The congregation was larger than usual for a weekday, swollen by the bereaved families of the men who had not returned from the fighting. Looking into the nave, Wynstan noticed Agnes among them, a small, thin woman in the drab clothes of a housemaid. She looked unremarkable, but her eyes met Wynstan’s with a clear message: she was here to see him. His hopes rose.

It was half a year since Ragna had condemned Agnes’s husband to death, half a year since Agnes had agreed to be Wynstan’s spy in Ragna’s house. In that time she had brought him no useful information. Nevertheless he had continued to speak to her at least once a month, feeling sure that one day she would justify his efforts. Fearing that her desire for revenge might fade, he had engaged Agnes emotionally, treating her as an intimate rather than a servant, speaking to her in conspiratorial tones, thanking her for her loyalty. He was subtly taking the place of her late husband, being affectionate but dominant, expecting to be obeyed without question. His instinct told him this was the way to control her.

Today he might be rewarded for his patience.

When the service was over Agnes lingered, and as soon as the other worshippers had gone Wynstan beckoned her into the chancel, put his arm around her bony shoulders, and drew her into a corner. “Thank you for coming to see me, my dear,” he said, making his voice quiet but intense. “I was hoping you would.”

“I thought you’d like to know what she’s planning.”

“I would, I would.” Wynstan tried to sound keen but not needy. “You are my pet mouse, creeping on silent feet into my room at night, lying on my pillow, and whispering secrets into my ear.”

She flushed with pleasure. He found himself wondering what she would do if he put his hand up her skirt right there in the church. He would do no such thing, of course: she was driven by desire for what she could not have, the strongest of all human motives.

She stared at him for a long moment, and he felt the need to break the spell. “Tell me,” he said.

She collected herself. “Ragna will hold court today, after breakfast.”

“Moving fast,” Wynstan said. “Characteristic. But what’s her agenda?”

“She will appoint a new commander for the army.”

“Ah.” He had not thought of that.

“She will say she wants Wigelm.”

“He can’t ride at the moment. That’s why he’s not here.”

“She knows that, but she will pretend to be surprised.”

“Crafty.”

“Then someone will say that the only alternative is Sheriff Den.”

“Her strongest ally. Dear God, with her running the court and Den commanding the army, Wilf’s family would be practically impotent.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“But now I’m forewarned.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know yet.” He would not have confided in her in any case. “But I’ll think of something, thanks to you.”

“I’m glad.”

“This is a dangerous time. You must tell me everything she does from now on. It’s really important.”

“You can count on me.”

“Go back to the compound and keep listening.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, my little mouse.” He kissed her lips then ushered her out.

* * *

The court formed a small group. This was not one of the regular meetings, and there had been no more than an hour’s notice. But the most important thanes had arrived with the army. Ragna held court in front of the great hall, sitting on the cushioned stool usually occupied by Wilwulf. Her choice of seat was deliberate.

However, she stood up to speak. Her height was an advantage. Leaders needed to be smart, not tall, she believed; but she had noticed that men were readier to defer to a tall person, and as a woman she used any weapon that came to hand.

She was wearing a brown-black dress, dark for authority, a bit loose so that her figure was not accentuated. All her jewelry today was chunky: pendant, bangles, brooch, rings. She had on nothing feminine, nothing dainty. She was dressed to rule.

The morning was her preferred time for meetings. The men were more sensible, less boisterous, having drunk only a cup of weak ale with their breakfast. They could be much more difficult after the midday meal.

“The ealdorman is seriously wounded, but we have every hope that he will recover,” she said. “He was fighting a Viking when he slipped in the riverside mud, and his horse kicked him in the head.” Most of them would know that already, but she said it to show them that she was not ignorant of the haphazard nature of battle. “You all know how easily something like that can happen.” She was gratified to see nods of approval. “The Viking died,” she added. “His soul is now suffering the agonies of hell.” Once again she saw that they approved of her words.

“In order to recover, Wilf needs peace and quiet and, most importantly, he must lie still so that his skull can mend. That is why my door is barred from the inside. When he wants to see someone, he will tell me, and I will summon the person. No one will be admitted unless invited.”

She knew that this news would be unwelcome, and she was expecting some opposition.

Sure enough, Wynstan pushed back. “You can’t keep the ealdorman’s brothers away.”

“I can’t keep anyone away. All I can do is follow Wilf’s orders. He will see whomever he wants, of course.”

Garulf, Wilf’s twenty-year-old son by Inge, said: “That’s not right. You could tell us to do anything, and pretend the orders came from him.”

That was exactly what Ragna intended.

She had expected someone to make this point, and she was glad it came from a lad rather than a respected older man: this made it easier to dismiss.

Garulf went on: “He might be dead. How would we know?”

“By the smell,” Ragna said crisply. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

Gytha spoke up. “Why did you refuse to let Father Godmaer perform the trepanning operation?

“Because Wilf’s skull already has a hole. You don’t need two holes in your arse and Wilf doesn’t need two in his head.”

The men laughed, and Gytha shut up.

Ragna said: “Wilf has briefed me on the military situation.” It had been Bada, but this sounded better. “The fighting has been inconclusive so far. Wilwulf wants the army to regroup, rearm, go back and finish the job—but he can’t lead you. So the main task of the court this morning is to appoint a new commander. Wilf did not express a wish, but I assume his brother Wigelm must be the preferred candidate.”

Bada spoke up. “He can’t do it—he can’t ride.”

Ragna pretended ignorance. “Why not?”

Garulf said: “He’s got a sore arsehole.”

The men chuckled.

Bada said: “He has piles—very badly.”

“So he really can’t get on a horse?”

“No.”

“Well,” Ragna said, as if thinking on her feet; “the next choice would have to be Sheriff Den.”

As agreed, Den pretended reluctance. “Perhaps a nobleman would be better, my lady.”

“If the thanes can agree on one of their number . . .” Ragna said dubiously.

Wynstan stood up from the bench where he had been sitting and stepped forward, making himself the center of attention. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he said, spreading his arms in a gesture of appeal and looking around the group.

Ragna’s heart sank. He’s got a plan, she thought, and I didn’t foresee it.

Wynstan said: “The commander should be Wilf’s son.”

Ragna said: “Osbert is two years old!”

“I mean his eldest son, of course.” Wynstan paused, smiling. “Garulf.”

“But Garulf is only—” Ragna stopped, realizing that although she thought of Garulf as a lad he was in fact twenty, with a man’s muscular body and a full beard. He was old enough to lead an army.

Whether he was wise enough was another question.

Wynstan said: “Everyone here knows Garulf to be a brave man!”

There was general agreement. Garulf had always been popular with the men-at-arms. But did they really want him to decide strategy?

Ragna said: “And do we feel that Garulf has the brains to lead the army?”

She probably should not have said it. The question would have come better from one of the thanes, a fighting man. They were predisposed to scorn anything a woman might say on such a subject. Her intervention shored up support for Garulf.

Bada said: “Garulf is young, but he has the aggressive spirit.”

Ragna saw the men nodding. She tried one more time. “The sheriff is more experienced.”

Wynstan said: “At collecting taxes!”

They all laughed, and Ragna knew she had lost.

* * *

Edgar was not used to failure. When it came, it bowled him over.

He had tried to build a bridge across the river at Dreng’s Ferry, but it had proved impossible.