you.”

There was a murmur of approval from the watching villagers: freeing slaves was considered an act of piety.

Aldred said: “A lot of witnesses have heard your generous promise, Ethel. If you want to change your mind you should probably do it now.”

“I will never change my mind.”

Blod put her arm around Ethel, and Mairead did the same from the other side. Blod said: “We three women can manage the alehouse and look after Mairead’s baby—and make more money than Dreng ever did.”

“Yes,” said Ethel. “Perhaps we can.”

Wynstan found himself in a strange place. Puzzled, he looked around. It was an unfamiliar market square on a summer day, with people buying and selling eggs and cheese and hats and shoes all around him. He could see a church, large enough to be a cathedral. Alongside it was a fine house. Opposite was what looked like a monastery. On a hill beyond the square was a fenced compound that suggested the residence of a wealthy thane, perhaps an ealdorman. He felt scared. How had he got so lost? He could not even remember how he had come here. He felt himself shaking with terror.

A stranger bowed to him and said: “Good morning, bishop.”

He thought: Am I a bishop?

The stranger looked more closely at him and said: “Are you all right, your reverence?”

Suddenly everything fell into place. He was the bishop of Shiring, the church was his cathedral, and the house next to it was his residence. “Of course I’m all right,” he snapped.

The stranger, whom Wynstan now recognized as a butcher he had known for twenty years, walked rapidly away.

Feeling bewildered and frightened, Wynstan hurried to his house.

Inside was his cousin, Archdeacon Degbert, and Ithamar, a deacon of the cathedral. Ithamar’s wife, Eangyth, was pouring a cup of wine.

Degbert said: “Ithamar has some news.”

Ithamar looked scared. He said nothing while the maid set the wine on the table in front of him.

Wynstan was angry about his episode of forgetfulness, and he said impatiently: “Well, come on, spit it out.”

Ithamar said: “Alphage has been made archbishop of Canterbury.”

Wynstan was expecting this. Nevertheless, he felt a mad rage rise within him. Unable to control himself, he picked up a cup from the table and dashed the contents in Ithamar’s face. Not satisfied with that, he overturned the table. Eangyth screamed, so he clenched his fist and hit her across the head as hard as he could. She lay still, and he thought he had killed her; then she stirred, got up, and ran out of the room. Ithamar followed her, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his robe.

Degbert said nervously: “Calm yourself, cousin. Sit down. Have a cup of wine. Are you hungry? Shall I get you something to eat?”

“Oh, shut up,” Wynstan said, but he sat down and drank the wine that Degbert gave him.

When he had calmed down, Degbert said accusingly: “You promised to make me bishop of Shiring.”

“I can’t, now, can I?” Wynstan said. “There’s no vacancy, you fool.”

Degbert looked as if that was a poor excuse.

“It’s Ragna’s fault,” Wynstan said. “She started the stupid rumor that I had leprosy.” His rage began to return, and he seethed. “Her punishment was much too light. All we did was take away one of her children. She has three left to console her. I should have thought of something worse. I should have put her to work in Mags’s house until some filthy sailor gave her Whore’s Leprosy.”

“You know she was in the room when my brother Dreng died? I suspect she killed him. They put it about that he had some kind of seizure while beating his slave girl, but I’m sure Ragna had something to do with it.”

“I don’t care who killed Dreng,” Wynstan said. “He may have been my cousin but he was a fool, and so are you. Get out.”

Degbert left, and Wynstan was alone.

Something was wrong with him. He had flown into a berserk rage on being given news that merely confirmed his expectations. He had nearly murdered a priest’s wife. Worse, a few minutes earlier he had forgotten not only where he was but who he was.

I’m going mad, he said to himself, and the thought filled him with terror. He could not be mad. He was clever, he was ruthless, he always got his way. His allies were rewarded and his enemies were destroyed. The prospect of insanity was so horrifying as to be unbearable. He closed his eyes tight and banged both fists on the table in front of him, saying: “No, no, no!” He had a sensation of falling, as if he had jumped off the roof of the cathedral. He was going to hit the ground any second, and he would be smashed up and then he would die. He struggled to restrain himself from screaming.

As the terror eased, he thought more about jumping off the roof. He would hit the ground, then suffer a moment of unbearable agony, then die. But how badly would he be punished for the sin of suicide?

He was a holy priest; he could expect forgiveness. But for suicide?

He could confess his sins, say Mass, and die in a state of grace, could he not?

He could not. He would die condemned.

Degbert came back carrying the embroidered cope that Wynstan wore for services. “You’re due in the cathedral,” he said. “Unless you would prefer me to say Mass?”

“No, I’ll do it,” said Wynstan, and he stood up.

Ithamar draped the vestment over Wynstan’s shoulders.

Wynstan frowned. “I was worrying about something a moment ago,” he said. “I can’t think what it was.”

Ithamar said nothing.

“Never mind,” said Wynstan. “It can’t have been important.”

Ethel was dying.

Ragna sat in the alehouse late at night, with Blod and Mairead and Mairead’s new baby, Brigid, long after the last customers had staggered out the door. The room was lit by a smoky rush light. Ethel lay still with her eyes closed. Her breathing was shallow and her face was gray. Sister Agatha had said that the angels were calling her, and she was getting ready to go.

Blod and Mairead were planning to raise the baby together. “We don’t want men and we don’t need them,” Blod said to Ragna. Ragna was not surprised by their feelings, after the lives they had been forced to lead; but there was something else. Ragna had a feeling that Blod’s passion for Edgar might have been transferred to Mairead. It was only a feeling, and she was not sure and certainly would not ask.

Not long after dawn Ethel passed gently away. There was no crisis: she simply stopped breathing.

Blod and Mairead undressed her and washed the body. Ragna asked the two slaves what they planned to do now. Ethel had said she would free them, and Aldred had assured them that she had made a will. They could return to their homes, if they wished; but it seemed they were planning to stay together.

“I can’t travel to Ireland with a baby in my arms and no money,” Mairead said. “Not that I would know where in Ireland my home is. It’s a hamlet on the coast, but that’s all I could tell you. If the place had a name I never heard it. I’m not even sure how many days I was on the Viking ship before we got to Bristol.”

Ragna would help her with a little money, of course, but money would not solve the problem. She said: “What about you, Blod?”

Blod looked thoughtful. “It’s ten years since I saw my home in Wales. All my young friends must now be married with children. I don’t know whether my parents are alive or dead. I’m not sure how much I can remember of the Welsh language. I never imagined I would ever say this, but I almost feel as if this place is home.”

Ragna was not convinced. Was there something else at work here? Had Blod and Mairead become so attached to each other that they did not want to part?

The news of Ethel’s death soon got around, and shortly after dawn Cwenburg showed up with her two husbands. The men looked sheepish but Cwenburg was aggressive. “How dare you wash the body?” she said. “That was my job—I’m her stepdaughter!”

Ragna said: “They were only being helpful, Cwenburg.”

“I don’t care. This alehouse is mine, now, and I want those slaves out of here.”

“They’re no longer slaves,” Ragna said.

“If Ethel kept her promise.”

“Anyway, you can’t throw them out of their home at a minute’s notice.”

“Who says?”

“I do,” said Ragna.

Cwenburg said: “Erman, go and fetch the prior.”

Erman left.

Cwenburg said: “The slaves should wait outside.”

Ragna said: “Perhaps you should wait outside, until Aldred confirms that the alehouse is now yours.”

Cwenburg looked sullen.

“Go on,” said Ragna. “Out you go. Otherwise it will be the worse for you.”

Reluctantly Cwenburg left, and Eadbald followed her out.

Ragna knelt beside the body, and Blod and Mairead did the same.

Aldred appeared a few minutes later, wearing a silver cross on a leather thong. Cwenburg and her husbands came in behind him. He made the sign of the cross and said a prayer over the corpse. Then he took a small sheet of parchment from the pouch at his belt.

“This is Ethel’s last will and testament,” he said. “Written by me at her dictation, and witnessed by two monks.”

Of the others present only Ragna could read, so they had to rely on Aldred to tell them what Ethel had done.

“As she promised, she frees both Blod and Mairead,” he said.

The two slaves embraced and kissed each other, smiling. Their celebration was muted by the presence of the corpse, but they were happy.

“There is only one other bequest,” Aldred said. “She leaves all her worldly possessions, including the alehouse, to Blod.”

Blod’s mouth fell open. “It’s mine?” she said incredulously.

“Yes.”

Cwenburg screamed: “She can’t do that! My stepmother can’t steal my father’s alehouse and then give it to a Welsh whore slave!”

“She can,” said Aldred.

Ragna said: “And she just did.”

“It’s unnatural!”

“No, it’s not.” Ragna said. “When Ethel was dying, it was Blod who cared for her, not you.”

“No, no!” Cwenburg stormed out, still screaming protests, and Erman and Eadbald followed her, looking embarrassed.

The noise died down as Cwenburg walked away.

Blod looked at Mairead. “You’ll stay and help me, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll teach you to cook. But no more whoring.”

“And you can help me with the baby.”

“Of course.”

Tears came to Mairead’s eyes, and she nodded wordlessly.

“It will be fine,” said Blod. She reached out and took Mairead’s hand. “We’ll be happy.”

Ragna was glad for them, and something else.

After a few moments she figured out what it was.

She was envious.

Every few months Giorgio, the master mason, sent Edgar to Cherbourg to buy supplies. It was a two-day journey, but there was nowhere nearer where they could get iron for making tools, lead for windows, and lime for mortar.

When he left this time, Clothild kissed him and told him to hurry back. He still had not proposed marriage to her, but everyone treated him as if he were already a member of Giorgio’s family. He was not really comfortable with the way he had slipped, by imperceptible steps, into the role of Clothild’s fiancé without a formal decision: it seemed weak. But he was not sufficiently unhappy about it to break away.

A few hours after he arrived in Cherbourg, a messenger found him and ordered him to go and see Count Hubert.

Edgar had met Hubert only once before, on his arrival in Normandy almost three years ago. Hubert had been kind to him then. Glad to hear news of his beloved daughter, he had talked at length to Edgar about life in England, and had advised him of building sites where he might find employment.

Now Edgar again climbed the hill to the castle and marveled anew at its size. It was bigger than Shiring Cathedral, which had previously been the largest building he had ever seen. A servant showed him to a large room on the upstairs floor.

Hubert, now in his fifties, was at the far end of the room talking to Countess Genevieve and their handsome son, Richard, who looked about twenty.

Hubert was a small man with quick movements: Ragna’s very different build, tall and statuesque, came from her mother. But Hubert had the red-gold hair and sea-green eyes, somewhat wasted on a man—in Edgar’s view—but so overpoweringly alluring in Ragna.

The servant motioned Edgar to wait by the door, but Hubert caught his eye and beckoned.

Edgar expected Hubert to regard him benignly, as he had before, but now, approaching the count, Edgar saw that he looked angry and hostile. He wondered what he could possibly have done to infuriate Ragna’s father.

Hubert said loudly: “Tell me, Edgar, do Englishmen believe in Christian marriage, or not?”

Edgar had no idea what this was about, and all he could do was answer to the best of his ability. “My lord, they are Christians, though they don’t always obey the teachings of the priests.” He was about to add just like Normans, but he stopped himself. He was no longer an adolescent and he had learned not to make clever ripostes.

Genevieve said: “They are barbarians! Savages!”

Edgar assumed this must somehow be about their daughter. He said anxiously: “Has something happened to the lady Ragna?”

Hubert said: “She has been set aside!”

“I didn’t know that.”

“What the devil does it mean?”

“It means divorce,” Edgar said.

“For no reason?”

“Yes.” Edgar needed to be sure he had understood correctly. “So Wigelm has set Ragna aside?”

“Yes. And you tell me this is legal in England!”

“Yes.” But Edgar was thunderstruck. Ragna was single!

Hubert said: “I’ve written to King Ethelred demanding that he make recompense. How can he allow his noblemen to behave like farmyard animals?”

“I don’t know, my lord,” said Edgar. “A king can give orders, but enforcing them is another matter.”

Hubert snorted, as if he considered that a feeble excuse.

Edgar said: “I’m terribly sorry this has been done to her by my countrymen.”

But he was lying.