The boat reached the north bank. Once again Edgar jumped out and tied it up, then invited the passengers to disembark. Again Ragna went first, and her horse gave confidence to the rest.

She dismounted outside the alehouse door. The man who came out reminded her momentarily of Wilwulf. He was the same size and build, but his face was different. “I can’t accommodate all these people,” he said in a tone of resentment. “How am I going to feed them?”

Ragna said: “How far is it to the next village?”

“Foreigner, are you?” he said, noticing her accent. “The place is called Wigleigh, and you won’t get there today.”

He was probably just working up to asking outrageous prices. Ragna became exasperated. “Well, then, what do you suggest?”

Edgar intervened. “Dreng, this is the lady Ragna from Cherbourg. She’s going to marry Ealdorman Wilwulf.”

Dreng immediately became obsequious. “Forgive me, my lady, I had no idea,” he said. “Please step inside, and welcome. You’re going to be my cousin-in-law, you may not know.”

Ragna was disconcerted to hear that she was to be related to this alehouse keeper. She did not immediately accept his invitation to go inside. “No, I did not know,” she said.

“Oh, yes. Ealdorman Wilwulf is my cousin. You’ll be family to me after the wedding.”

Ragna was not pleased.

He went on: “My brother and I run this little village, under Wilwulf’s authority, of course. My brother, Degbert, is dean of the minster up the hill.”

“That little church is a minster?”

“Just half a dozen clergy, quite small. But come inside, please.” Dreng put his arm around Ragna’s shoulders.

This was going too far. Even if she had liked Dreng she would not have allowed him to paw her. With a deliberate movement she took his arm off her shoulders. “My husband would not like me to be caressed by his cousin,” she said coolly. Then she walked ahead of him into the house.

Dreng followed her in saying: “Oh, our Wilf wouldn’t mind.” But he did not touch her again.

Ragna looked around the inside of the building with a feeling that was becoming familiar. Like most English alehouses it was dark, smelly, and smoky. There were two tables and a scatter of benches and stools.

Cat was close behind her. She moved a stool nearer to the fire for Ragna, then helped her take off her sodden cloak. Ragna sat by the fire and held out her hands to warm them.

There were three women in the tavern, she saw. The eldest was presumably Dreng’s wife. The youngest, a pregnant girl with a pinched face, wore no headdress of any kind, usually the sign of a prostitute: Ragna guessed she might be a slave. The third woman was about Ragna’s age, and might be Dreng’s concubine.

Ragna’s maids and bodyguards crowded into the house. Ragna said to Dreng: “Would you please give my servants some ale?”

“My wife shall attend to it at once, my lady.” He spoke to the two women. “Leaf, give them some ale. Ethel, get the supper started.”

Leaf opened a chest full of wooden bowls and cups, and began to fill them from a barrel on a stand in the corner. Ethel hung an iron cauldron over the fire and poured water into it, then produced a large leg of mutton and added it to the pot.

The pregnant girl brought in an armful of firewood. Ragna was surprised to see her doing heavy work when her time was evidently so near. It was no wonder she looked tired and morose.

Edgar knelt by the hearth and built up the fire twig by twig. Soon it was a cheerful blaze that warmed Ragna and dried her clothes.

She said to him: “On the ferry, when my maid, Cat, told you who I was, you said: ‘I know.’ How did you know me?”

Edgar smiled. “You won’t remember, but we’ve met before.”

Ragna did not apologize for not recognizing him. A noblewoman met hundreds of people and could not be expected to recall them all. She said: “When was that?”

“Five years ago. I was only thirteen.” Edgar drew his knife from his belt and set it on the hearth stones so that the blade was in the flames.

“So I was fifteen. I’ve never been to England before now, so you must have come to Normandy.”

“My late father was a boatbuilder at Combe. We went to Cherbourg to deliver a ship. That’s when I met you.”

“Did we speak?”

“Yes.” He looked embarrassed.

“Wait a minute.” Ragna smiled. “I vaguely remember a cheeky little English boy who came into the castle uninvited.”

“That sounds like me.”

“He told me I was beautiful, in bad French.”

Edgar had the grace to blush. “I apologize for my insolence. And for my French.” Then he grinned. “But not for my taste.”

“Did I reply? I don’t remember.”

“You spoke to me in quite good Anglo-Saxon.”

“What did I say?”

“You told me I was charming.”

“Ah, yes! Then you said you were going to marry someone like me.”

“I don’t know how I could have been so disrespectful.”

“I didn’t mind, really. But I think I may have decided the joke had gone far enough.”

“Yes, indeed. You told me to go back to England before I got into real trouble.” He stood up, perhaps thinking that he was teetering on the edge of impertinence, as he had five years earlier. “Would you like some warm ale?”

“I’d love it.”

Edgar got a cup of ale from the woman called Leaf. Using his sleeve as a glove he picked up his knife from the fire and plunged the blade into the cup. The liquid fizzed and foamed. He stirred it then handed it to her. “I don’t think it will be too hot,” he said.

She touched the cup to her lips and took a sip. “Perfect,” she said, and drank a long swallow. It warmed her belly.

She was feeling more cheerful.

“I should leave you,” Edgar said. “I expect my master wants to talk to you.”

“Oh, no, please,” Ragna said hastily. “I can’t bear him. Stay here. Sit down. Talk.”

He drew up a stool, thought for a moment, then said: “It must be difficult to start a new life in a strange country.”

You have no idea, she thought. But she did not want to appear glum. “It’s an adventure,” she said brightly.

“But everything is different. I felt bewildered that day in Cherbourg: a different language, strange clothes, even buildings that looked queer. And I was only there for a day.”

“It’s a challenge,” she admitted.

“I’ve noticed that people aren’t always kind to foreigners. When I lived at Combe we saw a lot of strangers. Some of the townspeople enjoyed laughing at the mistakes made by French or Flemish visitors.”

Ragna nodded. “An ignorant man thinks foreigners are stupid—not realizing that he himself would appear just as foolish if he went abroad.”

“It must be hard to bear. I admire your courage.”

He was the first English person to sympathize with what she was going through. Ironically, his compassion undermined her facade of determined stoicism. To her own dismay she began to cry.

“I’m so sorry!” he said. “What have I done?”

“You’ve been kind,” she managed to say. “No one else has, not since I landed in this country.”

He was embarrassed again. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s not you, really.” She did not want to complain about how awful England was. She fastened on the outlaw. “I lost something precious today.”

“I’m sorry. What was it?”

“A gift for my husband-to-be, a belt with a silver buckle. I was so looking forward to giving it to him.”

“What a shame.”

“It was stolen by a man wearing a helmet.”

“That sounds like Ironface. He’s an outlaw. He tried to steal my family’s piglet, but my dog gave warning.”

A man with a bald head came into the house and approached Ragna. Like Dreng, he bore a faint resemblance to Wilwulf. “Welcome to Dreng’s Ferry, my lady,” he said. “I’m Degbert, dean of the minster and landlord of the village.” In a lower voice he said to Edgar: “Push off, lad.”

Edgar got up and left.

Degbert sat down uninvited on the stool vacated by Edgar. “Your fiancé is my cousin,” he said.

Ragna said politely: “I’m glad to meet you.”

“We’re honored to receive you here.”

“It’s a pleasure,” she lied. She wondered how long it would be before she could go to sleep.

She made small talk with Degbert for a few dull minutes, then Edgar returned, accompanied by a stout little man in clerical dress carrying a chest. Degbert looked up at them and said irritably: “What’s this?”

Edgar said: “I asked Cuthbert to bring some of his jewelry to show the lady Ragna. She lost something precious today—Ironface robbed her—and she may like to replace it.”

Degbert hesitated. He was clearly enjoying his monopoly of the high-ranking visitor. However, he decided to yield gracefully. “We at the minster are proud of Cuthbert’s skill,” he said. “I hope you’ll find something to your liking, my lady.”

Ragna was skeptical. The best English jewelry was splendid, and was prized all over Europe, but that did not mean that everything produced by Englishmen would be good; and it seemed unlikely that fine things would be made in this little settlement. But she was glad to get rid of Degbert.