by Ken Follett
“As much as you like,” he said. “I’ve been saving it up.”
She felt guilty. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“That you waited so long. Five years.”
“I’d have waited ten.”
Tears came to her eyes. “I don’t deserve such love.”
“Yes, you do.”
She longed to do something to please him. She said: “Do you like my breasts?”
“Yes. That’s why I’ve been staring at them all these years.”
“Would you like to touch them?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely.
She bent and lifted the hem of her dress, pulling it over her head with a swift motion, and stood naked in front of him.
“Oh, my,” he said. He caressed her with both hands, squeezing lightly, touched her nipples with feathery fingertips. His breath was coming faster. She thought he looked like a thirsty man finding a stream. After a while he said: “Can I kiss them?”
“Edgar,” she said, “you can kiss anything you like.”
He bent his head and she stroked his hair, watching him in the flickering light as his lips moved over her skin.
His kisses became more urgent and she said: “If you suck, you’ll get milk.”
He laughed. “Would I like it?”
She loved how he could be passionate and laugh all at the same time. She smiled. “I don’t know,” she said.
Then he turned serious again. “Can we lie down?”
“Wait a minute.” She bent and lifted the skirt of his tunic. When it was up to his waist she kissed the tip of his cock. Then she pulled the garment over his head.
They lay side by side and she explored his body with her hands, feeling his chest, his waist, his thighs; and he did the same to her. She felt his hand between her legs, and his fingertip in the wet cleft. She shuddered with pleasure.
Suddenly she was impatient. She rolled on top of him and guided his cock inside her. She moved slowly at first, then faster. Looking down at his face, she thought: I didn’t know how much I was longing for this. It was not just the sensation, the pleasure, the excitement; it was more, it was the intimacy, the openness with each other; it was the love.
He closed his eyes, but she did not want that, and she said: “Look at me, look at me.” He opened his eyes. “I love you,” she said. Then she was swamped by the sheer joy of doing this with him, and she cried out, and at the same time felt him convulse inside her. It went on for a long moment, then she collapsed on his chest, exhausted with emotion.
As she lay on him, the memories of the last five years came to her like a remembered poem. She recalled the terrifying storm when she had been aboard the Angel; the helmeted outlaw who had stolen her wedding gift for Wilf; the loathsome Wigelm groping her breasts the first time they met; the shock of learning that Wilf was already married, with a son; the misery of his infidelity with Carwen; the horror of his murder; the malice of Wynstan. And through it all there had been Edgar, whose kindness had turned into affection and then passionate love. Thank God for Edgar, she thought. Thank God.
* * *
After she had gone Edgar lay for a long time in a daze of happiness. He had thought that he was doomed to have two impossible loves, one for a dead woman and one for an unattainable one. And now Ragna had said that she loved him. Ragna of Cherbourg, the most beautiful woman in England, loved Edgar the builder.
He relived every minute: the kiss; her taking off her dress; her breasts; the way she had kissed his cock, lightly, affectionately, almost in passing; her telling him to open his eyes and look at her. Had two people ever enjoyed each other so intensely? Had two people ever loved each other so much?
Well, probably, he thought, but perhaps not very many.
With his head full of the most pleasant thoughts, he drifted off to sleep.
The monastery bell woke him. His first thought was: Did I really make love to Ragna? His second: Am I late?
Yes, he had made love to her, and no, he was not late. The monks got up an hour before dawn. He had plenty of time.
He and Ragna had not thought beyond the next two days. They would get out of Shiring, they would travel to Dreng’s Ferry, Ragna would take refuge in the nunnery, and then they would think about the future. But now he could not help speculating.
The social distance between them was not as great as it had been. Edgar was a prosperous craftsman, an important man in both Dreng’s Ferry and Outhenham. Ragna was a noblewoman, but a widow, and her financial resources were under attack by Wynstan. The gap was smaller—but still too large. Edgar saw no way out of this, but he was not going to let that spoil his happiness today.
He found Sheriff Den in the kitchen, breakfasting off cold beef and ale. Edgar was too tense and excited to feel hungry, but he made himself eat something: he might need his strength.
Den looked through the door up at the sky and said: “It’s getting light.”
Edgar frowned. It was not like Ragna to be late for anything.
He went to the stable. The grooms were saddling three horses, for Ragna, Cat, and Agnes, and loading a packhorse with panniers for the supplies. Edgar saddled Buttress.
Den appeared and said: “Everything is ready—except for Ragna.”
“I’ll go to her,” said Edgar.
He hurried through the town. Dawn was brightening and smoke rose from a bakery, but he did not see anyone on his way to the ealdorman’s compound.
Sometimes the gate entrance was barred and guarded, but not now: this year there was a truce with the Vikings, and the Welsh were going through a dormant phase. He opened the gate quietly. The compound was silent.
He walked quickly toward Ragna’s house. He knocked sharply on the door then tried the handle. It was not barred from the inside. He opened the door and stepped inside.
There was no one there.
He frowned, suddenly terribly fearful. What could have happened?
There were no lights. He peered into the gloom. A mouse scampered across the hearth: it must be cold. As his eyes grew accustomed to the faint light from the open doorway, he saw that most of Ragna’s possessions were here—dresses hanging from pegs, cheese box and meat safe, cups and bowls—but the children’s cots had gone.
She had gone. And the cold fireplace proved she had left hours ago, probably not long after saying goodnight to him at Sheriff Den’s compound. By now she might be miles away in any direction.
She must have changed her plans. But why had she sent him no message? She could have been prevented from doing so. That strongly suggested she had been taken against her will and held incommunicado. Wynstan and Wigelm had to be responsible. She had been made prisoner, then.
Anger flamed inside him. How dare they? She was a free woman, the daughter of a count and the widow of an ealdorman—they had no right!
If they had found out that she was planning to flee, who had told them? One of the sheriff’s servants, perhaps, or even Cat or Agnes.
Edgar had to find out where they had taken her.
Furious, he left the house. He was ready to confront either Wigelm or Wynstan, but Wigelm was probably nearer. When in Shiring he slept at the house of his mother, Gytha. Edgar strode across the grass to Gytha’s house.
A man-at-arms was outside the door, sitting on the ground with his back to the wall, dozing. Edgar recognized Elfgar, big and strong but an amiable youngster. Ignoring him, Edgar banged on the door.
Elfgar jumped up, suddenly awakened and unsteady on his feet. He looked at the floor around his feet and belatedly picked up a club, a length of gnarled oak roughly carved. He looked as though he was not sure what to do with it.
The door was thrown open and another man-at-arms stood there. He must have been sleeping across the threshold. It was Fulcric, older and meaner than Elfgar.
Edgar said:
“Is Wigelm here?”
Fulcric said aggressively: “Who the hell are you?”
Edgar raised his voice. “I want to see Wigelm!”
“You’ll get your head bashed in if you’re not careful.”
A voice from within said: “Don’t worry, Elfgar, it’s only the little builder from Dreng’s Ferry.” Wigelm emerged from the gloom within. “But he’d better have a damned good reason for banging on my door at this hour of the morning.”
“You know the reason, Wigelm. Where is she?”
“Don’t presume to question me, or you’ll be punished for insolence.”
“And you’ll be punished for kidnapping a noble widow—a more serious offense in the eyes of the king.”
“No one has been kidnapped.”
“Then where is the lady Ragna?”
Behind Wigelm, his wife, Molly, and his mother appeared, both of them tousled and sleepy-eyed.
Edgar went on: “And where are her children? The king will want to know.”
“In a safe place.”
“Where?”
Wigelm sneered. “Surely you didn’t think you could have her?”
“You’re the one who asked her to marry you.”
Molly said: “What?” Clearly she had not been told about her husband’s proposal to Ragna.
Edgar said recklessly: “But Ragna rejected you, didn’t she?” He knew it was foolish to provoke Wigelm, but he was too enraged to stop. “That’s why you kidnapped her.”
“That’s enough.”
“Is that the only way you can get a woman, Wigelm? By kidnapping her?”
Elfgar sniggered.
Wigelm took a step forward and punched Edgar’s face. Wigelm was a strong man whose only skill was fighting, and the blow hurt. Edgar felt as if the whole left side of his face was on fire.
While Edgar was dazed, Fulcric swiftly stepped behind him and grabbed him in an expert hold, then Wigelm punched him in the stomach. Edgar had the panicky feeling that he could not breathe. Wigelm kicked him in the balls. Edgar caught his breath and roared in agony. Wigelm punched his face again.
Then he saw Wigelm take the club from Elfgar.
Terror possessed Edgar. He feared he would be beaten to death, and then there would be no one to protect Ragna. He saw the club come swinging toward his face. He turned his head and the heavy wood struck his temple, sending a lightning bolt of pain around his skull.
Next it smashed into his chest, and he felt as if his ribs had broken. He slumped, half unconscious, held up only by Fulcric’s grip.
Through the ringing in his ears he heard the voice of Gytha say: “That’s enough. You don’t want to kill him.”
Then Wigelm said: “Throw him in the pond.”
He was picked up by his wrists and ankles and carried across the compound. A minute later he felt himself flying through the air. He hit the water and sank. He was tempted to lie there and drown, to end his pain.
He rolled over and put his hands and knees on the sludgy bottom of the pond, then managed to raise his head above the surface and breathe.
Slowly, in agony, he crawled like a baby until he reached the edge.
He heard a woman’s voice say: “You poor thing.”
It was Gilda the kitchen maid, he realized.
He tried to get to his feet. Gilda gripped his arm and helped him up. Mumbling through smashed lips, Edgar said: “Thank you.”
“God curse Wigelm,” she said. She got under his armpit and slung his arm across her shoulders. “Where are you going?”
“Den’s.”
“Come on, then,” said Gilda. “I’ll help you there.”
CHAPTER 34
October 1002
ldred was pleased with the way his library was growing. He favored books in English rather than Latin, so that they could be used by all literate people, not just educated clergy. He had the Gospels, the Psalms, and some service books, all of which could be consulted by ordinary country priests who had few or no books of their own. His little scriptorium produced low-cost copies for sale. He also had some commentaries and secular poetry.
The priory was prospering, collecting more and more rents from the town and now, at last, getting gifts of land from noblemen. There were new novice monks in the monastery and resident pupils in the school. On a mild October afternoon the young students were chanting psalms in the churchyard.
All was well, except that Ragna had vanished, along with her children and servants. Edgar had spent two months going from town to town and village to village, but he had found no trace of her. He had even visited the new hunting lodge Wigelm was building near Outhenham. No one had seen Ragna pass by. Edgar was distraught but helpless, and Aldred pitied him.
Meanwhile, Wigelm was collecting all the rents from the Vale of Outhen.
Aldred had asked Sheriff Den how come the king did nothing about it. “Look at it from King Ethelred’s point of view,” Den had said. “He sees Ragna’s marriage as illegitimate. He declined to ratify it, but Wilwulf went ahead anyway. The royal court fined Wilf for disobedience, and he refused to pay the fine. Ethelred’s authority has been challenged and, what’s worse, his pride has been hurt. He’s not going to carry on as if this were a perfectly normal marriage.”
Aldred said indignantly: “So he’s punishing Ragna for Wilwulf’s sins!”
“What else can he do?”
“He could harry Shiring!”
“That’s an extreme measure: raising an army, burning the villages, killing the opposition, making off with the best horses and cattle and jewelry: it’s a king’s ultimate weapon, to be used only in extreme circumstances. Is he going to do that for a foreign widow whose marriage he never sanctioned in the first place?”
“Does her father know that she has disappeared?”
“Possibly. But a rescue operation from Normandy would be an invasion of England, and Count Hubert can’t manage that—especially when his neighbor’s daughter is about to marry the English king. Ethelred’s wedding to Emma of Normandy is set for November.”
“The king has to rule, come what may; and one of his duties is to take care of noble widows.”
“You should put that point to him yourself.”
“All right, I will.”
Aldred had written a letter to King Ethelred.
In response, the king had ordered Wigelm to produce the person of his brother’s widow.
Aldred thought Wigelm would simply ignore the order, as he had ignored royal decrees in the past, but this time it was different: Wigelm had announced that Ragna had gone home to Cherbourg.
If true, that would at least explain why no one had been able to find her in England. And she would naturally have taken her children and her Norman servants with her.
Edgar had made a second visit to Combe and had found no one who could confirm that Ragna had boarded a ship there—but she might have sailed from a different port.
While Aldred was worrying about Edgar, the man himself appeared. He had recovered from the beating he had suffered, except that his nose was slightly twisted now, and he was missing a front tooth. He approached the churchyard in the company of two others whom Aldred recognized. The man with the Norman-style haircut was Odo, and the small blond woman was his wife, Adelaide. They were the couriers from Cherbourg who brought Ragna her rents from Saint-Martin every three months. Close behind were three men-at-arms, their escort. They needed fewer bodyguards since the execution of Ironface.
Aldred greeted them, then Edgar said: “Odo has come to ask a favor, Prior Aldred.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Aldred.
“I would like you to look after Ragna’s money for her,” said Odo in his French accent.
“You can’t find her, of course,” Aldred said.
Odo threw up his hands in a gesture of frustrat
ion. “In Shiring they say she has gone to Outhenham, and at Outhenham they say she is in Combe, but we came via Combe and she was not there.”
Aldred nodded. “No one can find her. Of course I will take care of her money, if that is your wish. But our latest information is that she has gone home to Cherbourg.”
Odo was astonished. “But she is not there! If she were, we would not have come to England!”
“Of course not,” said Aldred.
Edgar said: “Then where on earth is she?”
* * *
Ragna and Cat and their children had been grabbed in their house and tied up and gagged by Wigelm and a group of men-at-arms. Under cover of darkness they had been carried out of the compound then bundled onto a four-wheeled cart and covered with blankets.
The children had been terrified, and the worst of it was that Ragna could not speak words of comfort to them.
The cart had jolted along dry-rutted dirt roads for hours. From what Ragna could hear, it had an escort of half a dozen men on horseback. However, they were quiet, speaking as little as possible and doing so in low voices.
The children had cried themselves to sleep.
When the cart stopped and the blankets were removed, it was daylight. Ragna saw that they were in a clearing in the forest. Agnes was with the escort, and that was when Ragna realized that she was a traitor. Agnes must have betrayed Ragna by telling Wynstan of Ragna’s plan to flee with Edgar. All this time the seamstress had been nursing a secret hatred of Ragna for the execution of her husband, Offa. Ragna cursed the merciful impulse that had led her to reemploy the woman.
She now saw that the children’s cots were on the cart with the prisoners. But everything was covered up. What had this looked like to villagers who saw the group pass by? Certainly not a kidnapping, for the women and children had not been visible. Ragna herself would have assumed, from the armed escort, that the blankets hid a large quantity of silver or other valuables that a wealthy nobleman or clergyman was transferring from one place to another.
Now, with no one around to see, Agnes untied the children and let them pee at the edge of the clearing. They would not run off, of course, for that would mean leaving their mothers behind. They were given bread soaked in milk, then tied up and gagged again. Then the mothers were released, one at a time, and watched carefully by the men as they relieved themselves then ate and drank a little. When all that was done, the prisoners were covered up again and the cart jolted on.