Cwenburg made a sudden recovery. “No, she doesn’t.” She got to her feet. “My father wanted me to inherit the alehouse.”

Aldred frowned. “Did he make a will?”

“No, but he told me.”

“That doesn’t count. The widow inherits.”

“She can’t run an alehouse!” Cwenburg said scornfully. “She’s always sick. I can, especially with Erman and Eadbald to help me.”

Ragna was sure Edgar would disapprove of this. She said: “Cwenburg, you and Erman and Eadbald are already rich, with your fishpond and your water mill, and paid laborers who do all the work on your farm. Do you really want to rob a widow of her livelihood?”

Cwenburg was abashed.

Ethel said: “But I’m not very strong. I don’t think I can manage it.”

Blod said: “I’ll help you.”

Ethel came over to her. “Will you, really?”

“I’ll have to. You own me, now, as well as the house.”

Mairead stood the other side of Ethel. “You own me, too.”

“I’ll free you in my will, I promise. Both of you.”

There was a murmur of approval from the watching villagers: freeing slaves was considered an act of piety.

Aldred said: “A lot of witnesses have heard your generous promise, Ethel. If you want to change your mind you should probably do it now.”

“I will never change my mind.”

Blod put her arm around Ethel, and Mairead did the same from the other side. Blod said: “We three women can manage the alehouse and look after Mairead’s baby—and make more money than Dreng ever did.”

“Yes,” said Ethel. “Perhaps we can.”

* * *

Wynstan found himself in a strange place. Puzzled, he looked around. It was an unfamiliar market square on a summer day, with people buying and selling eggs and cheese and hats and shoes all around him. He could see a church, large enough to be a cathedral. Alongside it was a fine house. Opposite was what looked like a monastery. On a hill beyond the square was a fenced compound that suggested the residence of a wealthy thane, perhaps an ealdorman. He felt scared. How had he got so lost? He could not even remember how he had come here. He felt himself shaking with terror.

A stranger bowed to him and said: “Good morning, bishop.”

He thought: Am I a bishop?

The stranger looked more closely at him and said: “Are you all right, your reverence?”

Suddenly everything fell into place. He was the bishop of Shiring, the church was his cathedral, and the house next to it was his residence. “Of course I’m all right,” he snapped.

The stranger, whom Wynstan now recognized as a butcher he had known for twenty years, walked rapidly away.

Feeling bewildered and frightened, Wynstan hurried to his house.

Inside was his cousin, Archdeacon Degbert, and Ithamar, a deacon of the cathedral. Ithamar’s wife, Eangyth, was pouring a cup of wine.

Degbert said: “Ithamar has some news.”

Ithamar looked scared. He said nothing while the maid set the wine on the table in front of him.

Wynstan was angry about his episode of forgetfulness, and he said impatiently: “Well, come on, spit it out.”

Ithamar said: “Alphage has been made archbishop of Canterbury.”

Wynstan was expecting this. Nevertheless, he felt a mad rage rise within him. Unable to control himself, he picked up a cup from the table and dashed the contents in Ithamar’s face. Not satisfied with that, he overturned the table. Eangyth screamed, so he clenched his fist and hit her across the head as hard as he could. She lay still, and he thought he had killed her; then she stirred, got up, and ran out of the room. Ithamar followed her, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his robe.

Degbert said nervously: “Calm yourself, cousin. Sit down. Have a cup of wine. Are you hungry? Shall I get you something to eat?”

“Oh, shut up,” Wynstan said, but he sat down and drank the wine that Degbert gave him.

When he had calmed down, Degbert said accusingly: “You promised to make me bishop of Shiring.”

“I can’t, now, can I?” Wynstan said. “There’s no vacancy, you fool.”

Degbert looked as if that was a poor excuse.

“It’s Ragna’s fault,” Wynstan said. “She started the stupid rumor that I had leprosy.” His rage began to return, and he seethed. “Her punishment was much too light. All we did was take away one of her children. She has three left to console her. I should have thought of something worse. I should have put her to work in Mags’s house until some filthy sailor gave her Whore’s Leprosy.”

“You know she was in the room when my brother Dreng died? I suspect she killed him. They put it about that he had some kind of seizure while beating his slave girl, but I’m sure Ragna had something to do with it.”

“I don’t care who killed Dreng,” Wynstan said. “He may have been my cousin but he was a fool, and so are you. Get out.”

Degbert left, and Wynstan was alone.

Something was wrong with him. He had flown into a berserk rage on being given news that merely confirmed his expectations. He had nearly murdered a priest’s wife. Worse, a few minutes earlier he had forgotten not only where he was but who he was.

I’m going mad, he said to himself, and the thought filled him with terror. He could not be mad. He was clever, he was ruthless, he always got his way. His allies were rewarded and his enemies were destroyed. The prospect of insanity was so horrifying as to be unbearable. He closed his eyes tight and banged both fists on the table in front of him, saying: “No, no, no!” He had a sensation of falling, as if he had jumped off the roof of the cathedral. He was going to hit the ground any second, and he would be smashed up and then he would die. He struggled to restrain himself from screaming.

As the terror eased, he thought more about jumping off the roof. He would hit the ground, then suffer a moment of unbearable agony, then die. But how badly would he be punished for the sin of suicide?

He was a holy priest; he could expect forgiveness. But for suicide?

He could confess his sins, say Mass, and die in a state of grace, could he not?

He could not. He would die condemned.

Degbert came back carrying the embroidered cope that Wynstan wore for services. “You’re due in the cathedral,” he said. “Unless you would prefer me to say Mass?”

“No, I’ll do it,” said Wynstan, and he stood up.

Ithamar draped the vestment over Wynstan’s shoulders.

Wynstan frowned. “I was worrying about something a moment ago,” he said. “I can’t think what it was.”

Ithamar said nothing.

“Never mind,” said Wynstan. “It can’t have been important.”

* * *

Ethel was dying.

Ragna sat in the alehouse late at night, with Blod and Mairead and Mairead’s new baby, Brigid, long after the last customers had staggered out the door. The room was lit by a smoky rush light. Ethel lay still with her eyes closed. Her breathing was shallow and her face was gray. Sister Agatha had said that the angels were calling her, and she was getting ready to go.

Blod and Mairead were planning to raise the baby together. “We don’t want men and we don’t need them,” Blod said to Ragna. Ragna was not surprised by their feelings, after the lives they had been forced to lead; but there was something else. Ragna had a feeling that Blod’s passion for Edgar might have been transferred to Mairead. It was only a feeling, and she was not sure and certainly would not ask.

Not long after dawn Ethel passed gently away. There was no crisis: she simply stopped breathing.

Blod and Mairead undressed her and washed the body. Ragna asked the two slaves what they planned to do now. Ethel had said she would free them, and Aldred had assured them that she had made a will. They could return to their homes, if they wished; but it seemed they were planning to stay together.

“I can’t travel to Ireland with a baby in my arms and no money,” Mairead said. “Not that I would know where in Ireland my home is. It’s a hamlet on the coast, but that’s all I could tell you. If the place had a name I never heard it. I’m not even sure how many days I was on the Viking ship before we got to Bristol.”

Ragna would help her with a little money, of course, but money would not solve the problem. She said: “What about you, Blod?”

Blod looked thoughtful. “It’s ten years since I saw my home in Wales. All my young friends must now be married with children. I don’t know whether my parents are alive or dead. I’m not sure how much I can remember of the Welsh language. I never imagined I would ever say this, but I almost feel as if this place is home.”

Ragna was not convinced. Was there something else at work here? Had Blod and Mairead become so attached to each other that they did not want to part?

The news of Ethel’s death soon got around, and shortly after dawn Cwenburg showed up with her two husbands. The men looked sheepish but Cwenburg was aggressive. “How dare you wash the body?” she said. “That was my job—I’m her stepdaughter!”

Ragna said: “They were only being helpful, Cwenburg.”

“I don’t care. This alehouse is mine, now, and I want those slaves out of here.”

“They’re no longer slaves,” Ragna said.