Wigelm thought for a minute, then said: “We have to steal the will and destroy it.”

Wynstan sighed. Sometimes it seemed he was the only person who understood anything. “People make copies of documents to guard against that sort of thing. I imagine that all three witnesses took away duplicates from the meeting at Dreng’s Ferry. In the unlikely event that there are no copies, Ragna could just write another will and get it witnessed again.”

Wigelm’s face took on a familiar petulant look. “Well, what can we do, then?”

“We can’t let the situation continue.”

“I agree.”

“We have to destroy Ragna’s power.”

“I’m in favor of that.”

Wynstan led Wigelm step-by-step. “Her power depends on Wilf.”

“And we don’t want to take that away from him.”

“No.” Wynstan sighed. “I hate to say it, but all our problems will be solved if Wilf dies soon.”

Wigelm shrugged. “That’s in God’s hands, as you priests like to say.”

“Perhaps.”

“What?”

“His demise could be hastened.”

Wigelm was baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s only one answer.”

“Well, come on, spit it out, Wynstan.”

“We have to kill Wilf.”

“Ha, ha!”

“I mean it.”

Wigelm was shocked. “He’s our brother!”

“Half brother. And he’s losing his mind. He’s more or less under control of the cow from Normandy, something that would shame him if he wasn’t too demented to know that it’s happening. It will be a kindness to end his life.”

“Still . . .” Wigelm lowered his voice, even though the room was empty but for the two of them. “To kill a brother!”

“What needs to be done must be done.”

“We can’t,” said Wigelm. “It’s out of the question. Think of something else. You’re the great thinker.”

“And I think you’ll hate it when you’re replaced as reeve of Combe by someone who hands over taxes to the ealdorman without skimming a fifth off the top.”

“Would Ragna replace me?”

“In a heartbeat. She’d have done it already, except that no one would believe Wilf had agreed to it. Once he’s gone . . .”

Wigelm looked thoughtful again. “King Ethelred wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Why not?” said Wynstan. “He did the same thing himself.”

“I’ve heard some such story.”

“Twenty-four years ago, Ethelred’s older half brother, Edward, was king. Ethelred was living with his mother, Elfryth, who was stepmother to the king. Edward went to visit them and was murdered by their men-at-arms. Ethelred was crowned the following year.”

“Ethelred must have been about twelve years old.”

Wynstan shrugged. “Young? Yes. Innocent? God knows.”

Wigelm made a skeptical face. “We can’t kill Wilf. He has a squad of bodyguards, commanded by Bern the Giant, who is a Norman and a longtime servant of Ragna’s.”

One day, Wynstan thought, I won’t be here to do all the thinking for my family. I wonder if then they will just stand still and do nothing, like an ox team when the ploughman walks away.

He said: “The killing itself is easy. It’s the management of the aftermath we have to worry about. We’ll need to move into action the minute he’s dead, while Ragna is still stunned with shock. We don’t want to eliminate Wilf only to find that she takes charge anyway. We have to become masters of Shiring before she recovers her composure.”

“How do we do that?”

“We need a plan.”

* * *

Ragna was not sure about the feast.

Gytha had come to her with a reasonable request. “We should celebrate Wilf’s recovery,” she said. “Let everyone know that he’s fit and well again.”

He was not, of course, but the pretence was important. However, Ragna did not like him to drink to excess: he became even more fuddled than a normal drunk. “What kind of celebration?” she said, prevaricating.

“A feast,” said Gytha. “The way he likes,” she added pointedly. “With dancing girls, not poets.”

He was entitled to some fun, Ragna thought guiltily. “And a juggler,” she said. “And a jester, perhaps?”

“I knew you’d agree,” Gytha said quickly, nailing it down.

“I have to leave for Sherborne on the first day of July,” Ragna said. “Let’s do it on the night before.”

That morning she made her plans and packed her bags. She was ready to depart next day, but first she had to sit through tonight’s feast.

Gytha donated a barrel of mead to the festivities. Made from fermented honey, mead was both sweet and strong, and men could get drunk on it quickly. Ragna would have forbidden it if she had been asked, but now she did not want to seem a killjoy, so she made no objection. She could do no more than hope that Wilf would not drink too much. She spoke to Bern and ordered him to remain sober, so that he could look after Wilf if necessary.

Wilf and his brothers were in a convivial mood, but to her relief they seemed to be drinking moderately. Some of the men-at-arms were not so judicious, perhaps because for them mead was a rare treat, and the evening became raucous.

The jester was very funny, and came dangerously close to lampooning Wynstan, pretending to be a priest and blessing a dancing girl then grabbing her breasts. Happily, Wynstan was not in a mood to take offense, and he laughed as heartily as anyone.

Darkness fell, the lamps were lit, the table was cleared of dirty bowls, and the drinking continued. Some people became sleepy or amorous, or both. Adolescents flirted, and married women giggled when their friends’ husbands took minor liberties. If major liberties were taken it happened outside, in the dark.

Wilf began to look tired. Ragna was about to suggest that Bern help him to bed, but his brothers took charge: Wynstan and Wigelm held an arm each and escorted him out.

Carwen followed close behind.

Ragna summoned Bern. “The bodyguards are all more or less drunk,” she said. “I want you to stand guard with them all night.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Bern.

“You can sleep tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you.”

“Good night, Bern.”

“Good night, my lady.”

* * *

Wynstan and Wigelm went to Gytha’s house and sat up into the small hours, talking in desultory fashion, making sure they did not fall asleep.

Wynstan had explained the plan to Gytha, and she had been shocked and horrified at the idea that her sons wanted to murder her stepson. She had challenged Wynstan’s deduction about the document written at Dreng’s Ferry: could he be sure it was Wilf’s last will and testament? As it happened, Wynstan was able to reassure her, for he had received confirmation of his speculation. Bishop Modulf had indiscreetly confided in his neighbor Thane Deorman of Norwood, and Deorman had told Wynstan.

Gytha had agreed to Wynstan’s plan, as he had known she would in the end. “What needs to be done must be done,” she had said. All the same she looked troubled.

Wynstan was tense. If this went seriously wrong and the plot was revealed, both he and Wigelm would be executed for treason.

He had tried to envisage every possible obstacle in his way and plan how to overcome each one, but there were always unexpected snags, and that thought kept him stressed.

When he judged the time was right he stood up. He picked up a lamp, a leather strap, and a small cloth bag, all of which he had got ready earlier.

Wigelm got to his feet and nervously touched the long-bladed dagger in its sheath at his belt.

Gytha said: “Don’t make Wilf suffer, will you?”

Wigelm replied: “I’ll do my best.”

“He’s not my son, but I loved his father. Remember that.”

Wynstan said: “We’ll remember it, mother.”

The two brothers left the house.

Here we go, Wynstan thought.

There were always three bodyguards outside Wilf’s house: one at the door and one at each of the two front corners of the building. Wigelm had spent two nights observing them, partly through cracks in Gytha’s walls and partly by going outside to piss frequently. He had found that all three bodyguards spent most of the night sitting on the ground with their backs to the walls of the house, and they often dozed off. Tonight they were probably in a drunken stupor and would not even know that two murderers were entering the house they were guarding. However, Wynstan had a story ready in case they were wide awake.

They were not, but he was taken aback to find Bern standing in front of Wilf’s door.

“God be with you, my lord bishop, and you, Thane Wigelm,” said Bern in his French accent.