She picked it up.

Both Garulf and Stiggy approached her. Stiggy was a strong boy who threw his weight around to compensate for his stupidity.

Garulf said: “That’s my ball.”

Ragna said: “You can’t play ball inside the compound.”

Stiggy made a sudden move. He stepped forward and struck Ragna’s arm with his fist to make her let go of the ball. The blow hurt, and she lost her grip, but she caught the ball with her other hand and stepped back out of Stiggy’s reach.

Bern hit Stiggy a mighty punch on the side of his head, and Stiggy fell to the ground.

Bern looked hard at Garulf and said: “Will anyone else try to lay hands on the ealdorman’s wife?”

Garulf thought about it. His gaze went from the heavy body of Bern to the precious body of the ealdorman’s wife and back. Then he stepped away.

Ragna said to Bern: “Give me your knife.”

Bern’s belt knife was a large dagger with a sharp blade. Ragna put the ball on the ground, inserted the point of the knife under the stitching of the ball, and cut the thread.

Garulf gave a cry of protest and stepped forward.

Ragna pointed the knife at him.

Bern took a step toward Garulf.

Ragna continued to cut the threads until she had opened the ball sufficiently to let out all the stuffing.

Finally she stood up and threw the mangled leather into the middle of the pond.

She handed the knife back to Bern, handle first, and said: “Thank you.”

With Bern at her side she returned to her house. Her left arm hurt where Stiggy had punched her, but her heart sang with victory.

Wilf returned that afternoon, and not much later Ragna was summoned to his house. She was not surprised to find Gytha there.

Wilf looked bad-tempered. “What’s all this about a ball?” he said.

Ragna smiled. “My beloved husband, you should not trouble yourself about foolish squabbles.”

“My stepmother has complained that you stole a gift she had given to my son.”

Ragna was pleased, but concealed it. Gytha had allowed indignation to impair her judgment. She was onto a loser. She could not win this argument.

Ragna spoke in a light tone appropriate for something trivial. “The ball game has become too violent. One of your servants was injured by the ball today.”

Gytha snorted with derision. “She slipped in the mud.”

“She was hit on the head. Worse injuries would have followed. I told them to play outside the compound, but they disobeyed me, so I stopped the game and destroyed the ball. Really, Wilf, I’m sorry you’ve been pestered with this.”

He looked skeptical. “Is that really all that happened?”

“Well, no.” Ragna pulled up her left sleeve, showing a fresh bruise. “The boy Stiggy punched me,” she said. “So Bern knocked him down.”

Wilf looked darkly at Gytha. “A boy laid hands on the ealdorman’s wife? You didn’t tell me that part, mother.”

Gytha said: “He just tried to grab the ball back!” But the bruise told its own story, and Gytha was on the defensive.

Wilf said: “And what did Garulf do?”

“He looked on,” said Ragna.

“And did not defend his father’s wife?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Wilf was furious, as Ragna had foreseen. “Stiggy shall be flogged,” he said. “A childish punishment for a childish man. Twelve strokes of the lash. But I don’t know what to do with Garulf. My son should know what’s right and wrong.”

Ragna said: “May I suggest something?”

“Please.”

“Make Garulf do the flogging.”

Wilf nodded. “Perfect,” he said.

* * *

Stiggy was stripped naked and tied facing a pole. The humiliation was part of the punishment.

Garulf stood behind him holding a leather whip, its end divided into three strips, each strip embedded with sharp stones. He looked resentful and unhappy.

Every resident of the compound was watching: men, women, and children. The penalty was intended to educate everyone, not just the offender.

Wilf, standing by, said: “Stiggy laid hands on my wife. This is his penalty.”

The crowd was silent. The only sound was the evening psalm of the birds.

Wilf said: “Begin. One.”

Garulf raised the whip and struck Stiggy’s naked back. The blow made a sharp snapping noise, and Stiggy flinched.

Ragna shuddered and wished she did not have to watch. But for her to leave now would appear weak.

Wilf shook his head. “Not hard enough,” he said. “Begin again. One.”

Garulf hit Stiggy harder. This time Stiggy gave a muted cry of pain. The whip left red marks on his white skin.

A woman in the crowd wept softly, and Ragna recognized Stiggy’s mother.

Wilf was unmoved. “Still too soft. Begin again. One.”

Garulf raised the whip high and struck with all his might. Stiggy screamed in pain, and drops of blood appeared where the stones had broken his skin.

The scream silenced the birds.

“Two,” said Wilf.

CHAPTER 17

    February 998

dgar was angered by the idea of people stealing from Ragna.

He had not cared so much about Gab the quarrymaster cheating Ealdorman Wilwulf. Wilf had plenty of money, and anyway it was none of Edgar’s business. But he felt differently when Ragna was the victim, perhaps because she was a foreigner and therefore vulnerable—or perhaps, he thought wryly, because she was beautiful.

He had almost told her after the wedding, but he had hesitated. He wanted to be absolutely sure. He did not want to give her a false alert.

Anyway, he had to go to Outhenham again. The walls of the brewhouse were finished and the timber rafters were in place, but he wanted to complete the roof with thin stone tiles that would not burn. He told Dreng he could get the material for half the price if he transported it himself, which was true, and Dreng agreed, always keen to keep money rather than spend it.

Edgar built a simple raft of logs, long and broad. Last time he went to Outhenham he had followed the river upstream, so now he knew there were no major obstacles to craft, just two places where the water became shallow and the raft might have to be pulled along with ropes for a few yards.

However, poling the raft upstream would be hard work, and roping it over the shallows even harder, so he persuaded Dreng to pay Erman and Eadbald a penny each to leave the farm for two days and help him.

Dreng handed Edgar a small leather purse, saying: “There’s twelve pennies in there. That should be plenty.” Ethel gave them bread and ham for the journey, and Leaf added a flagon of ale to quench their thirst.

They set off early. Brindle leaped onto the raft as they boarded. In dog philosophy it was always better to go somewhere than to be left behind. Edgar asked himself whether that was his philosophy, too, and was not sure of the answer.

Erman and Eadbald were thin, and Edgar supposed he was, too. A year ago, when they had been living at Combe, no one would have called them even a little fat, but all the same they had shed weight over the winter. They were still strong, but lean, their cheeks concave, their muscles ropy, their waists narrow.

It was a cold February morning, but they perspired as they deployed the poles and pushed the raft upstream. One person could propel the vessel but it was easier with two, one on each side, the third man resting. They did not normally talk much, but there was nothing else to do on the journey, and Edgar asked: “How are you getting on with Cwenburg?”

Eadbald answered: “Erman lies with her on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and me on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.” He grinned. “Sunday is her day of rest.”

They were both good-humored about it, and Edgar concluded that the unorthodox marriage was working surprisingly well.

Erman said: “It’s lying and nothing more, now—she’s too pregnant for fucking.”

Edgar calculated when the baby was due. They had arrived in Dreng’s Ferry three days before Midsummer, and Cwenburg had conceived more or less immediately. “The baby is due three days before Lady Day,” he said. Erman gave him a sour look. Edgar’s ability with numbers seemed almost miraculous to other people, and his brothers resented it.

Erman said: “Anyway, Cwen can’t help with the spring ploughing. Ma will have to guide the ploughshare while we pull.”

The soil at Dreng’s Ferry was light and loamy, but their mother was no longer young. Edgar said: “How is Ma with that?”

“She finds field work hard.”

Edgar saw his mother about once a week, but his brothers were with her every day. “Does she sleep well?” he asked. “Does she have a good appetite?”

They were not very observant. Eadbald shrugged, and Erman said snappishly: “Look, Edgar, she’s old, and one day she will die, and only God knows when that will be.”