agna was not pregnant.

She had suffered agonies of apprehension for two weeks after Wilwulf left Cherbourg. To be impregnated and deserted was the ultimate humiliation, especially for a noble maiden. A peasant’s daughter who suffered the same fate would be equally mocked and scorned, but might eventually find someone to marry her and take on the raising of another man’s child. A lady would be shunned by every man of her class.

However, she had escaped that fate. The arrival of the monthly blood had been as welcome as sunrise.

After that she should have hated Wilwulf, but she found she could not. He had betrayed her, but she still yearned for him. She was a fool, she knew. Anyway, it hardly mattered, for she would probably never see him again.

Father Louis had gone home to Reims without spotting the early signs of Ragna’s romance with Wilwulf, and it seemed he had reported that Ragna would make a suitable wife for the young Viscount Guillaume, for Guillaume himself had arrived at Cherbourg to make the final decision.

Guillaume thought Ragna was perfect.

He kept telling her so. He studied her, sometimes touching her chin to move her face a little to one side or the other, up or down, to catch the light. “Perfect,” he would say. “The eyes, green like the sea, such a shade as I never saw before. The nose, so straight, so fine. The cheekbones, perfectly matched. The pale skin. And most of all, the hair.” Ragna kept her hair mostly covered, as did all respectable women, but a few locks were artfully allowed to escape. “Such a bright gold—angels’ wings must be that color.”

She was flattered, but she could not help feeling that he was looking at her as he might have admired an enameled brooch, the most prized of his collection. Wilwulf had never told her she was perfect. He had said: “By the gods, I can’t keep my hands off you.”

Guillaume himself was very good-looking. As they stood on the high parapet of Cherbourg Castle, looking down at the ships in the bay, the breeze tousled his hair, which was long and glossy, dark brown with auburn lights. He had brown eyes and regular features. He was much more handsome than Wilwulf, but all the same the castle maids never blushed and giggled when he walked by. Wilwulf exerted a masculine magnetism that Guillaume just did not have.

He had just given Ragna a present, a silk shawl embroidered by his mother. Ragna unfolded it and studied the design, which featured intertwining foliage and monstrous birds. “It’s gorgeous,” she said. “It must have taken her a year.”

“She has good taste.”

“What is she like?”

“She’s absolutely wonderful.” Guillaume smiled. “I suppose every boy thinks his mother is wonderful.”

Ragna was not sure that was true, but she kept the thought to herself.

“I believe a noblewoman should have complete authority over everything to do with fabrics,” he said, and Ragna sensed she was about to hear a prepared speech. “Spinning, weaving, dyeing, stitching, embroidery, and of course, laundry. A woman should rule that world the way her husband rules his domain.” He spoke as if he were making a generous concession.

Ragna said flatly: “I hate all that.”

Guillaume was startled. “Don’t you do embroidery?”

Ragna resisted the temptation to prevaricate. She did not want him to suffer any misapprehensions. I am what I am, she thought. She said: “Lord, no.”

He was baffled. “Why not?”

“I love beautiful clothes, like most people, but I don’t want to make them. It bores me.”

He looked disappointed. “It bores you?”

Perhaps it was time to sound more positive. “Don’t you think a noblewoman has other duties, too? What about when her husband goes to war? Someone has to make sure the rents are paid and justice is dispensed.”

“Well, yes, of course, in an emergency.”

Ragna decided she had made herself clear enough. She conceded a point in the hope of lowering the temperature. “That’s what I mean,” she said untruthfully. “In an emergency.”

He looked relieved, and changed the subject. “What a splendid view.”

The castle provided a lookout over the surrounding countryside, so that hostile armies could be seen from afar, in time for defensive preparations—or flight. Cherbourg Castle also looked out to sea, for the same reason. But Guillaume was studying the town. The river Divette meandered left and right through the timber-and-thatch houses before reaching the waterfront. The streets were busy with carts going to and from the harbor, their wooden wheels raising dust from the sun-dried roads. The Vikings no longer moored here, as Count Hubert had promised Wilwulf, but several ships of other nations were tied up and others were anchored farther out. An incoming French vessel was low in the water, perhaps bringing iron or stone. Behind it, in the distance, an English ship was approaching. “A commercial city,” Guillaume commented.

Ragna detected a note of disapproval. She asked him: “What kind of city is Reims?”

“A holy place,” he said immediately. “Clovis, king of the Franks, was baptized there by Bishop Remi long ago. On that occasion, a white dove appeared with a bottle, called the Holy Ampulla, containing sacred oil that has been used since for many royal coronations.”

Ragna thought there must be some buying and selling in Reims, as well as miracles and coronations, but once again she held back. She seemed always to be holding back when she talked to Guillaume.

Her patience was running low. She told herself she had done her duty. “Shall we go down?” she said. Insincerely she added: “I can’t wait to show this lovely shawl to my mother.”

They descended the wooden steps and entered the great hall. Genevieve was not in sight, which gave Ragna an excuse to leave Guillaume and enter the private apartment of the count and countess. She found her mother going through her jewel box, selecting a pin for her dress. “Hello, dear,” said the countess. “How are you getting on with Guillaume? He seems lovely.”

“He’s very fond of his mother.”

“How nice.”

Ragna showed her the shawl. “She embroidered this for me.”

Genevieve took the shawl and admired it. “So kind of her.”

Ragna could hold out no longer. “Oh, mother, I don’t like him.”

Genevieve made an exasperated noise. “Give him a chance, won’t you?”

“I’ve tried, I really have.”

“What’s wrong with him, for goodness’ sake?”

“He wants me to be in charge of fabrics.”

“Well, naturally, when you’re the countess. You don’t think he should sew his own clothes, do you?”

“He’s prissy.”

“No, he’s not. You imagine things. He’s perfectly all right.”

“I wish I were dead.”

“You’ve got to stop pining for that big Englishman. He was completely unsuitable, and anyway, he’s gone.”

“More’s the pity.”

Genevieve turned around to face Ragna. “Now listen to me. You can’t remain unmarried much longer. It will begin to look permanent.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“Don’t even say that. There’s no place for a single noblewoman. She’s no use, but she still requires gowns and jewels and horses and servants, and her father gets tired of paying out and getting nothing back. What’s more, the married women hate her, because they think she wants to steal their husbands.”

“I could become a nun.”

“I doubt that. You’ve never been particularly devout.”

“Nuns sing and read and take care of sick people.”

“And sometimes they have loving relationships with other nuns, but I don’t think that’s your inclination. I remember that wicked girl from Paris, Constance, but you didn’t really like her.”

Ragna blushed. She had had no idea that her mother knew about her and Constance. They had kissed and touched each other’s breasts and watched each other masturbate, but Ragna’s heart had not been in it, and eventually Constance had turned her attention to another girl. How much had Genevieve guessed?

Anyway, mother’s instinct was right: a love affair with a woman was never going to be what made Ragna happy.

“So,” Genevieve resumed, “Guillaume is probably an advantageous choice at this point.”

An advantageous choice, thought Ragna; I wanted a romance that would make my heart sing, but what I’ve got is an advantageous choice.

All the same, she thought she would have to marry him.