by Ken Follett
The formalities were coming to an end, and Ragna was happy that the ceremony had gone smoothly, except for Wigelm’s strange intervention. Ithamar was now writing the names of the witnesses to the marriage, starting with Wilf himself, and followed by all the important people there: Wynstan, Osmund, Degbert, and Sheriff Denewald. It was not a long list, and Ragna had expected other visiting clergy, perhaps the neighboring bishops—Winchester, Sherborne, and Northwood—and leading monks, such as the abbot of Glastonbury. But no doubt English customs were different.
She was sorry none of her family were present. But she had no relations in England, and the journey from Cherbourg could be long—it had taken her two weeks. It was never easy for a count to travel far from his domain, but she had hoped that her mother might make the effort, and perhaps bring her brother, Richard. However, Mother had been against this marriage, and perhaps she had been disinclined to give it her blessing.
She banished such thoughts.
Wilf raised his voice and said: “And now, friends and neighbors, let us feast!” The crowd cheered, and the kitchen staff began to bring out great platters of meat, fish, vegetables, and bread, plus jugs of ale for the common folk and mead for the special guests.
Ragna wanted nothing more than to get into bed with her husband, but she knew they had to join in the banquet. She would not eat much, but it was important for her to talk to as many people as possible. This was her chance to make a good impression on the townsfolk, and she seized it eagerly.
Aldred introduced her to Abbot Osmund, and she sat beside him for several minutes, asking questions about the monastery. She took the opportunity to praise Aldred, saying she shared his view that Shiring could become an international center of scholarship—under Osmund’s leadership, of course. Osmund was flattered.
She spoke to most of the leading townspeople: Elfwine, the master of the mint; the wealthy Widow Ymma, who traded in furs; the woman who owned the Abbey Alehouse, the most popular drinking place in town; the parchment maker; the jeweler; the dyer. They were pleased by her attention, for it marked them, in the eyes of their neighbors, as important people.
The task of chatting amiably to strangers became easier as the drink flowed. Ragna introduced herself to Sheriff Denewald, who was called Den, a tough-looking gray-haired man in his forties. He was at first wary of Ragna, and she guessed why: as a rival to Wilf he expected her to be hostile. But his wife was at his side, and Ragna asked her about their children, and discovered that their first grandchild had just been born, a boy; whereupon the tough sheriff turned into a doting grandpa and became misty-eyed.
As Ragna moved away from Sheriff Den, Wynstan approached her and said in a challenging tone: “What were you talking to him about?”
“I promised to tell him all your secrets,” she said, and she was rewarded by a momentary flash of anxiety in his eyes before he realized she was mocking him. She went on: “In fact I talked to Den about his new grandson. And now I have a question for you. Tell me about the Vale of Outhen, now that it’s mine.”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about it,” said Wynstan. “I’ve been collecting the rents for Wilf, and I’ll continue to do the same for you. All you have to do is take the money when it comes in four times a year.”
She ignored that. “There are five villages and a quarry, I believe.”
“Yes.” He offered no additional information.
“Any mills?” she tried.
“Well, there’s a grindstone in each village.”
“No water mills?”
“Two, I think.”
She gave him a charming smile, as if he were being helpful. “Any mining? Iron ore, silver?”
“Certainly no precious metals. There might be one or two groups of iron smelters working in the woods.”
“You’re a bit vague,” she said mildly, holding her annoyance in check. “If you don’t know what’s there, how can you be sure they’re paying what they should?”
“I scare them,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “They wouldn’t dare cheat me.”
“I don’t believe in scaring people.”
“That’s all right,” said Wynstan. “You can leave it to me.” He walked away.
This conversation is not finished, Ragna thought.
When the guests could eat no more, and the barrels were dry, people began to drift away. At last Ragna began to relax, and sat down with a dish of roast pork and cabbage. While she was eating, Edgar the builder approached, greeted her politely, and bowed. “I believe my work on your house is finished, my lady,” he said. “With your permission, I will return to Dreng’s Ferry with Dreng tomorrow.”
“Thank you for what you’ve done,” she said. “It’s made the place much more comfortable.”
“I’m honored.”
She called Edgar’s attention to Dunnere the carpenter, who had passed out with his head on a table. “There’s my problem,” she said.
“I’m sorry to see that.”
“Did you enjoy the ceremony today?”
He looked thoughtful, and said: “No, not really.”
That surprised her. “Why?”
“Because I’m envious.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Of Wilf?”
“No—”
“Of me?”
He smiled. “Much as I admire the ealdorman, I don’t want to marry him. Aldred might.”
Ragna giggled.
Edgar became serious again. “I’m envious of anyone who gets to marry the one they love. That chance was snatched away from me. Now weddings make me sad.”
Ragna was only a little surprised by his candor. Men often confided in her. She encouraged it: she was fascinated by other people’s loves and hates. “What was the name of the woman you loved?”
“Sungifu, called Sunni.”
“You remember her, and all the things you did together.”
“What hurts me most is the things we didn’t do. We never cooked a meal together, washing vegetables, throwing herbs into the pot, putting bowls on our table. I never took her fishing in my boat—the boat I built was beautiful, that’s why the Vikings stole it. We made love many times, but we never lay awake in each other’s arms all night just talking.”
She studied his face, with its sparse beard and hazel eyes, and thought he was terribly young to have such grief. “I think I understand,” she said.
“I remember my parents taking us to the river in spring to cut fresh rushes for the house, when we three boys were little. There must have been some romantic story about that riverside, with its rushes; perhaps my parents had made love there before they got married. I didn’t think of that at the time—I was too young—but I knew they had a delicious secret that they loved to remember.” His smile was a sad smile. “Things like that—you put them all together, and they make up a life.”
Ragna was surprised to find that she had tears in her eyes.
Edgar suddenly looked embarrassed. “I don’t know why I told you all that.”
“You’ll find someone else to love.”
“I could, of course. But I don’t want someone else. I want Sunni. And she’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s unkind of me to tell sad stories on your wedding day. I don’t know what got into me. I apologize.” He bowed, and walked away.
Ragna thought over what he had said. His loss made her feel very fortunate to have Wilf.
She drained her cup of ale, got up from the trestle table, and returned to her house. Suddenly she felt weary. She was not sure why; she had done nothing physically exhausting. Perhaps it was the strain of being on display to the world for hours on end.
She took off her cloak and her overdress and lay on her mattress. Cat barred the door so that people such as Dreng could not barge in. Ragna thought about the evening ahead. At some poi
nt she would be summoned to Wilf’s house. To her surprise, she felt a bit nervous. That was silly. She had already had sexual intercourse with him: what was left to be nervous about?
She was also curious. When they had sneaked into the hay store at Cherbourg Castle at dusk, everything had been furtive and hurried and dimly lit. From now on they would make love at leisure. She wanted to spend time looking at his body, exploring it with her fingertips, studying and feeling the muscles and the hair and the skin and the bones of the man who was now her husband. Mine, she thought; all mine.
She must have dozed off, for the banging at the door woke her with a start.
She heard a muffled interchange, then Cat said: “It’s time.” Cat looked as excited as if it had been her own honeymoon night.
Ragna got up. Bern turned his back while she slipped out of her underdress and put on the new nightdress, dark ochre yellow, made especially for this occasion. She put on shoes, for she did not want to get into Wilf’s bed with muddy feet. Finally she donned her cloak.
“You two stay here,” she said. “I don’t want any fuss.”
In that she was disappointed.
When she stepped outside she saw that Wigelm and the men-at-arms were lined up to cheer her along. Mostly drunk after the party, they blew whistles and banged cooking pots and pans. Wynstan’s man Cnebba cavorted with a broomstick between his legs sticking up like a huge wooden penis, which made the men hoot with laughter.
Ragna was mortified, but tried not to show it: a protest by her would be seen as weakness. She walked slowly and with dignity between the two lines of mocking men. When they saw her hauteur they became more vulgar, but she knew she must not descend to their level.
At last she reached Wilf’s door, opened it, then turned to the men. Their noise diminished as they wondered what she would do or say.
She gave them a grin, blew a kiss, then quickly stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
She heard them cheering and knew she had done the right thing.
Wilf stood beside his bed, waiting.
He too wore a new nightshirt. It was the blue of a starling’s egg. She looked closely at his face and saw that he was remarkably sober for one who had appeared to be roistering all day. She guessed that he had been careful to limit his intake.
Impatiently, she dropped her cloak, kicked off her shoes, pulled the nightdress over her head, and stood naked in front of him.
He stared at her hungrily. “My immortal soul,” he said. “You’re even more beautiful than I remember.”
“You, now,” she said, indicating his nightshirt. “I want to look at you.”
He pulled it off.
She saw again the scars on his arms, the fair hair on his belly, the long muscles of his thighs. Without shame she gazed at his cock, which was becoming larger by the second.
Then she had had enough of looking. “Let’s lie down,” she said.
She wanted no teasing, no stroking and whispering and kissing: she wanted him inside her, right away. He seemed to guess that, for instead of lying beside her he got on top immediately.
When he entered her, Ragna sighed deeply and said: “At last.”
CHAPTER 15
December 31, 997
ost of Ragna’s servants and men-at-arms were to return to Normandy. After the wedding she kept them with her as long as she reasonably could, but the time came when she had to relent, and they left on the last day of December.
A typical English drizzling rain fell on them as they carried their bags to the stables and loaded the packhorses. Only Cat and Bern were to stay: that had been the arrangement from the start.
Ragna could not help feeling sad and anxious. Although she was deliriously happy with Wilf, still she feared this moment. She was an Englishwoman now, surrounded by people she had met only a few weeks ago. As if she had lost a limb, she missed the parents, the relations, the neighbors, and the servants who had known her since before she could remember.
She told herself that thousands of noble brides must have felt the same. It was common for aristocratic girls to marry and move far from home. The wisest of them threw themselves into their new lives with energy and enthusiasm, and that was what Ragna was doing.
But that was small consolation today. She had known moments when the world seemed to be against her—and next time that happened, who would she turn to?
She would turn to Wilf, of course. He would be her friend and counselor as well as her lover.
They made love in the evening and often again in the morning, and sometimes in the middle of the night, too. After a week he had resumed his normal duties, riding out every day to visit some part of his domain. Fortunately there was no fighting: the Welsh raiders had gone home of their own accord, and Wilf said he would punish them in his own good time.
All the same, not every trip could be completed in a single day, so he began to spend some nights away. Ragna would have liked to go with him, but she was in charge of his home now, and she had not yet secured her grip on authority, so she stayed. The arrangement had an upside: he returned from such journeys hungrier than ever for her.
She was pleased when most of the residents of the compound came to say good-bye to the departing Normans. Although some of the English had at first been wary of the foreigners, that had quickly faded, and friendships had flourished.
As they were preparing to start the long journey home, the seamstress, Agnes, came to Ragna in tears. “Madame, I am in love with the Englishman Offa,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to leave.”
Ragna was only surprised that it had taken Agnes this long to make up her mind. The signs of the romance had been obvious. She looked around and caught the eye of Offa. “Come here,” she ordered him.
He stood in front of her. He would not have been Ragna’s choice. He had the heavy look and flushed skin of someone who ate and drank a little too well. The broken nose was perhaps not his fault, but all the same Ragna felt he looked untrustworthy. However, he was Agnes’s choice, not Ragna’s.
Agnes was small and Offa was large, and as they stood side by side they looked faintly comic. Ragna had to smother a smile.
She said: “Do you have something to say to me, Offa?”
“My lady, I beg permission to ask Agnes to be my wife.”
“You are the reeve of Mudeford.”
“But I have a house in Shiring. Agnes can still take care of your clothes.”
Agnes added hastily: “If you so wish, my lady.”
“I do,” Ragna said. “And I’m glad to give my consent to your marriage.”
They thanked her profusely. Sometimes, Ragna reflected, it was very easy to make people happy.
At last the group moved out. Ragna stood and waved them out of sight.
She would probably never see any of them again.
She did not allow herself to linger on her sense of loss. What did she need to do next? She decided to deal with Dunnere the carpenter. She was not going to put up with his slackness, even if he was Gytha’s nephew.
She returned to her house and sent Bern to fetch Dunnere and his men. To receive them she sat on the kind of seat her father had used for formal occasions, a four-legged stool in the shape of a broad rectangle, with a cushion for comfort.
There were three carpenters: Dunnere, Edric, and Edric’s son Hunstan. She did not invite them to sit. “From now on,” she said, “you will go into the forest once a week to fell trees.”
“What for?” Dunnere said sullenly. “We get wood when we need it.”
“You’re going to have a stockpile, which will reduce delays.”
Dunnere looked mutinous, but Edric said: “That’s a good idea.”
Ragna marked him down as more conscientious than Dunnere.
She said: “What’s more, you’re going to do it on the same day every week—Friday.”
“Why?” said Dunnere. “One day’s as good as another.”
“It’s to help you remember.” In truth it was to help her keep tabs on them.
Dunnere was not ready to give in. “Well, then, what if someone wants a repair done on a Friday? Milly, say, or Gytha?”
“You’ll be gone from here so early that you won’t know. You can take your breakfast with you. But if anyone asks you to do something different on a Friday—Milly or Gytha or anyone else—you just tell them to come and see me, because I’m in charge of you, and you’re not allowed to change the schedule without my permission. Is that clear?”
Dunnere sulked, but Edric said: “Very clear, mistress, thank you.”
“You may go now.”
They trooped out.
She knew this would cause trouble, but it was necessary. However, she would be wise to defend herself against a counterattack. Gytha might go behind Ragna’s back and complain to Wilf. Ragna needed to make sure of his response in that event.
She left the house, heading for Wilf’s place. She passed the house her men-at-arms had lived in for the last twelve weeks, empty now: she would need to think about what should be done with it.
She was surprised to see a woman she did not recognize coming out of the place. She did not yet know everyone in Shiring, but this particular person was striking. In her thirties, she wore tight clothing and red shoes, and she had a lot of wild-looking hair that was not quite tamed under a large soft hat. Respectable women did not show much hair in public, and although a few stray locks might be overlooked, the woman in the red shoes was pushing the boundary of decorum. Yet she appeared unembarrassed, and walked with a confident stride. Ragna was curious to speak to her, but at that moment she caught sight of Wilf. She postponed speaking to the woman and followed him into his house.
As always, he kissed her enthusiastically. Then he said: “I have to go to Wigleigh today. I need to make sure they’ve paid the correct rents to Dean Degbert.”
She said: “I’ve told our carpenters to go into the forest and fell a tree every Friday. They need a stockpile, so that they can do repairs without delay.”