As darkness was falling Ragna slipped out of the compound. She pulled her hood over her head and hurried across the town. She was happy to be on her way to see Edgar. It was a familiar feeling, she realized. She had always been happy to see him. And he had been an unfailingly good friend to her ever since she came to England.

She found Sheriff Den and his wife preparing to go to bed. Edgar was occupying an empty house in the compound, Den told her, and he took her there. The place was lit by a single rush light. Edgar stood by the fireplace, but there was no fire: the weather was warm.

Den said briskly: “Your horses will be ready at first light.”

“Thank you,” Ragna said. Some of the English were decent folk and others were pigs, she reflected; perhaps it was the same everywhere. “You’ve probably saved my life.”

“I’m doing what I believe the king would wish,” he said, then he added: “And I’m glad to help you.” He looked at the two of them with a faint smile. “I’ll leave you to make final arrangements.” He went out.

Ragna’s heart beat faster. She had seldom been alone with Edgar—so seldom in fact that she could clearly recall each occasion. The first had been five years ago at Dreng’s Ferry when he had rowed her across to Leper Island. She remembered the darkness, the patter of the rain falling on the surface of the river, and the warmth of his strong arms as he carried her from the boat through the shallows to dry land. The second had been four years later, at Outhenham, in his house at the quarry, when she had kissed him, and he had almost died of embarrassment. And the third time had been at Dreng’s Ferry, when he had showed her the box he had made for the book she had given him, and she had as good as admitted that his love comforted her.

This was the fourth time.

She said: “Everything is ready.” She meant for the escape.

“Here, too.” He looked ill at ease.

“Relax,” she said. “I’m not going to bite you.”

He gave a sheepish grin. “Worse luck.”

Looking at him in the dim light, she wanted nothing more than to take him in her arms. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. She stepped closer. “I’ve realized something,” she said.

“What?”

“We’re not friends.”

He understood right away. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re something else entirely.”

She put her hands on his cheeks, feeling the soft hair of his beard. “Such a good face,” she said. “Strong, intelligent, and kind.”

He dropped his eyes.

She said: “Am I embarrassing you?”

“Yes, but don’t stop.”

She thought of Wilwulf, and wondered how she could have loved a warrior. It had been a girlish love, she thought. What she was feeling now was grown-up desire. But she could not say any of that, so she kissed him instead.

It was a long, soft kiss, their lips exploring gently. She stroked his cheeks and his hair, and she felt his hands on her waist. After a long minute she broke the kiss, panting. “Oh, my,” she said. “Can I have some more of that?”

“As much as you like,” he said. “I’ve been saving it up.”

She felt guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“That you waited so long. Five years.”

“I’d have waited ten.”

Tears came to her eyes. “I don’t deserve such love.”

“Yes, you do.”

She longed to do something to please him. She said: “Do you like my breasts?”

“Yes. That’s why I’ve been staring at them all these years.”

“Would you like to touch them?”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely.

She bent and lifted the hem of her dress, pulling it over her head with a swift motion, and stood naked in front of him.

“Oh, my,” he said. He caressed her with both hands, squeezing lightly, touched her nipples with feathery fingertips. His breath was coming faster. She thought he looked like a thirsty man finding a stream. After a while he said: “Can I kiss them?”

“Edgar,” she said, “you can kiss anything you like.”

He bent his head and she stroked his hair, watching him in the flickering light as his lips moved over her skin.

His kisses became more urgent and she said: “If you suck, you’ll get milk.”

He laughed. “Would I like it?”

She loved how he could be passionate and laugh all at the same time. She smiled. “I don’t know,” she said.

Then he turned serious again. “Can we lie down?”

“Wait a minute.” She bent and lifted the skirt of his tunic. When it was up to his waist she kissed the tip of his cock. Then she pulled the garment over his head.

They lay side by side and she explored his body with her hands, feeling his chest, his waist, his thighs; and he did the same to her. She felt his hand between her legs, and his fingertip in the wet cleft. She shuddered with pleasure.

Suddenly she was impatient. She rolled on top of him and guided his cock inside her. She moved slowly at first, then faster. Looking down at his face, she thought: I didn’t know how much I was longing for this. It was not just the sensation, the pleasure, the excitement; it was more, it was the intimacy, the openness with each other; it was the love.

He closed his eyes, but she did not want that, and she said: “Look at me, look at me.” He opened his eyes. “I love you,” she said. Then she was swamped by the sheer joy of doing this with him, and she cried out, and at the same time felt him convulse inside her. It went on for a long moment, then she collapsed on his chest, exhausted with emotion.

As she lay on him, the memories of the last five years came to her like a remembered poem. She recalled the terrifying storm when she had been aboard the Angel; the helmeted outlaw who had stolen her wedding gift for Wilf; the loathsome Wigelm groping her breasts the first time they met; the shock of learning that Wilf was already married, with a son; the misery of his infidelity with Carwen; the horror of his murder; the malice of Wynstan. And through it all there had been Edgar, whose kindness had turned into affection and then passionate love. Thank God for Edgar, she thought. Thank God.

* * *

After she had gone Edgar lay for a long time in a daze of happiness. He had thought that he was doomed to have two impossible loves, one for a dead woman and one for an unattainable one. And now Ragna had said that she loved him. Ragna of Cherbourg, the most beautiful woman in England, loved Edgar the builder.

He relived every minute: the kiss; her taking off her dress; her breasts; the way she had kissed his cock, lightly, affectionately, almost in passing; her telling him to open his eyes and look at her. Had two people ever enjoyed each other so intensely? Had two people ever loved each other so much?

Well, probably, he thought, but perhaps not very many.

With his head full of the most pleasant thoughts, he drifted off to sleep.

The monastery bell woke him. His first thought was: Did I really make love to Ragna? His second: Am I late?

Yes, he had made love to her, and no, he was not late. The monks got up an hour before dawn. He had plenty of time.

He and Ragna had not thought beyond the next two days. They would get out of Shiring, they would travel to Dreng’s Ferry, Ragna would take refuge in the nunnery, and then they would think about the future. But now he could not help speculating.

The social distance between them was not as great as it had been. Edgar was a prosperous craftsman, an important man in both Dreng’s Ferry and Outhenham. Ragna was a noblewoman, but a widow, and her financial resources were under attack by Wynstan. The gap was smaller—but still too large. Edgar saw no way out of this, but he was not going to let that spoil his happiness today.

He found Sheriff Den in the kitchen, breakfasting off cold beef and ale. Edgar was too tense and excited to feel hungry, but he made himself eat something: he might need his strength.

Den looked through the door up at the sky and said: “It’s getting light.”

Edgar frowned. It was not like Ragna to be late for anything.

He went to the stable. The grooms were saddling three horses, for Ragna, Cat, and Agnes, and loading a packhorse with panniers for the supplies. Edgar saddled Buttress.

Den appeared and said: “Everything is ready—except for Ragna.”

“I’ll go to her,” said Edgar.

He hurried through the town. Dawn was brightening and smoke rose from a bakery, but he did not see anyone on his way to the ealdorman’s compound.

Sometimes the gate entrance was barred and guarded, but not now: this year there was a truce with the Vikings, and the Welsh were going through a dormant phase. He opened the gate quietly. The compound was silent.

He walked quickly toward Ragna’s house. He knocked sharply on the door then tried the handle. It was not barred from the inside. He opened the door and stepped inside.

There was no one there.

He frowned, suddenly terribly fearful. What could have happened?

There were no lights. He peered into the gloom. A mouse scampered across the hearth: it must be cold. As his eyes grew accustomed to the faint light from the open doorway, he saw that most of Ragna’s possessions were here—dresses hanging from pegs, cheese box and meat safe, cups and bowls—but the children’s cots had gone.