She spoke to most of the leading townspeople: Elfwine, the master of the mint; the wealthy Widow Ymma, who traded in furs; the woman who owned the Abbey Alehouse, the most popular drinking place in town; the parchment maker; the jeweler; the dyer. They were pleased by her attention, for it marked them, in the eyes of their neighbors, as important people.

The task of chatting amiably to strangers became easier as the drink flowed. Ragna introduced herself to Sheriff Denewald, who was called Den, a tough-looking gray-haired man in his forties. He was at first wary of Ragna, and she guessed why: as a rival to Wilf he expected her to be hostile. But his wife was at his side, and Ragna asked her about their children, and discovered that their first grandchild had just been born, a boy; whereupon the tough sheriff turned into a doting grandpa and became misty-eyed.

As Ragna moved away from Sheriff Den, Wynstan approached her and said in a challenging tone: “What were you talking to him about?”

“I promised to tell him all your secrets,” she said, and she was rewarded by a momentary flash of anxiety in his eyes before he realized she was mocking him. She went on: “In fact I talked to Den about his new grandson. And now I have a question for you. Tell me about the Vale of Outhen, now that it’s mine.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about it,” said Wynstan. “I’ve been collecting the rents for Wilf, and I’ll continue to do the same for you. All you have to do is take the money when it comes in four times a year.”

She ignored that. “There are five villages and a quarry, I believe.”

“Yes.” He offered no additional information.

“Any mills?” she tried.

“Well, there’s a grindstone in each village.”

“No water mills?”

“Two, I think.”

She gave him a charming smile, as if he were being helpful. “Any mining? Iron ore, silver?”

“Certainly no precious metals. There might be one or two groups of iron smelters working in the woods.”

“You’re a bit vague,” she said mildly, holding her annoyance in check. “If you don’t know what’s there, how can you be sure they’re paying what they should?”

“I scare them,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “They wouldn’t dare cheat me.”

“I don’t believe in scaring people.”

“That’s all right,” said Wynstan. “You can leave it to me.” He walked away.

This conversation is not finished, Ragna thought.

When the guests could eat no more, and the barrels were dry, people began to drift away. At last Ragna began to relax, and sat down with a dish of roast pork and cabbage. While she was eating, Edgar the builder approached, greeted her politely, and bowed. “I believe my work on your house is finished, my lady,” he said. “With your permission, I will return to Dreng’s Ferry with Dreng tomorrow.”

“Thank you for what you’ve done,” she said. “It’s made the place much more comfortable.”

“I’m honored.”

She called Edgar’s attention to Dunnere the carpenter, who had passed out with his head on a table. “There’s my problem,” she said.

“I’m sorry to see that.”

“Did you enjoy the ceremony today?”

He looked thoughtful, and said: “No, not really.”

That surprised her. “Why?”

“Because I’m envious.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Of Wilf?”

“No—”

“Of me?”

He smiled. “Much as I admire the ealdorman, I don’t want to marry him. Aldred might.”

Ragna giggled.

Edgar became serious again. “I’m envious of anyone who gets to marry the one they love. That chance was snatched away from me. Now weddings make me sad.”

Ragna was only a little surprised by his candor. Men often confided in her. She encouraged it: she was fascinated by other people’s loves and hates. “What was the name of the woman you loved?”

“Sungifu, called Sunni.”

“You remember her, and all the things you did together.”

“What hurts me most is the things we didn’t do. We never cooked a meal together, washing vegetables, throwing herbs into the pot, putting bowls on our table. I never took her fishing in my boat—the boat I built was beautiful, that’s why the Vikings stole it. We made love many times, but we never lay awake in each other’s arms all night just talking.”

She studied his face, with its sparse beard and hazel eyes, and thought he was terribly young to have such grief. “I think I understand,” she said.

“I remember my parents taking us to the river in spring to cut fresh rushes for the house, when we three boys were little. There must have been some romantic story about that riverside, with its rushes; perhaps my parents had made love there before they got married. I didn’t think of that at the time—I was too young—but I knew they had a delicious secret that they loved to remember.” His smile was a sad smile. “Things like that—you put them all together, and they make up a life.”

Ragna was surprised to find that she had tears in her eyes.

Edgar suddenly looked embarrassed. “I don’t know why I told you all that.”

“You’ll find someone else to love.”

“I could, of course. But I don’t want someone else. I want Sunni. And she’s gone.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s unkind of me to tell sad stories on your wedding day. I don’t know what got into me. I apologize.” He bowed, and walked away.

Ragna thought over what he had said. His loss made her feel very fortunate to have Wilf.

She drained her cup of ale, got up from the trestle table, and returned to her house. Suddenly she felt weary. She was not sure why; she had done nothing physically exhausting. Perhaps it was the strain of being on display to the world for hours on end.

She took off her cloak and her overdress and lay on her mattress. Cat barred the door so that people such as Dreng could not barge in. Ragna thought about the evening ahead. At some point she would be summoned to Wilf’s house. To her surprise, she felt a bit nervous. That was silly. She had already had sexual intercourse with him: what was left to be nervous about?

She was also curious. When they had sneaked into the hay store at Cherbourg Castle at dusk, everything had been furtive and hurried and dimly lit. From now on they would make love at leisure. She wanted to spend time looking at his body, exploring it with her fingertips, studying and feeling the muscles and the hair and the skin and the bones of the man who was now her husband. Mine, she thought; all mine.

She must have dozed off, for the banging at the door woke her with a start.

She heard a muffled interchange, then Cat said: “It’s time.” Cat looked as excited as if it had been her own honeymoon night.

Ragna got up. Bern turned his back while she slipped out of her underdress and put on the new nightdress, dark ochre yellow, made especially for this occasion. She put on shoes, for she did not want to get into Wilf’s bed with muddy feet. Finally she donned her cloak.

“You two stay here,” she said. “I don’t want any fuss.”

In that she was disappointed.

When she stepped outside she saw that Wigelm and the men-at-arms were lined up to cheer her along. Mostly drunk after the party, they blew whistles and banged cooking pots and pans. Wynstan’s man Cnebba cavorted with a broomstick between his legs sticking up like a huge wooden penis, which made the men hoot with laughter.

Ragna was mortified, but tried not to show it: a protest by her would be seen as weakness. She walked slowly and with dignity between the two lines of mocking men. When they saw her hauteur they became more vulgar, but she knew she must not descend to their level.

At last she reached Wilf’s door, opened it, then turned to the men. Their noise diminished as they wondered what she would do or say.

She gave them a grin, blew a kiss, then quickly stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

She heard them cheering and knew she had done the right thing.

Wilf stood beside his bed, waiting.

He too wore a new nightshirt. It was the blue of a starling’s egg. She looked closely at his face and saw that he was remarkably sober for one who had appeared to be roistering all day. She guessed that he had been careful to limit his intake.

Impatiently, she dropped her cloak, kicked off her shoes, pulled the nightdress over her head, and stood naked in front of him.

He stared at her hungrily. “My immortal soul,” he said. “You’re even more beautiful than I remember.”

“You, now,” she said, indicating his nightshirt. “I want to look at you.”

He pulled it off.

She saw again the scars on his arms, the fair hair on his belly, the long muscles of his thighs. Without shame she gazed at his cock, which was becoming larger by the second.

Then she had had enough of looking. “Let’s lie down,” she said.

She wanted no teasing, no stroking and whispering and kissing: she wanted him inside her, right away. He seemed to guess that, for instead of lying beside her he got on top immediately.

When he entered her, Ragna sighed deeply and said: “At last.”

CHAPTER 15

    December 31, 997