Ragna and Cat were putting the twins down in their cots for an afternoon sleep when they heard a commotion outside. A girl howled in fury, several women began to shout, and then a lot of men started laughing and jeering. The twins closed their eyes, oblivious, and went to sleep in seconds, then Ragna stepped outside to see what the fuss was about.

It was cold. A north wind with ice in its blast scoured the compound. A crowd had gathered around a barrel of water. As Ragna got closer she saw that at the center of the group was a naked girl in a rage. Gytha and two or three other women were trying to wash her, using brushes and rags and oil and water, while others struggled to hold her still. As they poured cold water over her, she shivered uncontrollably while at the same time yelling a stream of what sounded to Ragna like swear words in Welsh.

Ragna said: “Who is she?”

The new head groom, Wuffa, standing in front of Ragna, replied without turning his head. “It’s Gytha’s new slave,” he said, then he shouted: “Scrub her tits!” and the men around him chortled.

Ragna could have stopped the mistreatment of an ordinary young woman, but not a slave. People were entitled to be cruel to slaves. There were some feeble laws against killing a slave for no good reason, but even they were difficult to enforce, and the punishments were mild.

The girl was about thirteen, Ragna saw. Her skin, when the dirt came off, was pale. The hair on her head and between her legs was dark, almost black. She had slender arms and legs and perfect, small breasts. Even though her face was twisted with fury, she was pretty.

Ragna said: “Why would Gytha want a slave girl?”

Wuffa turned to reply, grinning, but he realized who he was talking to and changed his mind. The grin vanished and he muttered: “I don’t know.”

Clearly he did know, but was embarrassed to say.

Wilf appeared out of the great hall and approached the crowd, evidently curious, as Ragna had been. She watched him, wondering how he would react to this. Gytha quickly ordered her companions to stop washing the girl and hold her still for Wilf to look at.

The crowd parted respectfully for the ealdorman to pass. The girl was more or less clean now. Her black hair hung wetly on either side of her face, and her skin glowed with the scrubbing it had suffered. Her scowl seemed only to make her more alluring. Wilf grinned broadly. “Who is this?” he said.

Gytha answered. “Her name is Carwen,” she said. “She’s a gift from me to you, to thank you for being the best stepson a mother could ask for.”

Ragna stifled a cry of protest. This was not fair! She had done everything to please Wilf and keep him loyal, and in the three years they had been married he had been a good deal more faithful than most English noblemen. He slept with Inge now and again, as if for old times’ sake, and he probably lay with peasant girls when he went away, but while he was here he hardly looked at other women. And now all her work was going to be undone by a slave girl—given to him by Gytha! Ragna knew right away that Gytha’s plan was to drive a wedge between her and Wilf.

Wilf stepped forward with his arms outstretched, as if to embrace Carwen.

She spat in his face.

Wilf stopped in his tracks, and the crowd went silent.

A slave could be executed for that. Wilf might well draw his knife and cut her throat on the spot.

He wiped his face with his sleeve, then put his hand on the hilt of the dagger in his belt. He stared at Carwen for a long moment. Ragna could not tell what he would do.

Then he took his hand off his knife.

He could still simply reject Carwen. Who wanted a gift that spat in your face? Ragna thought this might be her salvation.

Then Wilf relaxed. He grinned and looked around. The crowd tittered uneasily. Then Wilf began to laugh.

The crowd laughed with him, and Ragna knew that she was lost.

Wilf’s expression became serious again, and the crowd quietened.

He slapped the slave’s face once, hard. He had big, strong hands. Carwen cried out and began to weep. Her cheek turned bright red and a trickle of blood ran from her lips down her chin.

Wilf turned to Gytha. “Tie her up and put her in my house,” he said. “On the floor.”

He watched as the women tied the slave’s hands behind her back, with some difficulty as she struggled to resist. Once that was done, they tied her ankles.

The men in the crowd were looking at the naked girl but the women were surreptitiously watching Ragna. She realized they were curious to see how she would react. She did her best to keep her face a dignified blank.

Gytha’s women lifted the trussed Carwen and carried her to Wilf’s house.

Ragna turned and walked slowly away, feeling distraught. The father of her three sons was going to spend tonight with a slave girl. What was she to do?

She would not allow this to ruin her marriage, she resolved. Gytha could hurt her but not destroy her. She would keep her hold on Wilf somehow.

She entered her own house. Her servants did not speak to her. They had found out what was happening, and they could see the expression on her face.

She sat down, thinking. It would be a mistake to try to stop Wilf sleeping with Carwen, she saw right away. He would not heed her wishes—a man such as he did not take orders from a woman, even one he loved—and the demand would only sour his feelings. Should she pretend not to care? No, that would be going too far. The right note to strike might be rueful acceptance of a man’s desires. She could fake that, if she had to.

It was approaching suppertime. At all costs she must not appear defeated and sad. She had to look so gorgeous that he might even suffer a pang of regret at spending the night with another woman.

She picked a dark-yellow dress that she knew he liked. It was a bit tight across the bust, but that was good. She got Cat to tie up her hair in a kerchief of chestnut silk. She put on a cloak of dark red wool, to protect her back from the cold draughts that pierced the timber walls of the great hall. She finished the outfit with a brooch of gold-colored enamel inlay.

At supper she sat on Wilf’s right, as usual. He was in a convivial mood, bantering with the men, but every now and again she caught him looking at her with something in his eyes that intrigued her. It was not quite fear, but it was stronger than mere anxiety, and she realized that he was actually nervous.

How should she respond? If she showed her pain, he would feel manipulated and become angry, and then he would want to teach her a lesson, probably by paying all the more attention to Carwen. No, there had to be a more subtle way.

All through the meal Ragna made sure she was more alluring than ever, though she felt miserable. She laughed at Wilf’s jokes, and whenever he made some allusion to love or sex she looked at him from under her eyelids in a way that always made him feel amorous.

When the food was finished and the men were getting drunk, she left the table, along with most of the women. She returned to her own house, carrying a rush lamp to light her way. She did not take off her cloak, but stood in the doorway looking out, watching the movements dimly visible around the compound, thinking, trying out speeches in her mind.

Cat said: “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for a quiet moment.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want Gytha to see me going to Wilf’s house.”

Cat sounded fearful. “That’s where the slave is. What are you going to do to her?”

“I’m not sure. I’m thinking about it.”

“Don’t make Wilf angry with you.”

“We’ll see.”

A few minutes later Ragna saw a silhouette move from Gytha’s house to Wilf’s, carrying a candle. She guessed Gytha was checking on her gift, making sure Carwen was still presentable.

Ragna waited patiently. Soon Gytha left Wilf’s house and returned to her own. Ragna gave her a minute to settle. A woman and her drunk husband came out of the great hall and staggered across the compound. At last the coast was clear, and Ragna quickly crossed the short distance and went into Wilf’s house.

Carwen was still bound, but able to sit upright. Being naked, she was cold, and she had squirmed closer to the fire. The left side of her face bore a huge purple bruise where Wilf had slapped her.

Ragna sat on a stool and wondered whether the slave spoke English. She said: “I’m sorry this has happened to you.”

Carwen showed no response.

“I’m his wife,” Ragna said.

Carwen said: “Ha!”

So she understood.

“He’s not a cruel man,” Ragna went on. “At least, no more cruel than men generally are.”

Carwen’s face relaxed a fraction, perhaps with relief.

“He’s never hit me the way he hit you today,” Ragna said. “Mind you, I’ve been careful not to displease him.” She held up a hand as if to forestall argument. “I’m not judging you, just telling you how it is.”

Carwen nodded.

That was progress.

Ragna took a blanket from Wilf’s bed and put it around Carwen’s thin, white shoulders. “Would you like some wine?”