by Ken Follett
He had just given Ragna a present, a silk shawl embroidered by his mother. Ragna unfolded it and studied the design, which featured intertwining foliage and monstrous birds. “It’s gorgeous,” she said. “It must have taken her a year.”
“She has good taste.”
“What is she like?”
“She’s absolutely wonderful.” Guillaume smiled. “I suppose every boy thinks his mother is wonderful.”
Ragna was not sure that was true, but she kept the thought to herself.
“I believe a noblewoman should have complete authority over everything to do with fabrics,” he said, and Ragna sensed she was about to hear a prepared speech. “Spinning, weaving, dyeing, stitching, embroidery, and of course, laundry. A woman should rule that world the way her husband rules his domain.” He spoke as if he were making a generous concession.
Ragna said flatly: “I hate all that.”
Guillaume was startled. “Don’t you do embroidery?”
Ragna resisted the temptation to prevaricate. She did not want him to suffer any misapprehensions. I am what I am, she thought. She said: “Lord, no.”
He was baffled. “Why not?”
“I love beautiful clothes, like most people, but I don’t want to make them. It bores me.”
He looked disappointed. “It bores you?”
Perhaps it was time to sound more positive. “Don’t you think a noblewoman has other duties, too? What about when her husband goes to war? Someone has to make sure the rents are paid and justice is dispensed.”
“Well, yes, of course, in an emergency.”
Ragna decided she had made herself clear enough. She conceded a point in the hope of lowering the temperature. “That’s what I mean,” she said untruthfully. “In an emergency.”
He looked relieved, and changed the subject. “What a splendid view.”
The castle provided a lookout over the surrounding countryside, so that hostile armies could be seen from afar, in time for defensive preparations—or flight. Cherbourg Castle also looked out to sea, for the same reason. But Guillaume was studying the town. The river Divette meandered left and right through the timber-and-thatch houses before reaching the waterfront. The streets were busy with carts going to and from the harbor, their wooden wheels raising dust from the sun-dried roads. The Vikings no longer moored here, as Count Hubert had promised Wilwulf, but several ships of other nations were tied up and others were anchored farther out. An incoming French vessel was low in the water, perhaps bringing iron or stone. Behind it, in the distance, an English ship was approaching. “A commercial city,” Guillaume commented.
Ragna detected a note of disapproval. She asked him: “What kind of city is Reims?”
“A holy place,” he said immediately. “Clovis, king of the Franks, was baptized there by Bishop Remi long ago. On that occasion, a white dove appeared with a bottle, called the Holy Ampulla, containing sacred oil that has been used since for many royal coronations.”
Ragna thought there must be some buying and selling in Reims, as well as miracles and coronations, but once again she held back. She seemed always to be holding back when she talked to Guillaume.
Her patience was running low. She told herself she had done her duty. “Shall we go down?” she said. Insincerely she added: “I can’t wait to show this lovely shawl to my mother.”
They descended the wooden steps and entered the great hall. Genevieve was not in sight, which gave Ragna an excuse to leave Guillaume and enter the private apartment of the count and countess. She found her mother going through her jewel box, selecting a pin for her dress. “Hello, dear,” said the countess. “How are you getting on with Guillaume? He seems lovely.”
“He’s very fond of his mother.”
“How nice.”
Ragna showed her the shawl. “She embroidered this for me.”
Genevieve took the shawl and admired it. “So kind of her.”
Ragna could hold out no longer. “Oh, mother, I don’t like him.”
Genevieve made an exasperated noise. “Give him a chance, won’t you?”
“I’ve tried, I really have.”
“What’s wrong with him, for goodness’ sake?”
“He wants me to be in charge of fabrics.”
“Well, naturally, when you’re the countess. You don’t think he should sew his own clothes, do you?”
“He’s prissy.”
“No, he’s not. You imagine things. He’s perfectly all right.”
“I wish I were dead.”
“You’ve got to stop pining for that big Englishman. He was completely unsuitable, and anyway, he’s gone.”
“More’s the pity.”
Genevieve turned around to face Ragna. “Now listen to me. You can’t remain unmarried much longer. It will begin to look permanent.”
“Perhaps it is.”
“Don’t even say that. There’s no place for a single noblewoman. She’s no use, but she still requires gowns and jewels and horses and servants, and her father gets tired of paying out and getting nothing back. What’s more, the married women hate her, because they think she wants to steal their husbands.”
“I could become a nun.”
“I doubt that. You’ve never been particularly devout.”
“Nuns sing and read and take care of sick people.”
“And sometimes they have loving relationships with other nuns, but I don’t think that’s your inclination. I remember that wicked girl from Paris, Constance, but you didn’t really like her.”
Ragna blushed. She had had no idea that her mother knew about her and Constance. They had kissed and touched each other’s breasts and watched each other masturbate, but Ragna’s heart had not been in it, and eventually Constance had turned her attention to another girl. How much had Genevieve guessed?
Anyway, mother’s instinct was right: a love affair with a woman was never going to be what made Ragna happy.
“So,” Genevieve resumed, “Guillaume is probably an advantageous choice at this point.”
An advantageous choice, thought Ragna; I wanted a romance that would make my heart sing, but what I’ve got is an advantageous choice.
All the same, she thought she would have to marry him.
In a somber mood she left her mother. She passed through the great hall and went out into the sunshine, hoping that might cheer her up.
At the gate of the compound was a small group of visitors, presumably off one of the two ships she had seen approaching earlier. At the center of the group was a nobleman with a mustache but no beard, presumably an Englishman, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought it was Wilwulf. He was tall and fair, with a big nose and a strong jaw, and there flashed into her mind an entire fantasy in which Wilwulf had come back to marry her and take her away. But a moment later she realized that this man’s head was tonsured, and he wore the long black robe of a clergyman; and as he drew nearer she saw that his eyes were closer together, his ears were huge, and although he might have been younger than Wilwulf his face was already lined. He walked differently, too: where Wilwulf was confident, this man was arrogant.
Ragna’s father was not in sight, nor were any of his senior clerks, so it was up to Ragna to welcome the visitor. She went up to him and said: “Good day to you, sir. Welcome to Cherbourg. I am Ragna, the daughter of Count Hubert.”
His reaction startled her. He stared at her keenly, and a mocking smile played under his mustache. “Are you, now?” he said as if fascinated. “Are you really?” He spoke good French with an accent.
She did not know what to say in reply, but her silence did not seem to bother the visitor. He looked her up and down as he might have studied a horse, checking all the key points. His gaze began to feel rude.
Then he spoke again. “I am the bishop of Shiring,” he said. “My name is Wynstan. I am the
brother of Ealdorman Wilwulf.”
* * *
Ragna was unbearably agitated. Wynstan’s mere presence was thrilling. He was Wilwulf’s brother! Every time she looked at Wynstan she thought about how close he was to the man she loved. They had been raised together. Wynstan must know Wilwulf intimately; must admire his qualities, understand his weaknesses, and recognize his moods so much better than Ragna could. And he even looked a bit like Wilwulf.
Ragna told her lively maid, Cat, to flirt with one of Wynstan’s bodyguards, a big man called Cnebba. The bodyguards spoke nothing but English, so communication was difficult and unreliable, but Cat thought she had understood a little about the family. Bishop Wynstan was, in fact, the half brother of Ealdorman Wilwulf. Wilwulf’s mother had died, his father had remarried, and the second wife had borne Wynstan and a younger brother, Wigelm. The three formed a powerful triad in the west of England: one ealdorman, one bishop, and one thane. They were wealthy, although their prosperity was under threat from Viking raids.
But what brought Wynstan to Cherbourg? If the bodyguards knew, they were not saying.
Most likely the visit had to do with implementation of the treaty agreed between Wilwulf and Hubert. Perhaps Wynstan had come to check that Hubert was keeping his promise and refusing to let Vikings moor in Cherbourg harbor. Or perhaps the visit had something to do with Ragna.
She learned the truth that night.
After supper, as Count Hubert was retiring, Wynstan cornered him and spoke in a low voice. Ragna strained to hear but could not make out the words. Hubert replied equally quietly, then nodded and continued on to the private quarters, followed by Genevieve.
Not long afterward, Genevieve summoned Ragna.
“What’s happened?” Ragna said breathlessly as soon as she was in the room. “What did Wynstan say?”
Her mother looked thunderously cross. “Ask your father,” she said.
Hubert said: “Bishop Wynstan has brought a proposal of marriage to you from Ealdorman Wilwulf.”
Ragna could not conceal her delight. “I hardly dared hope for it!” she said. She had to restrain herself from jumping up and down like a child. “I thought he might have come about the Vikings!”
Genevieve said: “Please don’t think for one moment that we will consent to it.”
Ragna barely heard her. She could escape from Guillaume—and marry the man she loved. “He does love me, after all!”
“Your father has agreed to listen to the ealdorman’s offer, that’s all.”
Hubert said: “I must. To do otherwise would rudely suggest that the man is unacceptable on any terms.”
“Which he is!” said Genevieve.
“Probably,” said Hubert. “However, that’s the kind of thing one thinks but does not say. One has no wish to offend.”
Genevieve said: “Having listened to the terms, your father will politely refuse.”
Ragna said: “You’ll tell me what the offer is, Father, before you turn it down, won’t you?”
Hubert hesitated. He never liked to slam doors. “Of course I will,” he said.
Genevieve made a disgusted noise.
Ragna pushed her luck. “Will you let me attend your meeting with Wynstan?”
He said: “Are you capable of remaining silent throughout?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I swear it.”
“Very well.”
“Go to bed,” Genevieve said to Ragna. “We’ll discuss this in the morning.”
Ragna left them and lay down in the hall, curled up on her bed by the wall. She found it difficult to keep still, she was so excited. He did love her!
As the rush lights were extinguished and the room became dark, so her heartbeat slowed and her body relaxed. At the same time, she began to think more clearly. If he did love her, why had he fled without explanation? Would Wynstan offer a justification for that? If not, she would ask for one directly, she decided.
That sobering thought brought her down to earth, and she fell asleep.
She woke at first light, and Wilwulf was the first thought to come into her mind. What would his offer be? Normally an aristocratic bride had to be guaranteed enough income to keep her if her husband died and she became a widow. If the children were likely to be heirs to money or titles, they might have to be brought up in the father’s country, even if he died. Sometimes the offer was conditional on the king’s approval. An engagement could be dismayingly like a commercial contract.
Ragna’s main concern was that Wilwulf’s offer should contain nothing that would give her parents reasons to object.
Once she was dressed, she wished she had slept later. The kitchen staff and the stable hands were always up early, but everyone else was still fast asleep, including Wynstan. She had to resist the temptation to grab him by the shoulder and shake him awake and question him.
She went to the kitchen, where she drank a cup of cider and ate a piece of pan bread dipped in honey. She took a half-ripe apple, went to the stables, and gave the apple to Astrid, her horse. Astrid nuzzled her gratefully. “You’ve never known love,” Ragna murmured in the horse’s ear. But it was not quite true: there were times, usually in summer, when Astrid carried her tail up and had to be roped in firmly to keep her away from the stallions.
The straw on the stable floor was damp and smelly. The hands were lazy about changing it. Ragna ordered them to bring fresh straw immediately.
The compound was coming awake. Men came to the well to drink, women to wash their faces. Servants carried bread and cider into the great hall. Dogs begged for scraps, and cats lay in wait for mice. The count and countess emerged from their quarters and sat at the table, and breakfast began.
As soon as the meal was over, the count invited Wynstan into the private apartment. Genevieve and Ragna followed, and they all sat in the outer chamber.
Wynstan’s message was simple. “When Ealdorman Wilwulf was here six weeks ago he fell in love with the lady Ragna. Back at home, he feels that without her his life is incomplete. He begs your permission, count and countess, to ask her to marry him.”
Hubert said: “What provision would he make for her financial security?”
“On their wedding day he will give her the Vale of Outhen. It’s a fertile valley with five substantial villages containing altogether about a thousand people, all of whom will pay her rent in cash or kind. It also has a limestone quarry. May I ask, Count Hubert, what the lady Ragna would bring to the marriage?”
“Something comparable: the village of Saint-Martin and eight smaller villages nearby amounting to a similar number of people, just over one thousand.”
Wynstan nodded but did not comment, and Ragna wondered if he wanted more.
Hubert said: “The income from both properties will be hers?”
“Yes,” said Wynstan.
“And she will retain both properties until her death, whereupon she may bequeath them to whomever she will?”
“Yes,” said Wynstan again. “But what about a cash dowry?”
“I had thought Saint-Martin would be sufficient.”
“May I suggest twenty pounds of silver?”
“I’ll have to think about that. Will King Ethelred of England approve of the marriage?”
It was usual to ask royal permission for aristocratic nuptials. Wynstan said: “I have taken the precaution of asking for his consent in advance.” He directed an oily smile at Ragna. “I told him that she is a beautiful and well-brought-up girl who will bring great credit to my brother, to Shiring, and to England. The king agreed readily.”
Genevieve spoke for the first time. “Does your brother live in a home like this?” She raised her hands to indicate the stones of the castle.
“Madam, no one lives in a building like this in England, and I believe there are few like it even in Normandy
and the Frankish lands.”
Hubert said proudly: “That’s true. There is only one building like this in Normandy, at Ivry.”
“There are none in England.”
Genevieve said: “Perhaps that’s why you English seem so unable to protect yourselves from the Vikings.”
“Not so, my lady. Shiring is a walled town, strongly defended.”
“But clearly it doesn’t have a stone-built castle or keep.”
“No.”
“Tell me something else, if you will.”
“Anything, of course.”
“Your brother is somewhere in his thirties?”
“A young-looking forty, my lady.”
“How come he is unmarried, at that age?”
“He was married. In fact that’s why he did not propose marriage while he was here in Cherbourg. But sadly his wife is no longer with us.”
“Ah.”
So that was it, Ragna thought. He couldn’t propose in July because he was married then.
Her head filled with speculation. Why had he been unfaithful to his wife? Perhaps she had already been ill, and her death anticipated. She might have suffered a slow deterioration, and been unable for some time to perform her wifely duty—that would explain how come Wilwulf had been so hungry for love. Ragna had a dozen questions, but she had promised to remain silent, and she clenched her jaw in frustration.
Wynstan said: “May I take home a positive answer?”
Hubert replied: “We will let you know. We must consider what you’ve said very carefully.”
“Of course.”
Ragna tried to read Wynstan’s face. She had the feeling he was not enthusiastic about his brother’s choice. She wondered why he might be ambivalent. No doubt he wanted to succeed in the mission his high-ranking brother had given him. But perhaps there was something about it that he did not like. He could have a candidate of his own: aristocratic marriages were highly political. Or perhaps he just did not like Ragna—but that, she was aware, would be unusual in a normal, red-blooded man. Whatever the reason, he did not seem unduly dismayed by Hubert’s lack of enthusiasm.