The man ignored her. He bowed to Louis. “Good day, Father,” he said in poor French. “I have come to speak with Count Hubert. I am Wilwulf, ealdorman of Shiring.”

* * *

Wilwulf was not handsome in the way Aldred was handsome. The ealdorman had a big nose and a jaw like a shovel, and his hands and arms were disfigured by scars. But all the maids in the castle blushed and giggled when he strode past. A foreigner was always intriguing, but Wilwulf’s attraction was more than that. It had to do with his size and the loose-limbed way he walked and the intensity of his gaze. Most of all, he had a self-confidence that seemed ready for anything. A girl felt that at any moment he might effortlessly pick her up and carry her off.

Ragna was intrigued by him, but he seemed supremely unaware of her or any of the women. He spoke to her father and to visiting Norman noblemen, and he chatted to his men-at-arms in fast, guttural Anglo-Saxon that Ragna could not understand; but he hardly ever spoke to women. Ragna felt slighted: she was not used to being ignored. His indifference was a challenge. She felt she had to get under his skin.

Her father was less enchanted. He was not inclined to take the side of the English against the Vikings, who were his uncivilized kinsmen. Wilwulf was wasting his time here.

Ragna wanted to help Wilwulf. She felt little affinity with Vikings and sympathized with their victims. And if she helped him, perhaps he would stop ignoring her.

Although Count Hubert had little interest in Wilwulf, a Norman nobleman had a duty to show hospitality, so he organized a boar hunt. Ragna was thrilled. She loved the hunt, and perhaps this would prove a chance to get to know Wilwulf better.

The party assembled by the stables at first light and took a standing breakfast of lamb cutlets and strong cider. They chose their weapons: any could be used, but the most favored was a special heavy spear with a long blade and a handle of equal length, and between the two a crossbar. They mounted, Ragna on Astrid, and set off on horseback with a pack of hysterically excited dogs.

Her father led the way. Count Hubert resisted the temptation of many small men to compensate by riding a big horse. His favorite hunting mount was a sturdy black pony called Thor. In the woods it was just as fast as a larger beast, but more nimble.

Wilwulf rode well, Ragna noticed. The count had given the Englishman a spirited dappled stallion called Goliath. Wilwulf had mastered the horse effortlessly, and sat as easily as if in a chair.

A packhorse followed the hunt with panniers full of bread and cider from the castle kitchen.

They rode to Les Chênes then turned into the Bois des Chênes, the largest remaining area of woodland in the peninsula, where the most wildlife could be found. They followed a track through the trees while the dogs quartered the ground frantically, snuffling in the undergrowth for the pungent scent of wild pig.

Astrid stepped lightly, enjoying the feeling of trotting through the woods in the morning air. Ragna felt mounting anticipation. The exhilaration was intensified by the danger. Boars were mighty, with big teeth and powerful jaws. A full-grown boar could bring down a horse and kill a man. They would attack even when wounded, especially if cornered. The reason that a boar spear had a crossbar was that without it an impaled boar might run up the spear and attack the hunter despite being fatally wounded. Hunting boar required a cool head and strong nerves.

One of the dogs picked up a scent, barked triumphantly, and headed off. The others followed in a pack, and the horsemen went after them. Astrid dodged between the thickets sure-footedly. Ragna’s young brother, Richard, passed her, riding overconfidently, as teenage boys did.

Ragna heard the gu-gu-gu screech of an alarmed boar. The dogs went wild and the horses picked up their pace. The chase was on, and Ragna’s heart beat faster.

Boars could run. They were not as fast as horses on cleared ground, but in the woods, zigzagging through the vegetation, they were hard to catch.

Ragna glimpsed the prey crossing a clearing in a group: a big female, five feet long from snout to tail tip, probably weighing more than Ragna herself; plus two or three smaller females and a clutch of little striped piglets that could go surprisingly fast on their short legs. Boar family groups were matriarchal: males lived separately except in the winter rutting season.

The horses loved the thrill of the chase, especially when riding at speed in a pack with the dogs. They crashed through the undergrowth, flattening shrubs and saplings. Ragna rode one-handed, holding the reins in her left while keeping her spear ready in her right. She lowered her head to Astrid’s neck to avoid overhanging branches, which could be more deadly than the boar to a careless rider. But although she rode prudently, she felt reckless, like Skadi, the Norse goddess of hunting, all-powerful and invulnerable, as if nothing bad could happen to her in this state of elation.

The hunt burst out of the woods into a pasture. Cows scattered, lowing, terrified. The horses caught up with the boar in moments. Count Hubert speared one of the lesser females, killing it. Ragna chased a dodging piglet, caught up, leaned down, and speared its hindquarters.

The old female turned dangerously, ready to fight back. Young Richard charged at her fearlessly, but his thrust was wild, and he stuck his spear into the heavily muscled hump. It penetrated only an inch or two then broke. Richard lost his balance and came off his horse, hitting the ground with a thump. The old female charged at him, and Ragna screamed in fear for her brother’s life.

Then Wilwulf came from behind, riding fast, spear raised. He jumped his horse over Richard then leaned perilously low and impaled the boar. The iron went through the beast’s throat into its chest. The point must have reached the heart, for the boar instantly fell dead.

The hunters reined in and dismounted, breathless and happy, congratulating one another. Richard was at first white-faced from his narrow escape, but the young men praised his bravery, and soon he was acting like the hero of the hour. The servants disemboweled the carcasses, and the dogs fell greedily on the guts that spilled onto the ground. There was a strong smell of blood and shit. A peasant appeared, silently furious, and herded his distressed cows into a neighboring field.

The packhorse with its panniers caught up, and the hunters drank thirstily and tore into the loaves.

Wilwulf sat on the ground with a wooden cup in one hand and a chunk of bread in the other. Ragna saw an opportunity to talk, and sat beside him.

He did not look particularly pleased.

She was accustomed to men being impressed with her, and his lack of interest pricked her pride. Who did he think he was? But she had a contrary streak, and now she wanted all the more to bring him under her spell.

She spoke in hesitant Anglo-Saxon. “You saved my brother. Thank you.”

He replied amiably enough. “Boys of his age need to take risks. Plenty of time to be cautious when he’s an old man.”

“If he lives that long.”

Wilwulf shrugged. “A timid nobleman gains no respect.”

Ragna decided not to argue. “Were you rash in your youth?”

His mouth twitched, as if his recollections amused him. “Utterly foolhardy,” he said, but it was more of a boast than a confession.

“Now you’re wiser, of course.”

He grinned. “Opinions differ.”

She felt she was breaking through his reserve. She moved to another topic. “How are you getting on with my father?”

His face changed. “He is a generous host, but he’s not inclined to give me what I came here for.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“I want him to stop sheltering Vikings in his harbor.”

She nodded. Her father had told her as much. But she wanted Wilwulf to talk. “How does that affect you?”

“They sail from here across the Channel to raid my towns and villages.”

“They haven’t troubled this coast for a century. And that’s not because we’re descended from Vikings. They no longer attack Brittany or the Frankish lands or the Low Countries. Why do they pick on England?”

He looked startled, as if he had not expected a strategic question from a girl. However, she had clearly raised a subject close to his heart, for he responded with heat. “We’re wealthy, especially our churches and monasteries, but we’re not good at defending ourselves. I’ve talked to learned men, bishops and abbots, about our history. The great King Alfred chased the Vikings off, but he was the only monarch to fight back effectively. England is a rich old lady with a box full of money and no one to guard it. Of course we get robbed.”

“What does my father say to your request?”

“I imagined that, as a Christian, he would readily agree to such a demand—but he has not.”

She knew that, and she had thought about it. “My father doesn’t want to take sides in a quarrel that doesn’t concern him,” she said.

“So I gathered.”