Ragna and her allies were careful not to speak about their plans beforehand, so their departure at dawn was unexpected, and no one had the chance to ride ahead and warn Wynstan. He was in for a shock.

Lady Day was the twenty-fifth day of March, the anniversary of the archangel Gabriel telling Mary that she was going to conceive a child miraculously. The air was cold but the sun was shining. This was the perfect moment, Ragna felt, to announce to the people of the valley that she was their new lord.

She left Shiring on a gray mare belonging to Den. The sheriff rode with her, and brought along a dozen men-at-arms led by their captain, Wigbert. She was thrilled by Sheriff Den’s support. It proved to her that she was not a weakling, totally in the power of her husband’s family. The conflict was not over yet, but she had already proved she was no pushover.

Bern, Cat, and Edgar walked alongside the horses. Outside the town they met up with Aldred, who had sneaked away from the abbey without telling Osmund.

Ragna felt triumphant. She had overcome every problem, negotiated every impediment put in her way. She had refused to give in to discouragement.

She recalled Wigelm’s rude intervention at her wedding. He had objected to her being given the Vale of Outhen, and had been quickly slapped down by Wilf. Ragna had wondered why Wigelm had troubled to make such an unwarranted protest, but now she thought she understood. He had been putting down a marker. He and Wynstan had a long-term plan to take Outhen from her, and they wanted to be able to say they had never accepted the legitimacy of the gift.

This had to be Wynstan’s plan. Wigelm was not smart enough. She felt a surge of loathing for the bishop. He abused his priestly robes by using his position to gratify his greed. The thought made her momentarily nauseated.

She had defeated them so far, but she told herself not to celebrate yet. She had frustrated Wynstan’s efforts to keep her at home, but that was only the start.

She turned her mind to what she needed to achieve with this visit. Endearing herself to the people was no longer the main objective. She first needed to make sure they understood that she was their lord, not Wynstan. She might not get another chance this good. The sheriff was not going to accompany her on every visit.

She questioned Edgar about the people of Outhenham, and memorized the names of the principal characters. Then she told him to walk at the back of the group entering the village, and remain inconspicuous until she called him forward.

As they arrived Ragna noted with pleasure that the place was affluent. Most houses had a pigsty, a henhouse, or a cowshed, and some had all three. Where there was prosperity there was always trade, she knew, and she guessed that Outhenham’s position at the mouth of the valley made it the natural marketplace for the district.

It would be her responsibility to maintain and increase that prosperity, for her own benefit as well as that of the people. Her father always said that nobles had duties as well as privileges.

The outskirts of the village had been almost deserted, and a minute later Ragna saw that most of the inhabitants had gathered on the green in the center, between the church and the alehouse.

In the middle of the space, Wynstan sat on a broad four-legged stool with a cushion, the type of seat used on formal occasions. Two men stood on either side of him. The one with the shaved head would be village priest, whose name—Ragna now recalled from her conversation with Edgar—was Draca. The other, a heavy, red-faced person, would be Dudda, the headman.

They were surrounded by goods. Some coins circulated in the countryside, but many peasants paid their rents in kind. Two large carts were being loaded with barrels and sacks, chickens in cages, and smoked and salted fish and meat. Piglets and young sheep were confined in temporary pens up against the wall of the church.

On a trestle table were numerous notched sticks and several piles of silver pennies. Wynstan’s assistant, Ithamar, sat at the table, holding in his hand a long sheet of parchment, old and stained and worn at the edges, covered with close-packed writing in neat lines, possibly in Latin. That would be a list of payments due from each man. Ragna resolved to seize that parchment.

This was a familiar sight, no different in Normandy, and she took it all in at a glance, then focused on Wynstan.

He stood up from his seat and stared, openmouthed, as he grasped the size and authority of the arriving contingent. His expression showed shock and dismay. No doubt he had thought that by causing Astrid to be lamed he had made sure Ragna could not leave Shiring. He was now beginning to realize how badly he had underestimated her. He said: “How did you—?” But he changed his mind and did not finish the question.

She continued to walk her horse toward him, and the crowd parted for her. She held the reins in her left hand and a riding crop in her right.

Wynstan, always a quick thinker, changed his tune. “Lady Ragna, welcome to the Vale of Outhen,” he said. “We’re surprised, but honored, to see you here.” He seemed about to grasp the bridle of her horse, but Ragna was not having that: she raised her riding crop just a little, as if to strike his hand away; but he saw her determination and aborted his move.

She rode past him.

She had often spoken to large groups in the open air, and she knew how to make her voice carry. “People of the Vale of Outhen,” she said. “I am the lady Ragna, and I am your lord.”

There was a moment of silence. Ragna waited. A man in the crowd went down on one knee. Others followed suit, and soon everyone was kneeling.

She turned to her group. “Take possession of those carts,” she ordered.

The sheriff nodded to his men-at-arms.

Their captain, Wigbert, was a small, wiry, mean-looking man with a temper as taut as a bowstring. His lieutenant was Godwine, tall and heavy. People were intimidated by Godwine’s size, but he was the friendlier of the two. Wigbert was the man to be scared of.

Wynstan said: “Those are my carts.”

Ragna said: “And you shall have them back—but not today.”

Wynstan’s companions were mostly servants, not men-at-arms, and they backed away from the carts as soon as Wigbert and Godwine approached them.

The villagers were still on their knees.

Wynstan said: “Wait! Are you going to be ruled by a mere woman?”

There was no response from the villagers. They were still on their knees, but kneeling was free. The real issue was not who they bowed to but who they paid rent to.

Ragna had an answer ready for Wynstan. “Don’t you know about the great princess Ethelfled, the daughter of King Alfred and lord of all Mercia?” she said. Aldred had told her that most people would have heard of this remarkable woman who had died only eighty years ago. “She was one of the greatest rulers England ever saw!”

Wynstan said: “She was English. You’re not.”

“But Bishop Wynstan, you negotiated my marriage contract. You arranged for me to be given the Vale of Outhen. When you were in Cherbourg, making arrangements with Count Hubert, did you not notice that you were in Normandy, dealing with a Norman nobleman for the hand of his Norman daughter?”

The crowd laughed, and Wynstan flushed with anger. “The people are used to paying their dues to me,” he said. “Father Draca will confirm that.” He looked hard at the village priest.

The man looked terrified. He managed to say: “What the bishop says is true.”

Ragna said: “Father Draca, who is the lord of the Vale of Outhenham?”

“My lady, I’m just a poor village priest—”

“But you know who is the lord of your village.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then answer the question.”

“My lady, we have been informed that you are now lord of Outhen.”

“And so the people owe their rents to whom?”

Draca mumbled: “You.”

“Louder, please, so that the villagers can hear you.”

Draca saw that he had no alternative. “They owe their rents to you, my lady.”

“Thank you.” She looked over the crowd, paused a moment, then said: “All stand.”

They got to their feet.

Ragna was satisfied. She had taken control. But it was not over yet.

She dismounted and went to the table. Everyone watched her silently, wondering what she would do next. “You’re Ithamar, aren’t you?” she said to Wynstan’s assistant. He stared at her anxiously. She snatched the parchment from his hand. Taken by surprise, he offered no resistance. The document specified, in Latin, what dues were payable by each man in the village, with many scribbled changes. It was old, and today’s tenants would be the sons and grandsons of those originally listed.

She decided to impress the villagers with her education. “How far have you got this morning?” she asked Ithamar.

“To Wilmund the baker.”