The door was opened by a thin woman of about forty with pale blue eyes. A few strands of gray hair had escaped from her cap. She held a lantern up and looked at the visitors. When she saw Ragna her eyes widened and her mouth opened. It happened a lot: Ragna was used to it.

The nun stood back and let the three women in. Ragna said to Edgar: “Wait a few minutes, please, just in case.”

The nun closed the door.

Ragna saw a pillared room, dark and empty now, but probably the place where the nuns lived when they were not praying in the church. She made out the shadowy silhouettes of two writing desks, and concluded that these nuns copied and perhaps illuminated manuscripts as well as caring for lepers.

The nun who had let them in said: “I’m Mother Agatha, the abbess here.”

Ragna said amiably: “Named after the patron saint of nurses, I assume?”

“And of rape victims.”

Ragna guessed there was a story there, but she did not want to hear it tonight. “These are my maids, Cat and Agnes.”

“I’m glad to welcome you all here. Have you had supper?”

“Yes, thank you, and we’re very tired. Can you give us beds?”

“Of course. Please come with me.”

She led them up a wooden staircase. This was the first building Ragna had seen in England that had an upstairs floor. At the top Agatha turned into a small room lit by a single rush light. There were two beds. One was empty, and in the other was a nun about the same age as Agatha but more rounded, sitting up and looking surprised.

Agatha said: “This is Sister Frith, my deputy.”

Frith stared at Ragna as if she could hardly believe her eyes. There was something in her look that made Ragna think of the way men gazed at her sometimes.

Agatha said: “Get up, Frith. We’re giving up our beds to the guests.”

Frith got out of bed hurriedly.

Agatha said: “Lady Ragna, please take my bed, and your maids can share Frith’s.”

Ragna said: “You’re very kind.”

“God is love,” said Agatha.

“But where will you two sleep?”

“In the dormitory next door, with the other nuns. There’s plenty of room.”

To Ragna’s profound satisfaction the room was pristine. The floor was of bare boards, swept clean. On a table stood a jug of water and a bowl, no doubt for washing: nuns washed their hands a lot. There was also a lectern on which rested an open book. This was clearly a highly literate nunnery. There were no chests: nuns had no possessions.

Ragna said: “This is heavenly. Tell me, Mother Agatha, how did there come to be a convent here on this island?”

“It’s a love story,” said Agatha. “The nunnery was built by Nothgyth, the widow of Lord Begmund. After he died and was buried in the minster, Nothgyth did not wish to remarry, for he was the love of her life. She wanted to become a nun and live near his remains for the rest of her days, so that they would rise together at the Last Judgment.”

“How romantic,” Ragna said.

“Isn’t it?”

“Will you tell young Edgar that he may return to the mainland?”

“Of course. Please make yourselves comfortable. I’ll come back and see if there’s anything else you need.”

The two nuns went out. Ragna threw off her cloak and climbed into Agatha’s bed. Cat hung Ragna’s cloak on a peg in the wall. From the leather bag she had brought, she took a small vial of olive oil. Ragna held out her hands and Cat poured a drop of oil on each. Ragna rubbed her hands together.

She made herself comfortable. The mattress was made of linen and stuffed with straw. The only sound was the wash of the river as it bathed the shores of the island. “I’m so glad we discovered this place,” she said.

Agnes said: “Edgar the builder has been a godsend—building up the fire, bringing you hot ale, fetching that little jeweler, and finally bringing us here.”

“You like Edgar, don’t you?”

“He’s lovely. I’d marry him in a heartbeat.”

The three women giggled.

Cat and Agnes got into their shared bed.

Mother Agatha returned. “Is everything all right?” she said.

Ragna stretched luxuriously. “Everything is perfect,” she said. “You’re so kind.”

Agatha bent over Ragna and kissed her softly on the lips. It was more than a mere peck, but did not last long enough to merit an objection. She stood upright, went to the door, and turned back.

“God is love,” said Mother Agatha.

CHAPTER 10

    Late September 997

he only master Edgar had known for the first eighteen years of his life had been his father, who could be harsh but was never cruel. After that, Dreng had come as a shock. Edgar had never before suffered sheer malice for its own sake.

However, Sunni had, from her husband. Edgar thought a lot about how Sunni had handled Cyneric. She let him have his own way most of the time, but on the rare occasions that she went against him, she was bold and stubborn. Edgar tried to deal with Dreng in a similar way. He avoided confrontations, and put up with petty persecution and minor injustices, but when he could not avoid a quarrel he fought to win.

He had prevented Dreng from punching Blod on at least one occasion. He had steered Ragna to the nunnery against the will of Dreng, who had clearly wanted her to spend the night at the alehouse. And with his mother’s help he had forced Dreng to feed him decently.

Dreng would have liked to get rid of Edgar, undoubtedly. But there were two snags. One was his daughter, Cwenburg, who was now part of Edgar’s family. Dreng had been taught a firm lesson by Ma: he could not hurt Edgar without bringing repercussions to Cwenburg. The other problem was that Dreng would never find another competent builder for only a farthing a day. A good craftsman would demand three or four times as much in payment. And, Edgar reflected, Dreng’s parsimony outweighed his malice.

Edgar knew he was walking on the edge of a cliff. At heart Dreng was not completely rational, and one day he might lash out regardless of the consequences. But there was no safe way to deal with him—other than to lie down under his heel like the rushes on the floor, and Edgar could not bring himself to do that.

So he went on alternately pleasing and defying Dreng, while watching carefully for signs of a coming storm.

The day after Ragna left, Blod came to him and said: “Do you want a free go? I’m too big to fuck, but I can give you a lovely suck.”

“No!” he said; and then, feeling embarrassed, he added: “Thank you.”

“Why not? Am I ugly?”

“I told you about my girl, Sunni, who died.”

“Then why are you so nice to me?”

“I’m not nice to you. But I’m different from Dreng.”

“You are nice to me.”

He changed the subject. “Do you have names for your baby?”

“I don’t know that I’ll be allowed to name him or her.”

“You should give it a Welsh name. What are your parents called?”

“My father is Brioc.”

“I like that, it sounds strong.”

“It’s the name of a Celtic saint.”

“What about your mother?”

“Eleri.”

“Pretty name.”

Tears came to her eyes. “I miss them so much.”

“I’ve made you sad. I’m sorry.”

“You’re the only English person who ever asked me about my family.”

A shout came from inside the alehouse. “Blod! Get in here.”

Blod left, and Edgar resumed work.

The first consignment of stones had come downstream from Outhenham on a raft steered by one of Gab’s sons, and had been unloaded and stacked near the ruins of the old brewhouse. Edgar had prepared the foundations of the new building, digging a trench and half filling it with loose stones.

He had to guess how deep the foundations should go. He had checked those of the church, digging a small hole alongside the wall of the chancel, and found that there were almost no foundations at all, but that would explain why it was falling down.

He poured mortar over the stones, and here he came across another problem: how to make sure the surface of the mortar was level. He had a good eye, but that was not enough. He had seen builders at work, and now he wished he had watched them more carefully. In the end he invented a device. He made a thin, flat stick a yard long and carved out the inside to form a smooth channel. The result was a miniature version of the log canoe Dreng had used as a ferry. Edgar got Cuthbert to make a small, polished iron ball in his forge. He laid the stick on the mortar, put the ball in the channel, and tapped the stick. If the ball rolled to one end, that showed that the mortar was not level and the surface had to be adjusted.

It was a lengthy process, and Dreng was impatient. He came out of the alehouse and stood with his hands on his hips, watching Edgar, for a few minutes. Eventually he said: “You’ve been working on this a week, and I don’t see any wall rising.”

“I have to get the foundations level,” Edgar explained.

“I don’t care if it’s level,” Dreng said. “It’s a brewhouse, not a cathedral.”

“If it’s not level it will fall down.”