“We have eight books, but when I get home we’ll have sixteen. And the scriptorium consists of me and an assistant, Brother Tatwine. He colors the capital letters. I do the plain writing—I’m more interested in words than colors.”

The priest interrupted their conversation, reminding Ragna of her duty to make a good impression. Father Louis said: “Tell me, Lady Ragnhild, do you read?”

“Of course I do.”

He raised an eyebrow in faint surprise. There was no “of course” about it: by no means could all noblewomen read.

Ragna realized she had just made the kind of remark that gave her a reputation for haughtiness. Trying to be more amiable, she added: “My father taught me to read when I was small, before my brother was born.”

When Father Louis had arrived a week ago, Ragna’s mother had drawn her into the private quarters of the count and countess and said: “Why do you think he’s here?”

Ragna had frowned. “I don’t know.”

“He’s an important man, secretary to the count of Reims and a canon of the cathedral.” Genevieve was statuesque but, despite her imposing appearance, she was easily overawed.

“So what brings him to Cherbourg?”

“You,” Genevieve had said.

Ragna had begun to see.

Her mother went on: “The count of Reims has a son, Guillaume, who is your age and unmarried. The count is looking for a wife for his son. And Father Louis is here to see whether you might be suitable.”

Ragna felt a twinge of resentment. This kind of thing was normal, but all the same it made her feel like a cow being appraised by a prospective purchaser. She suppressed her indignation. “What’s Guillaume like?”

“He’s a nephew of King Robert.” Robert II, twenty-five years old, was king of France. For Genevieve the greatest asset a man could have was a royal connection.

Ragna had other priorities. She was impatient to know what he was like, regardless of his social status. “Anything else?” she said, in a tone of voice that, she realized immediately, was rather arch.

“Don’t be sarcastic. It’s just the kind of thing that puts men off you.”

That shot hit home. Ragna had already discouraged several perfectly appropriate suitors. Somehow she scared them. Being so tall did not help—she had her mother’s figure—but there was more to it than that.

Genevieve went on: “Guillaume is not diseased, or mad, or depraved.”

“He sounds like every girl’s dream.”

“There you go again.”

“Sorry. I’ll be nice to Father Louis, I promise.”

Ragna was twenty years old, and she could not remain single indefinitely. She did not want to end up in a nunnery.

Her mother was getting anxious. “You want a grand passion, a lifelong romance, but those exist only in poems,” Genevieve said. “In real life we women settle for what we can get.”

Ragna knew she was right.

She would probably marry Guillaume, provided he was not completely repugnant; but she wanted to do it on her own terms. She wanted Louis to approve of her, but she also needed him to understand what sort of wife she would be. She did not plan to be purely decorative, like a gorgeous tapestry her husband would be proud to show to guests; nor would she be merely a hostess, organizing banquets and entertaining distinguished visitors. She would be her husband’s partner in the management of his estate. It was not unusual for wives to play such a role: every time a nobleman went off to war he had to leave someone in charge of his lands and his fortune. Sometimes his deputy would be a brother or a grown-up son, but often it was his wife.

Now, over a dish of bass, fresh from the sea, cooked in cider, Louis started to probe her intellectual abilities. With a distinct touch of skepticism he asked: “And what kind of thing do you read, my lady?” His tone said he could hardly believe that an attractive young woman would understand literature.

If she had liked him better, she would have found it easier to impress him.

“I like poems that tell stories,” she said.

“For example . . . ?”

He obviously thought she would be unable to name a work of literature, but he was wrong. “The story of Saint Eulalie is very moving,” she said. “In the end she goes up to heaven in the form of a dove.”

“She does indeed,” said Louis, in a voice that suggested she could not tell him anything about saints that he did not already know.

“And there’s an English poem called ‘The Wife’s Lament.’” She turned to Aldred. “Do you know it?”

“I do, although I don’t know whether it was English originally. Poets travel. They amuse a nobleman’s court for a year or two, then move on when their poems become stale. Or they may win the esteem of a richer patron and be lured away. As they go from place to place, admirers translate their works into other tongues.”

Ragna was fascinated. She liked Aldred. He knew such a lot, and he was able to share his knowledge without using it to prove his superiority.

She turned to Louis again, mindful of her mission. “Don’t you find that fascinating, Father Louis? You’re from Reims, that’s near the German-speaking lands.”

“It is,” he said. “You’re well educated, my lady.”

Ragna felt she had passed a test. She wondered whether Louis’s condescending attitude had been a deliberate attempt to provoke her. She was glad she had not risen to the bait. “You’re very kind,” she said insincerely. “My brother has a tutor, and I’m allowed to sit in on the lessons as long as I remain silent.”

“Very good. Not many girls know so much. But as for me, I mainly read the Holy Scriptures.”

“Naturally.”

Ragna had won a measure of approval. Guillaume’s wife would have to be cultured and able to hold her own in conversation, and Ragna had proved herself in that respect. She hoped that made up for her earlier hauteur.

A man-at-arms called Bern the Giant came and spoke quietly to Count Hubert. Bern had a red beard and a fat belly.

After a short discussion the count got up from the table. Ragna’s father was a small man and seemed even smaller beside Bern. He had the look of a mischievous boy, despite his forty-five years. The back of his head was shaved in the style fashionable among the Normans. He came to Ragna’s side. “I have to go to Valognes unexpectedly,” he said. “I’d planned to investigate a dispute in the village of Saint-Martin today, but now I can’t go. Will you take my place?”

“With pleasure,” Ragna said.

“There’s a serf called Gaston who won’t pay his rent, apparently as some kind of protest.”

“I’ll deal with it, don’t worry.”

“Thank you.” The count left the room with Bern.

Louis said: “Your father is fond of you.”

Ragna smiled. “As I am of him.”

“Do you often deputize for him?”

“The village of Saint-Martin is special to me. All that district is part of my marriage portion. But yes, I often stand in for my father, there and elsewhere.”

“It would be more usual for his wife to be his deputy.”

“True.”

“Your father likes to do things differently.” He spread his arms to indicate the castle. “This building, for example.”

Ragna could not tell whether Louis was disapproving or just intrigued. “My mother dislikes the work of governing, but I’m fascinated by it.”

Aldred put in: “Women sometimes do it well. King Alfred of England had a daughter called Ethelfled who ruled the great region of Mercia after her husband died. She fortified towns and won battles.”

It occurred to Ragna that she had an opportunity to impress Louis. She could invite him to see how she dealt with the ordinary folk. It was part of the duty of a noblewoman, and she knew she did it well. “Would you care to come with me to Saint-Martin, Father?”

“I would be pleased,” he said immediately.

“On the way, perhaps you can tell me about the household of the count of Reims. I believe he has a son my age.”

“He does indeed.”

Now that her invitation had been accepted, she found she was not looking forward to a day talking to Louis, so she turned to Aldred. “Will you come, too?” she said. “You’ll be back by the evening tide, so if the wind should change during the day you could still leave tonight.”

“I’d be delighted.”

They all got up from the table.

Ragna’s personal maid was a black-haired girl her own age called Cat. She had a tip-tilted nose with a sharp point. Her nostrils looked like the nibs of two quill pens laid side by side. Despite that, she was attractive, with a lively look and a sparkle of mischief in her eyes.

Cat helped Ragna take off her silk slippers, then stored them in the chest. The maid then got out linen leggings to protect the skin of Ragna’s calves while riding, and replaced her slippers with leather boots. Finally she handed her a riding whip.

Ragna’s mother came to her. “Be sweet to Father Louis,” she said. “Don’t try to outsmart him—men hate that.”

“Yes, Mother,” Ragna said meekly. Ragna knew perfectly well that women should not try to be clever, but she had broken the rule so often that her mother was entitled to remind her.