When at last she came in sight of his city, she stopped and took a good look.

It was a big place, several hundred homes clustered at the foot of a hill, with a damp mist drifting over the thatched roofs. It was surrounded by an earth rampart, no doubt for defense against Vikings. Two large churches stood out, pale stone and wet shingles against the mass of brown timber. One appeared to be part of a group of monastic buildings enclosed by a ditch and a fence and was undoubtedly the abbey where the handsome Brother Aldred was in charge of the scriptorium. She looked forward to seeing Aldred again.

The other church would be the cathedral, for alongside it was a two-story house that must be the home of the bishop, Wilwulf’s brother Wynstan, soon to be Ragna’s brother-in-law. She hoped he would act like a kind of older brother to her.

A stone building with no bell tower was probably the home of a moneyer, containing a stock of silver metal that had to be guarded from thieves. England’s currency was trusted, she had learned: the purity of its silver pennies was carefully regulated by the king, who imposed brutal punishments for forgery.

There would be more churches in a town of this size, but they were probably built of timber, just like houses.

On top of the hill, dominating the town, was a stockaded compound, twenty or thirty assorted buildings enclosed by a stout fence. That must be the seat of government, the residence of the ealdorman, the home of Wilwulf.

And my home too now, Ragna thought nervously.

It had no stone buildings. That did not surprise her: it was only recently that the Normans had begun to build stone keeps and gatehouses, and most of them were simpler and cruder than her father’s castle at Cherbourg. She would undoubtedly be a little less safe here.

She had known in advance that the English were weak. The Vikings had first raided this country two centuries ago and the English still had not been able to put a permanent stop to it. People here were better at jewelry and embroidery than at fighting.

She sent Cat and Bern ahead to warn of her arrival. She followed slowly, to give Wilwulf time to prepare a welcome. She had to suppress the urge to kick Astrid into a canter. She was desperately keen to hold Wilwulf in her arms, and she resented every moment’s delay, but she was eager to make a dignified entrance.

Despite the drizzle of cold rain, the town was busy with commerce: people buying bread and ale, horses and carts delivering sacks and barrels, peddlers and prostitutes walking the mud streets. But business stopped as Ragna and her entourage approached. They formed a large group, richly dressed, and her men-at-arms all sported the severe haircut that marked them distinctively as Norman. People stared and pointed. They probably guessed who Ragna was: the forthcoming wedding was surely general knowledge in the town, and the people must have long anticipated her arrival.

Their looks were wary, and she guessed they were not certain how to respond to her. Was she a foreign usurper, come to steal the most eligible man in the west of England away from more deserving local girls?

She noticed that her men had instinctively formed a protective ring around her. That was a mistake, she realized. The people of Shiring needed to see their princess. “We look too defensive,” she said to Bern. “This won’t do. You and Odo ride ten paces ahead, just to clear the way. Tell the rest to fall back. Let the townsfolk see me.”

Bern looked worried, but he changed the formation as instructed.

Ragna began to interact with the people. She met the eyes of individuals and smiled at them. Most people found it hard not to return a smile, but here she sensed a reluctance. One woman gave a tentative wave, and Ragna waved back. A group of thatchers putting a roof on a house stopped work and called out to her: they spoke English with a broad accent that she could not understand, so she was not sure whether their shouted comments represented enthusiasm or mockery, but she blew them a kiss. Some onlookers smiled in approval. A little crowd of men drinking outside an alehouse waved their caps in the air and cheered. Other bystanders followed suit. “That’s better,” said Ragna, her anxiety easing a little.

The noise drew people out of their houses and shops to see what was going on, and the crowd thickened ahead. Everyone followed behind the entourage, and as Ragna headed up the hill to the compound the buzz became a roar. She was infected by their enthusiasm. The more she smiled, the more they cheered; and the more they cheered, the happier she felt.

The wooden stockade had a big double gate, and both sides stood wide. Just inside, another crowd had gathered, presumably Wilwulf’s servants and hangers-on. They applauded as Ragna came into view.

The compound was not very different from that at Cherbourg apart from the lack of a castle. There were houses, stables, and storerooms. The kitchens were open-sided. One house was double-size, and had small windows at both ends: that would be the great hall, where the ealdorman held meetings and hosted banquets. The other houses would be homes for important men and their families.

The crowd formed two lines and clearly expected Ragna to ride between them to the great hall. She went slowly, taking time to look at the faces and smile at individuals. Almost every expression was welcoming and happy; just a handful were stonily noncommittal, as if warily withholding judgment, waiting for further evidence that she was all right.

Outside the door of the long house stood Wilwulf.

He was just as she remembered him, tall and loose-limbed, with a mane of fair hair and a mustache but no beard. He wore a red cloak with an enameled brooch. His smile was broad but relaxed, as if they had parted company only yesterday, rather than two months ago. He stood in the rain without a hat, not caring about getting wet. He spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome.

Ragna could restrain herself no longer. She leaped off her horse and ran to him. The onlookers cheered at this display of uncontained enthusiasm. His smile became wider. She threw herself into his arms and kissed him passionately. The cheering became thunderous. She put her arms around his neck and jumped up with her legs around his waist, and the crowd went wild.

She kissed him hard, but not too long, then put her feet on the ground again. A little vulgarity went a long way.

They stood grinning at each other. Ragna was thinking about making love with him, and she felt he knew what was in her mind.

They let the people cheer for a minute, then Wilwulf took her hand and they walked side by side into the great hall.

A smaller crowd waited there, and there was more applause. As Ragna’s eyes grew accustomed to the dimmer light, she saw a group of a dozen or so people, more richly dressed than those outside, and she guessed these were Wilwulf’s family.

One stepped forward, and she recognized the large ears and the close-set eyes. “Bishop Wynstan,” she said. “I’m pleased to see you again.”

He kissed her hand. “I’m glad that you’re here, and proud of the modest part I played in making the arrangements.”

“For which I thank you.”

“You’ve had a long journey.”

“I’ve certainly got to know my new country.”

“And what do you think of it?”

“It’s a bit wet.”

Everyone laughed, which pleased Ragna, but she knew this was not the moment for candid honesty, and she added an outright lie. “The English people have been friendly and kind. I love them.”

“I’m so glad,” said Wynstan, apparently believing her.

Ragna almost blushed. She had been miserable ever since she set foot in England. The alehouses were dirty, the people were unfriendly, ale was a poor substitute for cider, and she had been robbed. But no, she thought, that was not the whole truth. Mother Agatha had welcomed her, and that ferry boy had been zealously helpful. No doubt the English were a mixture of good and bad, as were the Normans.

And the Normans had no one like Wilwulf. As she made small talk with the family, pausing often to search her memory for the right Anglo-Saxon word, she glanced at him every chance she got, feeling a jolt of pleasure each time she recognized a familiar feature: his strong jaw, his blue-green eyes, the blond mustache she was longing to kiss again. Each time she looked she found he was staring at her, wearing a proud smile with a hint behind it of impatient lust. That made her feel good.

Wilwulf introduced another tall man with a bushy blond mustache. “Allow me to present my younger half brother, Wigelm, the lord of Combe.”

Wigelm looked her up and down. “My word, you are very welcome,” he said. His words were kind but his grin made Ragna uneasy, even though she was accustomed to men staring at her body. Wigelm confirmed her instinctive dislike by saying: “I’m sure Wilf explained to you that we three brothers share everything, including our women.”

This joke caused the men to laugh uproariously. The women present did not find it so hilarious. Ragna decided to ignore it.