Ragna’s anxiety grew through the day. Who was the boy her husband had kissed? He might be a close relative, a beloved nephew perhaps, but if so why had he not been at the wedding? The kiss could not have been sexual: Ragna was as sure as a person could be that Wilf was not interested in sex with men. And what was Gytha up to, pretending to be so nice?

Ragna decided to question Wilf the minute he got home. But as the hours went by, she wavered. She might need to be more cautious. Something was going on that she did not understand, and her ignorance put her at a disadvantage. Her father would never go to an important meeting until he was sure he knew everything that might be said there. Ragna was in a foreign country whose customs were still not entirely familiar. She had to tread carefully.

Wigleigh was not far, and Wilf returned in midafternoon, but it was a short December day, and the light was already fading. A servant was lighting basket torches mounted on poles outside the main buildings. Ragna went with Wilf into his house and poured him a cup of ale.

He drank it in one draught then kissed her with the taste of ale on his tongue. He smelled of sweat and horse and leather. She was hungry for his love, perhaps because of the disquiet that had plagued her all day. She took his hand and pressed it between her thighs. He did not need much persuasion, and they made love right away.

Afterward, he fell into a light sleep, with his muscular arms outstretched and his long legs splayed, a strong man resting after an energetic day.

Ragna left him. She went to the kitchen and checked on the preparations for supper; she looked into the great hall to make sure it was ready for the evening meal; then she walked around the compound, observing who was working and who was lazing around, who was sober and who drunk, whose horse was fed and watered and whose had not even been unsaddled yet.

At the end of her peregrination she saw Wilf talking to the woman in the red shoes.

Something about them arrested her. She stopped and watched them from a distance. They were lit by the wavering light of the torch outside Wilf’s door.

There was no reason why they should not talk: Inge was a kind of sister-in-law to Wilf, and they might be innocently fond of each other. All the same, Ragna was taken aback by the intimacy suggested by their bodies: they stood close, and she touched him several times, casually gripping his forearm to make a point, rapping his chest with the back of her hand in a dismissive gesture as if telling him not to be so foolish, and once, putting the tip of her forefinger on his cheek affectionately.

Ragna could not move, could not tear her gaze away.

Then she saw the boy Wilf had kissed. He was young, with no beard, and though tall he gave the impression of being not quite full grown, as if the long limbs and wide shoulders had not yet knit together into a man’s body. He joined Wilf and Inge, and the three talked for a minute with relaxed familiarity.

These people have clearly been part of my husband’s life for many years, Ragna thought; how come I have no idea who they are?

Finally they split up, still without noticing her. Wilf headed for the stable, no doubt to make sure the grooms had taken care of his horse. Inge and the boy went into the house Ragna had agreed to allocate to Wigelm, Milly, and Inge.

Ragna could not live in doubt and suspense any longer, but still she was unwilling to confront Wilf. So who could she talk to?

There was really only one possibility: Gytha.

She hated the thought. She would be revealing her ignorance, showing herself weak, and giving Gytha the position of the wise, knowing one—just when Gytha seemed to be accepting that she was no longer the ruler of Wilf’s home.

But who else was there? Wynstan would be worse than Gytha. Aldred would be at prayers now. She did not know Sheriff Den well enough. She could not sink so low as to ask Gilda the kitchen maid.

She went to Gytha’s house.

She was glad to find Gytha alone. Gytha offered her a cup of wine, and Ragna took it, needing courage. They sat on stools near the fire, facing each other. Gytha looked wary, but Ragna sensed something else: Gytha knew why Ragna had come, knew the questions she was going to ask, and had been waiting for this moment.

Ragna swallowed a mouthful of wine and tried to assume a casual tone of voice. “I noticed a newcomer in the compound, an adolescent boy, about sixteen, tall.”

Gytha nodded. “That would be Garulf.”

“Who is he, and what is he doing here?”

Gytha smiled, and Ragna saw with horror that the smile was loaded with malice. Gytha said: “Garulf is Wilf’s son.”

Ragna gasped. “Son?” she said. “Wilf has a son?”

“Yes.”

That explained the kiss, at least.

Gytha added: “Wilf is forty years old. Did you think you married a virgin?”

“Of course not.” Ragna thought furiously. She knew that Wilf had been married before, but not that he had a child. “Are there others?”

“Not that I know of.”

So, one son. It was a shock, but she could bear it. However, she had one more question. “What connection does Garulf have with the woman in the red shoes?”

Gytha smiled broadly, and it was ominously clear that this was her great moment of triumph. “Why,” she said, “Inge is Wilf’s first wife.”

Ragna was so shocked that she jumped to her feet and dropped her cup. She let it lie there. “His first wife is dead!”

“Who told you that?”

“Wynstan.”

“Are you sure that’s what he said?”

Ragna remembered clearly. “He said: ‘Sadly his wife is no longer with us.’ I’m sure of it.”

“I thought as much,” Gytha said. “You see, no longer with us is not the same as dead, not at all.”

Ragna was incredulous. “He deceived me, and my father and mother?”

“There was no deceit. After Wilf met you, Inge was set aside.”

“Set aside? What in heaven’s name does that mean?”

“That she is no longer his wife.”

“So it’s a divorce?”

“Of sorts.”

“Then why is she here?”

“Just because she’s no longer his wife doesn’t mean he can’t see her. After all, they have a child together.”

Ragna was horrified. The man she had just married already had a family: a wife of many years, from whom he had had a divorce “of sorts,” and a son who was almost a man. And he was clearly fond of them both. And they had now moved into the compound.

She felt as if the world had shifted under her feet, and she struggled to keep her equilibrium. She kept thinking that surely this could not be true. It could not be that everything she had believed about Wilf was wrong.

Surely he could not have deceived her so badly.

She now felt she had to get away from Gytha’s exultant gaze. She could not bear that woman’s knowing eyes on her. She went to the door, then turned back. An even worse thought had struck her.

She said: “But Wilf cannot continue to have marital relations with Inge.”

“Can’t he?” Gytha shrugged. “My dear, you must ask him about that.”

CHAPTER 16

    January 998

t was long past midnight when Ragna at last managed to stop crying.

She spent the night at her own house. She felt unable even to speak to Wilf. She ordered Cat to tell him that Ragna could not sleep with him because the woman’s monthly curse was upon her. That bought her time.

Her servants watched her fearfully by the firelight, but she could not bring herself to explain her anguish. “Tomorrow,” she kept saying. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

She thought she would never sleep again, but when her tears dried up, like an overused well, she did fall into a fitful doze. However, in her dreams she remembered the tragedy that had ruined her life, and she came wide awake with sudden horror and wept again.

At this time of year the compound began to stir well before the late-arriving dawn. Morning sounds brought Ragna to full alertness: men shouting to one another, dogs barking, birdsong, and the clang and clatter of a big kitchen gearing up to feed a hundred people.

It’s a new day, Ragna thought, and I don’t know what to do. I’m lost.

If only she had learned the truth a day earlier, she might have gone home to Cherbourg with her men-at-arms, she thought; but immediately she realized that was not true. Wilf would have sent an army after her, and she would have been captured and brought back to Shiring. No nobleman would permit his wife to leave him. It would be too humiliating.

Could she sneak away unnoticed and get a few days’ start? It was impossible, she saw. She was the ealdorman’s wife: her absence would be remarked within hours if not minutes. And she did not know the country well enough to evade pursuit.

What was more, to her dismay she found she did not really want to leave. She loved Wilf and desired him. He had deceived her and betrayed her, but still she could not bear the thought of living without him. She cursed her weakness.