She was startled to realize that she knew one of them.

The girl was about fifteen. She had the black hair and blue eyes typical of Welsh people: the Bretons on the other side of the Channel were similar. She might have been pretty with the dirt washed off her face. She stared back, and her look of vulnerability imperfectly masked by defiance jogged Ragna’s memory. “You’re the girl from Dreng’s Ferry.”

The captive said nothing.

Ragna remembered her name. “Blod.”

She remained silent, but her expression softened.

Ragna lowered her voice so that Stiggy could not hear. “They said you had escaped. You must have been captured a second time.” That was remarkably bad luck, she thought, and she felt a warm surge of compassion for someone who had suffered that fate twice.

She remembered more. “I heard that Dreng—” She realized what she was about to say and stopped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Blod knew what Ragna had hesitated to say. “Dreng killed my baby.”

“I’m so sorry. Did no one help you?”

“Edgar jumped in the river to rescue the baby, but couldn’t find him in the dark.”

“I know Edgar. He’s a good man.”

“The only decent Englishman I ever met,” said Blod bitterly.

Ragna saw a certain look in her eye. “Did you fall in love with him?”

“He loves someone else.”

“Sungifu.”

Blod gave Ragna an enigmatic look but said nothing.

Ragna said: “The one the Vikings killed.”

“Yes, her.” Blod looked anxiously around the square.

“I suppose you’re worried about who might buy you this time.”

“I’m frightened of Dreng.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s not in town. He would have come to see me. He likes to pretend we’re family.” Across the square, Ragna noticed Bishop Wynstan with his bodyguard, Cnebba. “But there are other cruel men.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I should buy you.”

Blod’s face lit up with hope. “Would you?”

Ragna spoke to Stiggy. “How much are you hoping to get for this slave?”

“One pound. She’s fifteen, that’s young.”

“It’s too much. I’ll give you half, though.”

“No, she’s worth more than that.”

“Split the difference?”

Stiggy frowned. “How much would that be?” He knew the phrase split the difference but he could not do the arithmetic.

“One hundred and eighty pence.”

Suddenly Wynstan was there. “Buying a slave, my lady Ragna?” he said. “I thought you high-minded Normans disapproved.”

“Like a high-minded bishop who disapproves of fornication, I find myself doing it anyway.”

“Always the smart answer.” He had been looking with curiosity at Blod, and now he said: “I know you, don’t I?”

Blod said loudly: “You fucked me, if that’s what you mean.”

Wynstan looked embarrassed, which was unusual. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You did it twice. That was before I was pregnant, so you paid Dreng three pence for each go.”

Wynstan made only a nominal pretence of priestly virtue, but all the same he was discomfited by this noisily public accusation of unchastity. “Rubbish. You’re making it up. You ran away from Dreng, I remember.”

“He murdered by baby boy.”

“Well, who cares? The child of a slave . . .”

“Perhaps he was your son.”

Wynstan went pale. Clearly he had not thought of that. He struggled to recover his dignity. “You should be flogged for running away.”

Ragna interrupted. “I was in the process of bargaining for this slave, my lord bishop, if you will excuse me from further conversation.”

Wynstan smiled maliciously. “You can’t buy her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She can’t be sold.”

Stiggy said: “Yes, she can!”

“No, she can’t. She’s a runaway. She must be returned to her legitimate owner.”

Blod whispered: “No, please.”

“It’s not my decision,” Wynstan said cheerfully. “Even if the slave had not spoken disrespectfully to me, the outcome would be the same.”

Ragna wanted to argue, but she knew Wynstan was right. She had not thought of it, but a runaway still legally belonged to the original owner, even after months of freedom.

Wynstan said to Stiggy: “You must take this girl back to Dreng’s Ferry.”

Blod began to cry.

Stiggy had not understood. “But she’s my captive.”

“Dreng will give you the usual reward for returning a runaway, so you won’t be out of pocket.”

Stiggy still looked puzzled.

Ragna believed in obeying the law. It could be cruel, but it was always better than lawlessness. However, on this occasion she would have defied it if she could. It was a harsh irony that the man now upholding the law was Wynstan.

Ragna said desperately: “I will take charge of the girl, and recompense Dreng.”

“No, no,” said Wynstan. “You can’t do that, not to my cousin. If Dreng wants to sell the slave to you, he may, but she must be returned to him first.”

“I shall take her home, and send a message to Dreng.”

Wynstan said to Cnebba: “Take that captive and lock her in the crypt of the cathedral.” He turned to Stiggy. “She’ll be released to you whenever you’re ready to take her to Dreng’s Ferry.” Finally he looked at Ragna. “If you don’t like it, complain to your husband.”

Cnebba began to untie Blod.

Ragna realized it had been a mistake to come out without Bern. If he had been present to provide a counterweight to Cnebba, she could at least have postponed any final decision on Blod’s fate. But even that was impossible.

Cnebba took Blod firmly by the arm and walked her away.

Wynstan said: “She’s in for a serious flogging, I should think, when Dreng gets his hands on her.” He smiled, bowed, and walked after Cnebba.

Ragna could have screamed with frustration and rage. She bottled up her feelings and, with her head held high, walked away from the square and up the hill to the compound.

* * *

July was the hungry month, Edgar reflected as he looked over his brothers’ farm. Most of the winter food was gone, and everyone was waiting for the grain harvest in August and September. At this season the cows were giving milk and the hens were laying, so people who had cows or hens did not starve. Others ate the early fruits and vegetables of the forest, leaves and berries and onions, a thin diet. People with large farms could afford to plant a few beans in spring to harvest in June and July, but not many peasants had land to spare.

Edgar’s brothers were hungry, but not for much longer. For the second year running they had a good crop of hay on the lowlying land near the river. The three weeks before Midsummer had been wet, and the river was high now as a result, but the weather had cleared miraculously, and they had reaped the long blades of grass. Today Edgar had walked fifty yards downriver, to scrub out a cooking pot well away from the place where he drew clean water, and from there he could see several acres of cut grass drying and turning yellow in the strong sunshine. Soon the brothers would sell the hay and have money for food.

In the distance he saw a horse coming down the hill to the hamlet, and he wondered if it might be Aldred on Dismas. Shortly before they parted at Mudeford Crossing, Edgar had asked Aldred what he was going to do about Wynstan’s forgery, and Aldred had said he was still thinking about it. Now Edgar wondered if he had come up with a plan.

But the rider was not Aldred. As the horse came nearer, he saw that there was one person riding and another walking behind. He headed back to the tavern in case he was needed to operate the ferry. Moments later he was able to see that the walker was tied to the saddle. It was a woman, barefoot and ragged. Finally he realized, with a gasp of consternation, that it was Blod.

He had been sure she had escaped. How could she have been recaptured after this length of time? He recalled that Ealdorman Wilwulf had been harrying the Welsh: he must have brought her back among his captives. What tragic misfortune, to get free and then be enslaved a second time!

She raised her face and saw him but did not seem to have the strength to acknowledge him. Her shoulders were slumped and her shoeless feet were bleeding.

The man on the horse was about Edgar’s age but bigger, and he wore a sword. When he saw Edgar he said: “Are you the ferryman?”

Edgar got the impression the man was not very bright. “I work for Dreng the ferryman.”

“I’ve brought his slave back.”

“So I see.”

Dreng came out of the tavern. He recognized the rider. “Hello, Stiggy, what do you want? By the gods, is that little slut Blod?”

Stiggy said: “If I’d known she was yours I would have left her in Wales and captured another girl.”

“She is mine, though.”

“You have to pay me for bringing her back.”

Dreng did not like that idea. “Do I, now?”

“Bishop Wynstan said.”

“Oh. And did he say how much?”

“Half what she’s worth.”

“She’s not worth much, the miserable whore.”

“I was asking a pound and the lady Ragna offered half.”

“So you say I owe you half of half a pound, which is sixty pence.”

“Ragna might have paid a hundred and eighty.”