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.