Much of Ragna’s strategy came from her father. He enjoyed meeting people and was good at making them his friends. Later, perhaps, some would become enemies—no ruler could please everyone all the time—but they would oppose him reluctantly. He had taught Ragna a lot and she had learned more just by watching him.

Gerbert brought a chair and placed it outside the west front of the church, and Ragna sat while everyone else stood around. Gerbert then presented Gaston, a big, strong peasant of about thirty with a shock of black hair. His face showed indignation, but she guessed he was normally an amiable type.

“Now, Gaston,” she said, “the time has come for you to tell me and your neighbors why you will not pay your rent.”

“My lady, I stand before you—”

“Wait.” Ragna held up a hand to stop him. “Remember that this is not the court of the king of the Franks.” The villagers tittered. “We don’t need a formal speech with high-flown phrases.” There was not much chance of Gaston making such a speech, but he would probably try if he was not given a clear lead. “Imagine that you’re drinking cider with a group of friends and they’ve asked you why you’re so riled up.”

“Yes, my lady. My lady, I haven’t paid the rent because I can’t.”

Gerbert said: “Rubbish.”

Ragna frowned at Gerbert. “Wait your turn,” she said sharply.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Gaston, what is your rent?”

“I raise beef cattle, my lady, and I owe your noble father two year-old beasts every Midsummer Day.”

“And you say you don’t have the beasts?”

Gerbert interrupted again. “Yes, he does.”

“Gerbert!”

“Sorry, my lady.”

Gaston said: “My pasture was invaded. All the grass was eaten by Bernard’s sheep. My cows had to eat old hay, so their milk dried up and two of my calves died.”

Ragna looked around, trying to remember which one was Bernard. Her eye lit on a small, thin man with hair like straw. Not being sure, she looked up at the sky and said: “Let’s hear from Bernard.”

She had been right. The thin man coughed and said: “Gaston owes me a calf.”

Ragna saw that this was going to be a convoluted argument with a long history. “Wait a moment,” she said. “Is it true that your sheep cropped Gaston’s pasture?”

“Yes, but he owed me.”

“We’ll get to that. You let your sheep into his field.”

“I had good reason.”

“But that’s why Gaston’s calves died.”

Gerbert, the reeve, put in: “Only this year’s newborn calves died. He still has last year’s. He’s got two one-year-olds he can give to the count for his rent.”

Gaston said: “But then I’ll have no one-year-olds next year.”

Ragna began to get the dizzy feeling that always came when she tried to grasp a peasant squabble. “Quiet, everyone,” she said. “So far we’ve established that Bernard invaded Gaston’s pasture—perhaps with reason, we shall see about that—and as a result Gaston feels, rightly or wrongly, that he is too poor to pay any rent this year. Now, Gaston, is it true that you owe Bernard a calf? Answer yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“And why have you not paid him?”

“I will pay him. I just haven’t been able to yet.”

Gerbert said indignantly: “Repayment can’t be postponed forever!”

Ragna listened patiently while Gaston explained why he had borrowed from Bernard and what difficulties he had paying him back. Along the way, a variety of barely relevant issues were raised: perceived insults to one another, wives’ insults to other wives, disputes about which words had been uttered and in what tone of voice. Ragna let it run. They needed to vent their anger. But finally she called a halt.

“I’ve heard enough,” she said. “This is my decision. First, Gaston owes my father, the count, two year-old calves. No excuses. He was wrong to withhold them. He will not be punished for his transgression, because he was provoked; but what he owes, he owes.”

They received that with mixed reactions. Some muttered disapprovingly, others nodded agreement. Gaston’s face was a mask of injured innocence.

“Second, Bernard is responsible for the deaths of two of Gaston’s calves. Gaston’s unpaid debt does not excuse Bernard’s transgression. So Bernard owes Gaston two calves. However, Gaston already owed one calf to Bernard, so that leaves only one calf to pay.”

Now Bernard looked shocked. Ragna was being tougher than the people had expected. But they did not protest: her decisions were lawful.

“Finally, this dispute should not have been allowed to fester, and the blame for that lies with Gerbert.”

Gerbert said indignantly: “My lady, may I speak?”

“Certainly not,” said Ragna. “You’ve had your chance. It’s my turn now. Be silent.”

Gerbert clammed up.

Ragna said: “Gerbert is the reeve and should have resolved it long ago. I believe he was persuaded not to do so by his wife, Renée, who wanted him to favor her brother Bernard.”

Renée looked abashed.

Ragna went on: “Because all this is partly Gerbert’s fault, he will forfeit a calf. I know he’s got one, I saw it in his yard. He will give the calf to Bernard, who will give it to Gaston. And so debts are settled and wrongdoers are punished.”

She could tell instantly that the villagers approved of her judgment. She had insisted on obedience to the rules, but she had done it in a clever way. She saw them nodding to one another, some smiling, none objecting.

“And now,” she said, standing up, “you can give me a cup of your famous cider, and Gaston and Bernard can drink together and make friends.”

The buzz of conversation grew as everyone discussed what had happened. Father Louis came to Ragna and said: “Deborah was one of the judges of Israel. That’s how you got your nickname.”

“Correct.”

“She is the only female judge.”

“So far.”

He nodded. “You did that well.”

I’ve impressed him at last, Ragna thought.

They drank their cider and took their leave. Riding back to Cherbourg, Ragna asked Louis about Guillaume.

“He’s tall,” Louis said.

That might help, she thought. “What makes him angry?”

Louis’s glance told Ragna that he recognized the shrewdness of her question. “Nothing much,” he said. “Guillaume takes life phlegmatically, in general. He may get irritated when a servant is careless: food badly cooked, a saddle loosely strapped, rumpled bed linen.”

He sounded persnickety, Ragna thought.

“He’s very well thought of at Orléans,” Louis went on. Orléans was the main seat of the French court. “His uncle, the king, is fond of him.”

“Is Guillaume ambitious?”

“No more than is usual in a young nobleman.”

A wary response, Ragna thought. Either Guillaume was ambitious to a fault, or the reverse. She said: “What is he interested in? Hunting? Breeding horses? Music?”

“He loves beautiful things. He collects enameled brooches and embellished strap ends. He has good taste. But you haven’t asked me what I thought might have been a girl’s first question.”

“What’s that?”

“Whether he’s handsome.”

“Ah,” said Ragna, “on that matter I must make my own judgment.”

As they rode into Cherbourg, Ragna noticed that the wind had changed. “Your ship will sail this evening,” she said to Aldred. “You have an hour before the tide turns, but you’d better get on board.”

They returned to the castle. Aldred retrieved his box of books. Louis and Ragna went with him as he walked Dismas down to the waterfront. Aldred said: “It’s been a delight meeting you, Lady Ragna. If I’d known there were girls like you, perhaps I wouldn’t have become a monk.”

It was the first flirtatious remark he had made to her, and she knew right away that he was merely being polite. “Thank you for the compliment,” she said. “But you would have become a monk anyway.”

He smiled ruefully, clearly understanding what she was thinking.

Ragna would probably never see him again, which was a shame, she thought.

A ship was coming in on the tail of the tide. It looked like an English fishing vessel, she thought. The crew furled the sail and the ship drifted toward the shore.

Aldred went on board his chosen vessel with his horse. The crew were already untying the ropes and raising the anchor. Meanwhile, the English fishing boat was doing the reverse.

Aldred waved to Ragna and Louis as the ship began to float away from land on the turning tide. At the same time, a small group of men disembarked from the newly arrived vessel. Ragna looked at them with idle curiosity. They had big mustaches but no beards, which marked them as English.

Ragna’s eye was drawn to the tallest of them. Aged about forty, he had a thick mane of blond hair. A blue cloak, ruffled now by the breeze, was fastened across his broad shoulders by an elaborate silver pin; his belt had a highly decorated silver buckle and strap end; and the hilt of his sword was encrusted with precious stones. English jewelers were the best in Christendom, Ragna had been told.

The Englishman walked with a confident stride, and his companions hurried to keep up. He came straight toward Ragna and Louis, no doubt guessing from their clothes that they were people of importance.

Ragna said: “Welcome to Cherbourg, Englishman. What brings you here?”