“Yes. But if Ragna and the newborn were to die, that would still leave Osbert.”

Ragna’s first child was coming up to two years old, a ginger-haired baby Norman, named Osbert after Wilwulf’s father. Osbert was Wilf’s legitimate heir, and would be even if Ragna’s newborn died today. But Wynstan waved a hand dismissively. “A child without a mother is little threat,” he said. A two-year-old was not difficult to get rid of, he was thinking; but he did not say so, remembering Gytha’s black look.

She just nodded.

He studied her face. Thirty years ago that face had terrified him. She was in her middle fifties now, and her hair had been gray for years; but lately her dark eyebrows had grown silver strands, there were new little vertical lines above her upper lip, and her figure was not so much voluptuous as lumpy. But she still had the power to strike fear into his heart.

She was patient and still. Women could do that. Wynstan could not: he tapped his foot, shifted in his seat, and said: “Dear God, how much longer?”

“If the baby gets stuck, both mother and child usually die.”

“Pray for that. We need Garulf to inherit from Wilf. It’s the only way to hold on to everything we’ve won.”

“You’re right, of course.” Gytha made a sour face. “Although Garulf is not the wisest of men. Fortunately we can control him.”

“He’s popular. The men-at-arms like him.”

“I’m not sure why.”

“He’s always willing to buy a barrel of ale and let them take turns raping a prisoner.”

His mother gave him that look again. But her scruples were disposable. In the end she would do what was necessary for the family.

The screaming stopped. Wynstan and Gytha fell silent and waited, tense. Wynstan began to think his wish had come true.

Then they heard the unmistakable wail of a newborn. “It’s alive,” Wynstan said. “Hell.”

A minute later the door opened and a fifteen-year-old maid called Winthryth, daughter of Gilda, poked her head in, her hair wet with rain. “It’s a boy,” she said, grinning happily. “Strong as a bull calf and a big chin like his father’s.” She disappeared.

Wynstan muttered: “To hell with his damn chin.”

“So, the dice did not roll our way.”

“This changes everything.”

“Yes.” Gytha looked thoughtful. “This calls for a completely new approach.”

Wynstan was taken aback. “Does it?”

“We’ve been looking at this situation the wrong way.”

Wynstan did not see that, but his mother was usually right. “Go on,” he said.

“Our real problem is not Ragna.”

Wynstan raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t it?”

“Wilf is our problem.”

Wynstan shook his head. He did not see what she was getting at. But she was no fool, and he waited patiently to learn what she was thinking.

After a moment she said: “Wilf is so taken with her. He’s never before fallen so hard for a woman. He likes her, he loves her, and she seems to know how to please him in and out of bed.”

“That doesn’t stop him fucking Inge once in a while.”

Gytha shrugged. “A man’s love is never really exclusive. But Inge’s no great threat to Ragna. If Wilf had to choose between the two, he’d pick Ragna in a heartbeat.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance Ragna could be seduced into betraying him?”

Gytha shook her head. “She’s fond of that clever boy from Dreng’s Ferry, but nothing will ever come of it. He’s far beneath her.”

Wynstan remembered the boatbuilder from Combe who had moved to the farm at Dreng’s Ferry. He was a person of no importance. “No,” he said dismissively. “If she falls it will be for some good-looking town boy who charms his way up her skirt while Wilf is away fighting Vikings.”

“I doubt it. She’s too smart to jeopardize her position for a dalliance.”

“I agree, unfortunately.”

Winthryth surprised them by reappearing in the doorway, wetter than before but beaming even more. “And another boy!” she said.

Gytha said: “Twins!”

“This one smaller and dark-haired, but healthy.” Winthryth left.

“God damn them both,” said Wynstan.

Gytha said: “Now three males stand in Garulf’s way, instead of one.”

They were silent for a while. This was a major shift in the power politics of the ealdormanry. Wynstan mulled over the consequences, and he was sure his mother was doing the same.

Eventually he said frustratedly: “There must be something we can do to drive Wilf and Ragna apart. She’s not the only sexy woman in the world.”

“Perhaps another girl will come along and fascinate him. She’d be younger than Ragna, of course, and probably even more of a spitfire.”

“Can we make it happen?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you think it would work?”

“It might. And I can’t think of a better plan.”

“Where would we find such a woman?”

“I don’t know,” said Gytha. “Perhaps we could buy one.”

* * *

After a peaceful Christmas, Ironface struck again in January.

Edgar was preparing to build a smokehouse on his family’s farm. They often had more fish than they could sell, and their ceiling had started to look like an upside-down forest in winter, the eels like bare saplings growing down from the thatch. A stone-built smokehouse would have plenty of room and also be less likely to catch on fire. He was more and more confident as a stonemason. He had long ago finished buttressing the church, which was now stable. For two years he had been managing Ragna’s quarry at Outhenham, selling more stone than ever, making money for her and for himself. But demand was slack in winter and he had taken the opportunity to stockpile stones for his personal project.

His brother Eadbald appeared, rolling an empty barrel along the rough path on the bank of the river. “We need more ale,” he said. They could afford it now, thanks to the fishpond.

“I’ll give you a hand,” said Edgar. One man could manage an empty barrel but it took two to move a full one over uneven ground.

The two brothers took the empty to the alehouse, with Brindle trotting behind. While they were paying Leaf, two passengers arrived for the ferry. Edgar recognized them as Odo and Adelaide, a husband-and-wife courier team from Cherbourg. They had passed through Dreng’s Ferry two weeks earlier on their way to Shiring, accompanied by two men-at-arms, carrying letters and money to Ragna.

Edgar greeted them and said: “On your way home?”

Odo spoke with a French accent. “Yes, we hope to find a ship at Combe.” He was a big man of about thirty with fair hair cut in the Norman style, shaved to the scalp at the back. He wore a sturdy-looking sword.

They had no bodyguards, but this time they were not carrying a large sum of money.

Adelaide said excitedly: “We’re in a hurry, because we have good news to take home. The lady Ragna has given birth—to twin boys!” A small blonde, she was wearing a pendant of silver wire with an amber bead; it would suit Ragna, Edgar thought.

He was pleased about the twins. Wilwulf’s heir would probably be one of Ragna’s offspring now, rather than Inge’s son, Garulf, who was both stupid and brutal. “Good for Ragna,” he said.

Dreng, who had heard the announcement, said: “I’m sure everyone would like to drink a toast to the new young princelings!” He made it sound as if the ale would be on the house, but Edgar knew that was one of his tricks.

The Normans did not fall for it. “We want to get to Mudeford Crossing before nightfall,” Odo said, and they took their leave.

Edgar and Eadbald rolled their new, full barrel to the farmhouse, then Edgar resumed unloading his raft, roping the stones and dragging them from the waterside up the slope to the site of the smokehouse.

The winter sun was high and he was about to unload the last stone when he heard a shout from the other side of the river: “Help me, please!”

He looked across the water and saw a man with a woman in his arms. Both were naked and the woman appeared to be unconscious. Shading his eyes, he saw that they were Odo and Adelaide.

He jumped onto the raft and poled across the river. They had been robbed of everything, including their clothes, he guessed.

He reached the far bank and Odo stepped onto the raft, still cradling Adelaide, and sat down heavily on the one remaining rough-hewn quarry stone. He had blood on his face and one eye half closed, and some kind of injury to one leg. Adelaide’s eyes were shut and blood was congealing in her fair hair, but she was breathing.

Edgar felt a surge of compassion for the slight young figure, and a spasm of hatred for the men who had done this to her. He said: “There’s a nunnery on the island. Mother Agatha has some skill with injuries. Shall I take you straight there?”

“Yes, please, quickly.”

Edgar poled vigorously upstream. “What happened?” he said.

“It was a man in a helmet.”

“Ironface,” Edgar said, and he muttered ferociously: “The spawn of Satan.”

“And he had at least one companion. I was knocked unconscious. I suppose they left us for dead. When I came around we were naked.”