Wilwulf said: “And this is my stepmother, Gytha.”

Ragna saw a formidable woman of about fifty. She was short—her sons must have inherited the build of their late father, Ragna guessed. Her long gray hair framed a handsome face, with strongly marked eyebrows. Ragna imagined shrewdness and a sturdy will. She sensed that this woman was going to be a force in her life, for good or ill. She offered a fulsome compliment: “How proud you must be, to have given England these three remarkable men.”

“You’re very kind,” said Gytha, but she did not smile, and Ragna foresaw that Gytha would be slow to succumb to her charm.

Wilwulf said: “Gytha will show you around the compound, then we’ll have dinner.”

“Splendid,” said Ragna.

Gytha led the way. Ragna’s maids were waiting outside. Ragna said: “Cat, come with me. The rest of you, wait.”

Gytha said: “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of everything.”

Ragna was not ready to surrender control. She asked Cat: “Where are the men?”

“In the stables, seeing to the horses.”

“Tell Bern to stay with the baggage until I send for him.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Gytha led Ragna around. It was clear, from the deference showed to Gytha, that she was the boss, in charge of Wilwulf’s domestic life. That would have to change, Ragna thought. She was not going to be told what to do by her stepmother-in-law.

They walked past the slave quarters and entered the stable. The place was crowded, but Ragna noticed that the English stable hands were not talking to the Normans. That would not do. She put her arm around Bern. Raising her voice, she said: “You Englishmen, this is my friend Bern the Giant. He’s very gentle with horses”—she took his hand and held it up—“and with women.” There was a low chuckle from the men. They always bantered about penis size, which was said to be correlated with hand size, and Bern’s hands were huge. “He’s gentle with women,” she repeated, and now they were smiling, for they knew the gag was coming. She gave an arch look and said: “He needs to be.”

They all laughed, and the ice was broken.

Ragna said: “When my men make mistakes speaking your language, be nice to them, and maybe they’ll teach you some words of Norman French. Then you’ll know what to say to any French girls you may meet . . .”

They laughed again, and she knew she had bonded with them. She went out before the laughter died away.

Gytha showed her a double-size building that was barracks for the men-at-arms. “I won’t go in,” Ragna said. It was a male dormitory, and for her to enter might be too forward. There was a narrow line between a delightfully flirtatious woman and a contemptible tart, and a foreigner had to be especially careful not to cross it.

However, she noticed a lot of men milling around outside, and recalled that the stables had been crowded. “So many men,” she said to Gytha. “Is something going on?”

“Yes. Wilf is mustering an army.” That was the second time Ragna had heard someone call him “Wilf.” It was obviously the familiar short form of his name. “The South Welsh have raided across the border,” Gytha went on. “They sometimes do at this time of year—after the harvest, when our barns are full. But don’t worry, Wilf won’t go until after the wedding.”

Ragna felt a chill of fear. Her husband was going into battle right after they got married. It was normal, of course; she had seen her father ride off many times, armed to the teeth, to kill or be killed. But she never got used to it. It scared her when Count Hubert went to war, and it would scare her when Wilwulf did the same. She tried to put it out of her mind. She had other things to think about.

The great hall was in the center of the compound. To one side was an assortment of domestic buildings: the kitchen, the bakery, the brewhouse, and several stores. On the other side were individual residences.

Ragna went into the kitchen. As was usual, the cooks were men, but they were assisted by half a dozen women and girls. She greeted the men politely, but she was more interested in the females. A big, good-looking woman of about thirty struck her as the type who might be a leader. Ragna said to her: “Dinner smells good!”

The woman gave her a friendly smile.

Ragna asked: “What’s your name?”

“Gildathryth, my lady, called Gilda for short.”

Next to Gilda was a girl washing mud off a huge stack of small purplish carrots. She looked a bit like Gilda, and Ragna said: “Is this pretty child related to you?” It was a fairly safe guess: in a small community most people were related somehow.

“My daughter Wilnod,” Gilda said proudly. “Twelve years old.”

“Hello, Wilnod. When you grow up, will you make lovely dinners, like Mummy?”

Wilnod was too shy to speak, but she nodded.

“Well, thank you for washing the carrots,” Ragna said. “When I eat one, I will think of you.”

Wilnod beamed with pleasure.

Ragna left the kitchen.

Over the next few days she would speak to everyone who lived or worked in the compound. It would be hard to remember all the names, but she would do her best. She would ask about their children and grandchildren, their ailments and their superstitions, their homes and their clothes. She would not need to pretend interest: she had always been curious about the everyday lives of the people around her.

Cat would find out more, especially as her English became more confident. Like Ragna, she befriended people quickly, and soon the maids would share gossip with her: which laundress had a lover, which stable hand liked to lie with men rather than women, who was stealing from the kitchen, which man-at-arms was afraid of the dark.

Ragna and Gytha moved toward the houses. Most of them were half the length of the great hall, but they were not all of the same quality. All had stout corner posts and thatched roofs. Most had walls of wattle-and-daub, upright branches interwoven with horizontal twigs and covered with a mixture of mud and straw. The three best houses were immediately behind the great hall. They had walls of upright planks neatly joined edge to edge and footed in a heavy timber sill beam.

Ragna said: “Which one is Wilwulf’s?”

Gytha pointed to the central building. Ragna walked to the entrance. Gytha said: “Perhaps you should wait for an invitation.”

Ragna smiled and walked in.

Cat followed her, and Gytha was the reluctant last.

Ragna was pleased to see a low bed, plenty wide enough for two, with a big mattress and an inviting pile of brightly dyed blankets. Otherwise the place had a military air, with sharpened weapons and gleaming armor hanging from pegs around the walls—perhaps ready for Wilwulf’s coming conflict with the South Welsh. His other possessions were stored in a few large wooden chests. A wall tapestry showed a hunting scene, well executed. There appeared to be no materials for writing or reading.

Ragna walked out again and turned toward the back of Wilwulf’s home. Another fine house stood behind it. As Ragna headed that way, Gytha said: “Perhaps I should show you your house.”

Ragna was not willing to be told what to do by Gytha, and she felt the need to make that clear sooner rather than later. Without stopping she said: “Whose house is this one?”

“That’s mine. You can’t go in.”

Ragna turned. “No building in this compound is closed to me,” she said quietly but firmly. “I am about to marry the ealdorman. Only he tells me what to do. I will be the mistress here.”

She went into the house.

Gytha followed her.

The place was richly furnished. There was a comfortable cushioned chair like those used by kings. On a table was a basket of pears and a small barrel of the type that usually contained wine. Costly wool dresses and cloaks hung from pegs.

Ragna said: “Very nice. Your stepson is good to you.”

“And why shouldn’t he be?” Gytha said defensively.

“Quite.” Ragna went out.