by Ken Follett
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.
She left the keep and made her way to the stables. Four men-at-arms, led by Bern the Giant, were waiting to escort her; the count must have forewarned them. Stable hands had already saddled her favorite horse, a gray mare called Astrid.
Brother Aldred, strapping a leather pad to his pony, looked admiringly at her brass-studded wooden saddle. “It’s nice-looking, but doesn’t it hurt the horse?”
“No,” Ragna said firmly. “The wood spreads the load, whereas a soft saddle gives the horse a sore back.”
“Look at that, Dismas,” said Aldred to his pony. “Wouldn’t you like something so grand?”
Ragna noticed that Dismas had a white marking on his forehead that was more or less cross-shaped. That seemed appropriate for a monk’s mount.
Louis said: “Dismas?”
Ragna said: “That was the name of one of the thieves crucified with Jesus.”
“I know that,” said Louis heavily, and Ragna told herself not to be so clever.
Aldred said: “This Dismas also steals, especially food.”
“Huh.” Louis clearly did not think such a name should be used in a jokey way, but he said no more, and turned away to saddle his gelding.
They rode out of the castle compound. As they made their way down the hill, Ragna cast an expert eye over the ships in the harbor. She had been raised in a port and she could identify different styles of vessel. Fishing boats and coastal craft predominated today, but at the dockside she noticed an English trader that must be the one Aldred planned to sail in; and no one could mistake the menacing profile of the Viking warships anchored offshore.
They turned south, and a few minutes later were leaving the houses of the small town behind. The flat landscape was swept by sea breezes. Ragna followed a familiar path beside cow pastures and apple orchards. She said: “Now that you’ve got to know our country, Brother Aldred, how do you like it?”
“I notice that noblemen here seem to have one wife and no concubines, at least officially. In England, concubinage and even polygamy are tolerated, despite the clear teaching of the Church.”
“Such things may be hidden,” Ragna said. “Norman noblemen aren’t saints.”
“I’m sure, but at least people here know what’s sinful and what’s not. The other thing is that I’ve seen no slaves anywhere in Normandy.”
“There’s a slave market in Rouen, but the buyers are foreigners. Slavery has been almost completely abolished here. Our clergy condemn it, mainly because so many slaves ar
e used for fornication and sodomy.”
Louis made a startled noise. Perhaps he was not used to young women talking about fornication and sodomy. Ragna realized with a sinking heart that she had made another mistake.
Aldred was not shocked. He continued the discussion without pause. “On the other hand,” he said, “your peasants are serfs, who need the permission of their lord to marry, change their way of making a living, or move to another village. By contrast, English peasants are free.”
Ragna reflected on that. She had not realized that the Norman system was not universal.
They came to a hamlet called Les Chênes. The grass was growing tall in the meadows, Ragna saw. The villagers would reap it in a week or two, she guessed, and make hay to feed livestock in the winter.
The men and women working in the fields stopped what they were doing and waved. “Deborah!” they called. “Deborah!” Ragna waved back.
Louis said: “Did I hear them call you Deborah?”
“Yes. It’s a nickname.”
“Where does it come from?”
Ragna grinned. “You’ll see.”
The sound of seven horses brought people out of their houses. Ragna saw a woman she recognized, and reined in. “You’re Ellen, the baker.”
“Yes, my lady. I pray I see you well and happy.”
“What happened to that little boy of yours who fell out of a tree?”
“He died, my lady.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“They say I shouldn’t mourn, for I’ve got three more sons.”
“Then they’re fools, whoever they are,” said Ragna. “The loss of a child is a terrible grief to a mother, and it makes no difference how many more you may have.”
Tears fell on Ellen’s wind-reddened cheeks, and she reached out a hand. Ragna took it and squeezed gently. Ellen kissed Ragna’s hand and said: “You understand.”
“Perhaps I do, a little,” said Ragna. “Good-bye, Ellen.”
They rode on. Aldred said: “Poor woman.”
Louis said: “I give you credit, Lady Ragna. That woman will worship you for the rest of her life.”
Ragna felt slighted. Louis obviously thought she had been kind merely as a way of making herself popular. She wanted to ask him whether he thought no one ever felt genuine compassion. But she remembered her duty and kept silent.
Louis said: “But I still don’t know why they call you Deborah.”
Ragna gave him an enigmatic smile. Let him figure it out for himself, she thought.
Aldred said: “I notice that a lot of people around here have the wonderful red hair that you have, Lady Ragna.”
Ragna was aware that she had a glorious head of red-gold curls. “That’s the Viking blood,” she said. “Around here, some people still speak Norse.”
Louis commented: “The Normans are different from the rest of us in the Frankish lands.”
That might have been a compliment, but Ragna thought not.
After an hour they came to Saint-Martin. Ragna halted on the outskirts. Several men and women were busy in a leafy orchard, and among them she spotted Gerbert, the reeve, or village headman. She dismounted and crossed a pasture to talk to him, and her companions followed.
Gerbert bowed to her. He was an odd-looking character, with a crooked nose and teeth so misshapen that he could not close his mouth completely. Count Hubert had made him headman because he was intelligent, but Ragna was not sure she trusted him.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and clustered around Ragna and Gerbert. “What work are you doing here today, Gerbert?”
“Picking off some of the little apples, my lady, so the others will grow fatter and juicier,” he said.
“So you can make good cider.”
“Cider from Saint-Martin is stronger than most, by the grace of God and good husbandry.”
Half the villages in Normandy claimed to make the strongest cider, but Ragna did not say that. “What do you do with the unripe apples?”
“Feed them to the goats, to make their cheese sweet.”
“Who’s the best cheesewright in the village?”
“Renée,” said Gerbert immediately. “She uses ewes’ milk.”
Some of the others shook their heads. Ragna turned to them. “What do the rest of you think?”
Two or three people said: “Torquil.”
“Come with me, then, all of you, and I’ll taste them both.”
The serfs followed happily. They generally welcomed any change in the tedium of their days, and they were rarely reluctant to stop work.
Louis said with a touch of irritation: “You didn’t ride all this way to taste cheese, did you? Aren’t you here to settle a dispute?”
“Yes. This is my way. Be patient.”
Louis grunted crabbily.
Ragna did not get back on her horse, but walked into the village, following a dusty track between fields golden with grain. On foot she could more easily talk to people on the way. She paid particular attention to the women, who would give her gossipy information that a man might not bother with. On the walk she learned that Renée was the wife of Gerbert; that Renée’s brother Bernard had a herd of sheep; and that Bernard was involved in a dispute with Gaston, the one who was refusing to pay his rent.
She always tried hard to remember names. It made them feel cared for. Every time she heard a name in casual conversation she would make a mental note.
As they walked, more people joined them. When they reached the village, they found more waiting. There was some mystical communication across fields, Ragna knew: she could never understand it, but men and women working a mile or more away seemed to find out that visitors were arriving.
There was a small, elegant stone church with round-arched windows in neat rows. Ragna knew that the priest, Odo, served this and three other villages, visiting a different one every Sunday; but he was here in Saint-Martin today—that magical rural communication again.
Aldred went immediately to talk to Father Odo. Louis did not: perhaps he felt it was beneath his dignity to converse with a village priest.
Ragna tasted Renée’s cheese and Torquil’s, pronouncing them both so good that she could not pick a winner; and she bought a wheel of each, pleasing everyone.
She walked around the village, going into every house and barn, making sure she spoke a few words to each adult and many of the children; then, when she felt she had assured them all of her goodwill, she was ready to hold court.
Much of Ragna’s strategy came from her father. He enjoyed meeting people and was good at making them his friends. Later, perhaps, some would become enemies—no ruler could please everyone all the time—but they would oppose him reluctantly. He had taught Ragna a lot and she had learned more just by watching him.
Gerbert brought a chair and placed it outside the west front of the church, and Ragna sat while everyone else stood around. Gerbert then presented Gaston, a big, strong peasant of about thirty with a shock of black hair. His face showed indignation, but she guessed he was normally an amiable type.
“Now, Gaston,” she said, “the time has come for you to tell me and your neighbors why you will not pay your rent.”
“My lady, I stand before you—”
“Wait.” Ragna held up a hand to stop him. “Remember that this is not the court of the king of the Franks.” The villagers tittered. “We don’t need a formal speech with high-flown phrases.” There was not much chance of Gaston making such a speech, but he would probably try if he was not given a clear lead. “Imagine that you’re drinking cider with a group of friends and they’ve asked you why you’re so riled up.”
“Yes, my lady. My lady, I haven’t paid the rent because I can’t.”
Gerbert said: “Rubbish.”
Ragna frowned at Gerbert. “Wait your turn,” she said sharply.
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“Yes, my lady.”
“Gaston, what is your rent?”
“I raise beef cattle, my lady, and I owe your noble father two year-old beasts every Midsummer Day.”
“And you say you don’t have the beasts?”
Gerbert interrupted again. “Yes, he does.”
“Gerbert!”
“Sorry, my lady.”
Gaston said: “My pasture was invaded. All the grass was eaten by Bernard’s sheep. My cows had to eat old hay, so their milk dried up and two of my calves died.”
Ragna looked around, trying to remember which one was Bernard. Her eye lit on a small, thin man with hair like straw. Not being sure, she looked up at the sky and said: “Let’s hear from Bernard.”
She had been right. The thin man coughed and said: “Gaston owes me a calf.”
Ragna saw that this was going to be a convoluted argument with a long history. “Wait a moment,” she said. “Is it true that your sheep cropped Gaston’s pasture?”
“Yes, but he owed me.”
“We’ll get to that. You let your sheep into his field.”
“I had good reason.”
“But that’s why Gaston’s calves died.”
Gerbert, the reeve, put in: “Only this year’s newborn calves died. He still has last year’s. He’s got two one-year-olds he can give to the count for his rent.”
Gaston said: “But then I’ll have no one-year-olds next year.”
Ragna began to get the dizzy feeling that always came when she tried to grasp a peasant squabble. “Quiet, everyone,” she said. “So far we’ve established that Bernard invaded Gaston’s pasture—perhaps with reason, we shall see about that—and as a result Gaston feels, rightly or wrongly, that he is too poor to pay any rent this year. Now, Gaston, is it true that you owe Bernard a calf? Answer yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“And why have you not paid him?”
“I will pay him. I just haven’t been able to yet.”
Gerbert said indignantly: “Repayment can’t be postponed forever!”