agna sat astride her horse and looked down the slope at the village of Dreng’s Ferry. The ruined bridge stood out like a gallows in a marketplace. The blackened timbers were twisted and broken. At the far end nothing was left but the deeply embedded abutment: the boats and the superstructure had become detached, and scorched beams littered the downstream banks. At the near side the flat-bottomed boats were still in place, but the framework and the roadbed had collapsed into them, forming a tragic heap of destroyed carpentry.

She felt for Edgar. He had talked passionately about this bridge whenever they met in Outhenham and Shiring: the challenge of building in the river, the need for strength enough to bear the weight of loaded carts, the beauty of well-fitting oak joinery. He had put his soul into that bridge, and now he must be heartbroken.

No one knew who had set the fire, but Ragna had no doubt about who was behind it. Only Bishop Wynstan was malicious enough to do such a thing and clever enough to get away with it.

She hoped to see Edgar today, to talk about the quarry, but she was not sure whether he was here or at Outhenham. She would be disappointed if she had missed him. However, that was not her main purpose here.

She touched Astrid’s flanks with her heels and moved slowly down the hill, followed by her entourage. Wilwulf was with her, and she had brought Agnes as her maid—Cat was back at the compound taking care of the children. Ragna was guarded by Bern and six men-at-arms.

Wilf now spent his days being cared for by Ragna and his nights with Carwen. He pleased himself, as he always had; in that respect he had not changed. He saw Ragna as a banquet table from which he could select what he wanted, leaving the rest. He had loved her body until he was distracted by another one; he relied more than ever on her intelligence to help him govern; and he acted as if she had no more soul than his favorite horse.

In the days since his physical recovery she had developed a sense that he was in danger, an intuition that was getting stronger. She had come to Dreng’s Ferry to do something about it. She had a plan, and she was here to win support for it.

Dreng’s Ferry smelled of brewing ale, as it often did. She rode past a house with a display of silvery fish on a stone slab outside the door: the village had acquired its first shop. There was a new extension on the north side of the little church.

By the time she and Wilf reached the monastery, Aldred and the monks were lined up outside to greet them. Wilf and the men would sleep here tonight; Ragna and Agnes would cross to Leper Island and spend the night at the nunnery, where Ragna would be welcomed only too warmly by Mother Agatha.

For some reason she was reminded of her first meeting with Aldred, back in Cherbourg. He was still handsome, but his face now had worry lines that had not been there five years ago. He was not yet forty, she calculated, but he looked older.

She greeted him and said: “Are the others here?”

“Waiting in the church, in accordance with your instructions,” he replied.

She turned to Wilf. “Why don’t you go to the stable with the men and make sure the horses are looked after?”

“Good idea,” said Wilf.

Ragna went with Aldred to the church. “I see you’ve built an extension,” she said as they approached the entrance.

“Thanks to free stone from you, and a builder who takes reading lessons instead of pay.”

“Edgar.”

“Of course. The new transept is a side chapel for the relics of Saint Adolphus.”

They went in. A trestle table had been set up in the nave, with parchment, a bottle of ink, several quills, and a penknife with which to sharpen the points of the quills. Sitting on benches at the table were Bishop Modulf of Norwood and Sheriff Den.

Ragna felt confident of the support of Aldred for her scheme. The hard-faced Sheriff Den had consented in advance. She was not so sure of Modulf, a thin man with a sharp mind. He would help her if her plan made sense to him, but not otherwise.

She sat down with them. “Thank you, bishop, and you, sheriff, for agreeing to meet me here.”

Den said: “Always a pleasure, my lady.”

Modulf said warily: “I’m eager to hear the reason for this mysterious invitation.”

Ragna got straight down to business. “Ealdorman Wilwulf is now physically well, but as you eat supper with him this evening you’ll wonder about his mind. I can tell you now that he is not the man he used to be, mentally, and all the signs are that he will never return to normal.”

Den nodded. “I had wondered . . .”

Modulf said: “And what, exactly, do you mean when you say ‘mentally’?”

“His memory is erratic and he has difficulty with numbers. This leads him to make embarrassing mistakes. He addressed Thane Deorman of Norwood as ‘Emma’ and offered him a thousand pounds for his horse. If I’m present, which is nearly always, I laugh and try to brush it off.”

Modulf said: “This is bad news.”

“I’m sure Wilf is now incapable of leading an army against the Vikings.”

Aldred said: “I noticed, a few minutes ago, that you told him to go to the stable with the men, and he just obeyed you like a child.”

Ragna nodded. “The old Wilf would have bristled at orders from his wife. But he’s lost his aggression.”

Den said: “That makes it serious.”

Ragna went on: “For the most part people accept my explanations, but that can’t last. The shrewder men are already noticing a change, as Aldred and Den have, and before long people will talk of it openly.”

Den said: “A weak ealdorman offers an opportunity to an ambitious and unscrupulous thane.”

Aldred said: “What do you think might happen, sheriff?”

Den did not answer immediately.

Ragna said: “I think someone will kill him.”

Den gave the briefest of nods: it was what he had thought but hesitated to say.

There was a long silence.

Finally Modulf said: “But what can Aldred, Den, and I do about it?”

Ragna suppressed a sigh of satisfaction. She had won her point; she had convinced the bishop that there was a problem. Now she had to sell him her solution.

“I think there is one way to protect him,” she said. “He’s going to make a will. It will be in English, so that Wilf can read it.”

“And me,” said Den. Noblemen and royal officials could often read English but not Latin.

Modulf said: “And what will the deed say?”

“He will make our son Osbert heir to his fortune and the ealdormanry, with me to manage everything on Osbert’s behalf until he comes of age. Wilf will agree to it today, here in the church, and I’m asking you three dignitaries to witness his agreement and put your names to the document.”

Modulf said: “I’m not a worldly man. I’m afraid I don’t see how this protects Wilwulf from assassination.”

“The only motive for anyone to murder Wilf would be the hope of succeeding him as ealdorman. The will preempts that by making Osbert the successor.”

Den, who was the king’s man in Shiring, said: “Such a will would have no validity unless endorsed by the king.”

“Indeed,” said Ragna. “And when I have your names on the parchment I will take it to King Ethelred and beg his consent.”

“Will the king agree?” said Modulf.

Den said: “Inheritance is by no means automatic. It is the king’s prerogative to choose the ealdorman.”

“I don’t know what the king will say,” Ragna said. “I only know I have to ask.”

Aldred said: “Where is the king now—does anybody know?”

Den knew. “As it happens, he’s on his way south,” he said. “He’ll be at Sherborne in three weeks’ time.”

“I will see him there,” said Ragna.

* * *

Edgar knew that Ragna had arrived in Dreng’s Ferry, but he was not sure he would see her. She was with Wilwulf, and they had come for a meeting at the monastery that involved two other nobles whose identities were being kept secret. So he was surprised and overjoyed when she walked into his house.

It was like the sun coming from behind a cloud. He felt short of breath, as if he had been running uphill. She smiled, and he was the happiest man on earth.

She looked around his house, and suddenly he saw it through her eyes: the neat rack of tools on the wall, the small wine barrel and cheese safe, the cooking pot over the fire giving off a pleasant herby odor, Brindle wagging a greeting.

She pointed to the box on the table. “That’s beautiful,” she said. Edgar had made it, and carved a design of interlocking serpents to symbolize wisdom. “What do you keep in such a lovely container?” she asked.

“Something precious. A gift from you.” He lifted the lid.

Inside was a small book called Enigmata, a collection of riddles in poem form, a favorite of Ragna’s. She had given it to him when he learned to read. “I didn’t know you made a special box for it,” she said. “How nice.”

“I must be the only builder in England who owns a book.”

She gave him that smile again and said: “God didn’t make two like you, Edgar.”

He felt warm all over.

She said: “I’m so sorry about the burning of the bridge! I’m sure Wynstan had something to do with it.”

“I agree.”

“Can you rebuild it?”

“Yes, but what’s the point? It could be burned down again. He got away with it once, he may do so again.”

“I suppose so.”

Edgar was sick of talking about the bridge. To change the subject he asked her: “How are you?”