Next morning she got Cat to heat a cauldron of water and washed herself all over, paying special attention to the hairy parts. Then she rubbed perfumed oil into the skin of her neck, breasts, thighs, and feet. She put on a freshly laundered dress and new silk shoes, and secured her head scarf with a gold-embroidered band.

He arrived at midday. She was forewarned by the sound of cheering from the town as he rode through at the head of the army, and she hurried to take a commanding position in front of the great hall.

He came through the gate at a canter, his red cloak flying, his lieutenants close behind. He saw her immediately and came at her dangerously fast, and she struggled against a reflex to leap out of the way; but she knew she had to show him—and the crowd—that she had complete faith in his horsemanship. In that last moment she saw that his hair and mustache were untrimmed, his normally clean-shaven chin now had a wild beard, and there was a new scar across his forehead. Then he reined in spectacularly late, causing his horse to rear a few inches away from her, while her heart beat like a hammer and she kept the welcoming smile undimmed on her face.

He leaped off his horse and took her in his arms, exactly as she had hoped he would. The people in the compound cheered and laughed: they loved to see his passion for her. She knew that he was showing off to his followers, and she accepted that as part of his role as leader. But there was no doubt about the sincerity of his embrace. He kissed her lasciviously, his tongue in her mouth, and she eagerly responded in the same way.

After a minute he broke the clinch, bent down, and picked her up, with one arm under her shoulders and the other supporting her thighs. She laughed with joy. He carried her past the great hall to his own dwelling, as the crowd roared their approval. She was doubly glad that she had made his home clean and welcoming.

He fumbled for the latch and threw the door open, then he carried her inside. He put her down and slammed the door.

She took off her headdress and let her hair fall freely, then pulled her dress off with one swift move and lay down naked on his bed.

He stared at her body with delight and desire. He looked like a thirsty man about to drink from a mountain stream. He fell on her, still wearing his leather jerkin and cloth leggings.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him and drew him deep inside her.

It was over quickly. He rolled off her and was asleep in seconds.

She lay watching him for a while. She liked the beard, but she knew he would shave it tomorrow, for English noblemen did not wear beards. She touched the new scar on his brow. It started at his right temple, at the hair line, and followed a jagged course to his left eyebrow. She ran her fingertip along it, and he stirred in his sleep. Another half inch . . . Some brave Welshman had done that, she guessed. He had probably died for it.

She poured a cup of wine and ate a morsel of cheese. She was content just to look at him and feel glad that he had come back to her alive. The Welsh were not very formidable fighters, but they were by no means helpless, and she was sure that some wives in the compound were now weeping at the news that their husbands were never coming home.

As soon as he woke up, they made love again. This time it was slower. He took off his clothes. She had time to relish every sensation, to rub her hands over his shoulders and his chest, to thrust her fingers into his hair and bite his lips.

When it was over, he said: “By the gods, I could eat an ox.”

“And I’ve roasted one for your dinner. But let me get you something for now.” She brought him wine and new bread and smoked eel, and he ate with relish.

Then he said: “I met Wynstan on the road.”

“Ah,” she said.

“He told me what happened at Outhenham.”

Ragna tensed. She had been expecting this. Wynstan was never going to take his defeat lying down. He would try to get revenge by causing trouble between her and Wilf. But she had not anticipated that Wynstan would be so quick off the mark. As soon as the messenger had arrived yesterday, Wynstan must have set out to meet Wilf, keen to get his side of the story in first, hoping to put Ragna on the defensive.

But she had her strategy ready. The whole thing had been Wynstan’s fault, not hers, and she was not going to make excuses for herself. She moved immediately to shift the ground of the discussion. “Don’t be angry with Wynstan,” she said. “There should be no rift between brothers.”

Wilf was not expecting that. “But Wynstan is angry with you,” he said.

“Of course. He tried to rob me while you were away, thinking to take advantage of me in your absence. But don’t worry, I prevented him.”

“Is that how it was?” Clearly Wilf had not previously looked at the incident as an attack by a powerful man on an undefended woman.

“He failed, and that made him cross. But I can deal with Wynstan, and I don’t want you to feel concerned about me. Don’t reprove him, please.”

Wilf was still adjusting his picture of the incident. “But Wynstan says you humiliated him in front of others.”

“A thief who is caught red-handed will naturally feel humiliated.”

“I suppose so.”

“His remedy is to stop stealing, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Wilf smiled, and Ragna saw that she had successfully negotiated a difficult conversation. He added: “Wynstan may have met his match at last.”

“Oh, I’m not his rival,” she said, knowing it was the opposite of the truth. But the conversation had gone far enough and ended well, so she changed the subject. “Tell me about your adventures. Did you teach the Welsh a hard lesson?”

“I did, and I brought back a hundred captives to sell as slaves. We’ll make a small fortune.”

“Well done,” said Ragna, but she did not mean it. Slavery was an aspect of English life that she found difficult. It had just about died out in Normandy, but here it was normal. There were a hundred or more slaves in Shiring, and several of them lived and worked in the compound. Many did dirty jobs, removing dunghills and cleaning stables, or heavy laboring such as digging ditches and carrying timber. No doubt the younger ones served in the town’s brothels, although Ragna did not know from personal experience because she had never been inside one of those houses. Slaves were not generally kept in chains. They could run away, and some did, but they were easily identifiable, dressed as they were in rags, without shoes, and speaking in strange accents. Most runaways were caught and brought back, and a reward was paid by the owner.

Wilf said: “You don’t seem as pleased as you might.”

Ragna had no intention of having a discussion with him about slavery now. “I’m thrilled with your triumph,” she said. “And I’m wondering if you’re man enough to fuck me three times in one afternoon.”

“Man enough?” he said in mock indignation. “Get down on your hands and knees, and I’ll show you.”

* * *

The captives were put on display next day in the town square, standing in lines on the dusty ground between the cathedral and the abbey, and Ragna went out, accompanied by Cat, to look at them.

They were dirty and exhausted from their journey, and some had minor injuries, presumably having put up a struggle. Ragna imagined that any who had major injuries would have been left behind to die. In the square were men and women, boys and girls, roughly between eleven and thirty years of age. It was summer, and the sun was hot, but they had no shade. They were tied up in different ways: many had their feet hobbled so that they could not run; some were chained to each other; others were bound to their captors, who stood by them, waiting to haggle over a price. The regular soldiers had one or two to sell, but Wigelm and Garulf and the other captains all had several.

Ragna walked along the lines, finding the sight dispiriting. People said that slaves had done something to deserve their fate, and perhaps it was true sometimes, but not always. What crime could adolescent boys and girls have committed to deserve to be turned into prostitutes?

Slaves did whatever they were told, but they generally performed their tasks as badly as they could get away with; and since they had to be fed and housed and given minimal clothing, they were in the end not much cheaper than the lowest-paid laborers. However, the financial aspect did not trouble Ragna as much as the spiritual. Owning a person had to be bad for the soul. Cruelty was normal: there were laws about ill-treatment of slaves, but they were feebly enforced and the punishments were mild. To be able to beat or rape or even murder someone brought out the very worst in human nature.

As she scanned the faces in the square she recognized Garulf’s friend Stigand, with whom she had clashed over the ball game. He made a bow, too exaggerated to be sincere but not rude enough to merit a protest. She ignored him and looked at his three captives.