They went on to discuss a murrain that had killed a number of sheep, and which Ragna thought was caused by grazing them on wet clay soil; but their conversation was interrupted. Eanfrid cocked his head, and a moment later Ragna heard what had caught his attention: the sound of thirty or more horses approaching, not cantering or even trotting but walking with weary steps. It was the noise made by a wealthy nobleman and his entourage on a long journey.

The autumn sun was red in the west: the visitors would undoubtedly decide to stay the night at Outhenham. The village would welcome them with mixed feelings. Travelers brought silver: they would buy food and drink, and pay for accommodation. But they might also get drunk and pester girls and start fights.

Ragna and Eanfrid stood up. A minute later the horsemen appeared, winding through the houses to the center of the village.

At their head was Wigelm.

Ragna was possessed by fear. This was the man who had imprisoned her, raped her, and stolen her child. What new torture had he devised for her? She controlled her trembling. She had always stood up to him. She would do so again.

Riding beside Wigelm was his nephew, Garulf, the son of Wilwulf and Inge. He was twenty-five now, but Ragna knew that he was no wiser than he had been as an adolescent. He looked like Wilf, with the fair beard and broad-shouldered swagger of the family men. She winced to think she had married two of them.

Eanfrid murmured: “What does Wigelm want here?”

“Only God knows,” Ragna replied in a shaky voice, then she added: “And maybe Satan.”

Wigelm reined in his dusty horse. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Ragna,” he said.

She was somewhat relieved. His remark indicated that he had not planned this meeting. Any evil he tried to do her would be improvised. “I don’t know why you’d be surprised,” she said. “I’m lord of the Vale of Outhen. What do you want here?”

“I’m ealdorman of Shiring, I’m traveling in my territory, and I intend to spend the night here.”

“Outhenham welcomes you, Ealdorman Wigelm,” Ragna said with cold formality. “Please enter the alehouse and take refreshment.”

He remained on his horse. “Your father complained to King Ethelred,” he said.

“Of course he did.” She got some of her nerve back. “Your behavior has been disgraceful.”

“Ethelred fined me one hundred pounds of silver for setting you aside without his permission.”

“Good.”

“I didn’t pay the fine, though,” said Wigelm; and he laughed heartily, then dismounted.

His men followed suit. The younger ones set about unsaddling the horses while the seniors settled in the alehouse and called for drink. Ragna would have liked to retire, but she felt she could not leave Eanfrid alone to cope with this visitation—he might struggle to keep order, and her authority would help.

She moved around the village, doing her best to stay out of Wigelm’s sight. She told the young men to put the horses to graze in a neighboring pasture. Then she picked out the houses where Wigelm and his entourage might spend the night, choosing the homes of older couples or young marrieds with small babies, avoiding those where there were adolescent girls. It was usual to pay the householder a penny for accommodating four men, and the family were expected to share their breakfast with the guests.

The village priest, Draca, who raised beef cattle, butchered a young steer and sold it to Eanfrid, who built a fire behind the tavern and roasted the joints on a spit. While the men were waiting for the meat they drank ale, and Eanfrid emptied two barrels and opened a third.

They spent an hour singing raucous anthems of violence and sex, then became argumentative. Just when Ragna feared a fight was imminent, Eanfrid served the beef, with bread and onions, which shut them up. After eating they began to drift off to their lodgings, and Ragna judged she could safely go to bed.

She returned to the house in the quarry with Osgyth and Ceolwulf. They barred the door firmly. They had brought blankets with them, but it was not yet winter cold, and they lay down in the straw wrapped only in their cloaks. Ceolwulf lay across the door, the approved position for a bodyguard, but Ragna caught a look between the two young people and guessed they planned to move closer together later.

Ragna lay awake for an hour or more, unnerved by the surprise appearance of her enemy Wigelm; but finally she drifted into a perturbed sleep.

She awoke with the sense that she had not been asleep long. She sat up and looked around, frowning, wondering uneasily what had disturbed her. In the firelight she saw that Osgyth and Ceolwulf had gone. She guessed they wanted to be alone, and had slipped away into the woods, where they were now probably under a bush, discovering sex in the moonlight.

She was less inclined to be indulgent now. They were supposed to care for her and protect her, not sneak off and leave her alone in the middle of the night. They would both be sacked when they got back to King’s Bridge.

She heard a drunk man talking loudly and incoherently, and guessed it was Gab. The voice must be what had awakened her. However, she was safe behind a barred door, she thought; then she realized that Osgyth and Ceolwulf must have unbarred the door to get out.

The drunk came closer, and she recognized the voice. It was not Gab, but Wigelm, she realized with a fearful chill.

He had found her house easily, despite his state, she guessed in a dreadful flash—he had simply followed the canal—but it was a tragic miracle that he had not fallen in the water and drowned.

She leaped to secure the door, but she was a moment too late. As she put her hands on the heavy timber bar, the door opened and Wigelm stepped in. She sprang back with a cry of fear.

Wigelm was barefoot and without a cloak, despite the chill of the autumn night. He was not wearing a belt or carrying a sword or knife, which gave some relief to Ragna. He looked as if he had got up from his bed and had not troubled to get properly dressed.

There was a strong, sour smell of ale.

He peered at her in the firelight as if unsure who she was. He was swaying, and she realized that he was very drunk. For a moment she optimistically hoped he might pass out right there and then, but his puzzled expression cleared and he said in a slurred voice: “Ragna. Yes. I was looking for you.”

I can’t take this, Ragna thought. I can’t suffer any more by this man. I want to die.

She tried to hide her despair. “Please go away.”

“Lie down.”

“I’ll scream. Gab and his wife will hear me.” She was not sure that was true: the two houses were widely separated.

Her threat was ineffective for a different reason. “What will they do?” he said scornfully. “I’m their ealdorman.”

“Get out of my house.”

He shoved her hard. Caught off balance, and surprised by how strong he was despite being drunk, she fell on her back. The impact knocked the wind out of her.

He said: “Shut your mouth and open your legs.”

She caught her breath. “You can’t do this, I’m no longer your wife.”

He toppled forward. Clearly he intended to land on her, but at the last moment she rolled sideways, and he fell on his face. She got up on her hands and knees, but at the same time he turned on his back and grabbed her arm, pulling her toward him.

Trying to keep her balance, she moved her leg and, without intending it, planted her knee squarely in his belly. He said: “Oof!” and gasped.

Ragna moved the other leg so that both knees were in his belly, then she grabbed his arms and pressed them to the ground. In normal circumstances he could have thrown her off easily, but now he was unable to shake her.

It was an ironic reversal. For the first time ever, she had him at her mercy.

But what was she going to do?

His head moved from side to side, his eyes closed, and he gasped: “Can’t breathe.”

She realized that her knees were constricting his lungs, but she did not move to ease him, because she was terrified that he might regain his strength.

He seemed to convulse, and there was a smell of vomit. Liquid trickled from the corners of his mouth. His arms and legs went limp.

Ragna had heard of drunk men passing out and choking to death on their own puke. She realized, in a moment, that if Wigelm were to die now she would get Alain back: no one would say he should be raised by Meganthryth. A momentary wave of hope passed over her. She would have prayed for Wigelm to die, except that such a prayer seemed blasphemous.

Wigelm was not dying. His nose was full of liquid vomit but air was bubbling through it.

Could she kill him?

It would be a sin, and it would be dangerous. She would be a murderess and, although there was no one here to see what she was doing, she might nevertheless be found out somehow.

But she wanted him dead.

She thought of the year in prison, and the repeated rape, and the theft of her child. By forcing his way into her house tonight he had shown that his torture of her would never end, not while he lived. She had taken all she could stand; it had to end here and now.

God forgive me, she thought.

Tentatively, she took her hands away from his arms. He did not move.

She closed his mouth, then placed her left hand over his lips and pressed firmly.

He could still breathe through his nose, just.

She put her right forefinger and thumb either side of his nose and squeezed his nostrils.