by Ken Follett
They stopped twice more at intervals of several hours.
That evening they arrived at Wilwulf’s hunting lodge in the forest.
Ragna had been there before, in the happy, early days of her marriage. She had always loved hunting, and it had reminded her of when she had hunted with Wilf in Normandy, and they had killed a boar together and then kissed passionately for the first time. But after the marriage started to go wrong, she had lost her enthusiasm for the chase.
The lodge was remote and isolated, she recalled. There were stables, kennels, stores, and a large house. A caretaker and his wife lived in one of the smaller buildings, but other than them no one had any reason to come here unless there was a hunting party.
Ragna and the others were carried into the big house and untied. The caretaker nailed boards over the two windows, making it impossible to open the shutters, and fixed a bar to the outside of the door. His wife brought a pot of porridge for their supper. Then they were left until morning.
That had been two months ago.
Agnes always brought them their food. They were allowed to exercise once a day, but Ragna was never let out at the same time as the children. There were always two of Wigelm’s personal bodyguard outside, Fulcric and Elfgar. As far as Ragna could tell there were never visitors.
Wigelm and Wynstan could not have done this to an English noblewoman. She would have had a powerful family, parents and siblings and cousins with money and men-at-arms, who would have come looking for her, would have demanded that the king enforce her rights, and failing that would have come to Shiring with an army. Ragna was vulnerable because her family was too far away to intervene.
Agnes enjoyed bringing bad news with the food. “Your boyfriend Edgar kicked up a fuss,” she had said early on.
“I knew he would,” Ragna had replied.
Cat had added: “He is a loyal friend.”
Agnes ignored that jibe. “He got beaten black and blue,” she said with malign satisfaction. “Fulcric held him still while Wigelm beat him with a club.”
Ragna whispered: “God save him.”
“I don’t know about God, but Gilda took him to Sheriff Den’s place. He couldn’t stand upright for twenty-four hours.”
At least he was alive, Ragna thought. Wigelm had not killed him. Already in trouble with the king, Wigelm had perhaps not wanted to add to his list of offenses.
Agnes was malign, but Ragna could beguile her into revealing information. “They can’t hide us here long,” she had said one day. “People know Wilwulf had a hunting lodge here—soon someone will show up looking for us.”
“No, they won’t,” Agnes had said with a triumphant look. “Wigelm has told people that this place burned down. He has even built a new hunting lodge near Outhenham. He says the game is more abundant there.”
That had been Wynstan’s idea, Ragna thought in despair; Wigelm was not clever enough to have thought of it.
All the same, there was a limit to how long their imprisonment could be kept secret. The forest was not empty of people: there were charcoal burners, horse catchers, woodcutters, miners, and outlaws. They might be frightened off by the men-at-arms, but it was impossible to stop them peeping from the bushes. Sooner or later someone would wonder whether prisoners were being kept at the hunting lodge.
Then rumors would start. People would say the house held a monster with two heads, or a coven of witches, or a corpse that came back to life at the full moon and tried to break open its coffin. But someone would connect the prison with the missing noblewoman.
How long would that take? The forest folk’s way of life meant they had little contact with ordinary peasants or townspeople. They did not speak to strangers for months on end. At some point they had to go to market with a string of newly broken horses or a cartload of iron ore, but that would most likely happen next spring.
As the weeks turned into months Ragna sank into depression. The children grizzled all the time, Cat was bad-tempered, and Ragna found she could not think of a reason to wash her face in the morning.
And then she found out that there was worse in store; much worse.
She was making scratch marks on the wall to count the days, and it was not long before Halloween when Wigelm arrived.
It was dark outside, and the children were already asleep. Ragna and Cat were sitting on a bench by the fire. The room was lit by a single rush lamp—they were allowed only one at a time. Fulcric opened the door for Wigelm then closed it, remaining outside.
Ragna looked carefully and saw that Wigelm was not armed.
“What do you want?” she said, and she immediately felt ashamed of the note of fear she heard in her own voice.
With a gesture of his thumb Wigelm ordered Cat to get up, then he took her place. Ragna shifted along the bench to be as far from him as possible.
He said: “You’ve had plenty of time to think about your position.”
With an effort, she summoned some of her old spirit. “I’ve been illegally imprisoned. I worked that out in no time at all.”
“You’re powerless and penniless.”
“I’m penniless because you stole my money. By the way, a widow is entitled to the return of her dowry. Mine was twenty pounds of silver. You stole Wilf’s treasury, too, so you owe me twenty pounds from that. How soon can you let me have the money?”
Wigelm said: “If you marry me you can have it all.”
“And lose my soul. No, thank you, I’ll just take my money.”
He shook his head as if saddened. “Why do you have to be such a bitch? What’s wrong with being nice to a man?”
“Wigelm, why have you come here?”
He sighed theatrically. “I made you a good offer. I will marry you—”
“So condescending!”
“—and together we will ask the king to appoint us to rule Shiring. I was hoping that by now you might have seen the sense of accepting my proposal.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“You won’t get a better one.” He grasped her upper arm with a strong hand. “Come, now, you can’t pretend to find me unattractive.”
“Pretend? Let go of me.”
“I promise you, after one shag with me you’ll be begging for more.”
She wrenched her arm from his grasp and stood up. “Never!”
To Ragna’s surprise he went to the door and tapped on it, then turned back to her. “Never is a long time,” he said. The guard opened the door and Wigelm went out.
“Thank God,” said Ragna as the door closed.
“A lucky escape,” said Cat. She returned to the bench and sat beside Ragna.
Ragna said: “He doesn’t usually give up that easily.”
“You’re still worried.”
“Actually, I think Wigelm is worried. Why do you think he’s so keen to marry me?”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
Ragna shook her head. “He doesn’t really want me for a wife. I’m too much trouble. He’d rather sleep with someone who will never stand up to him.”
“What, then?”
“They’re worried about the king. They’ve got control of Shiring, and of me, for now, but they’ve done a lot to antagonize Ethelred in the process, and the time may come when he decides to teach them who rules England.”
“Or it may not,” said Cat. “Kings like a quiet life.”
“True. But Wynstan and Wigelm can’t predict which way Ethelred will jump. However, they’d have a better chance of getting the result they want if I married Wigelm. And that’s why they keep trying.”
The door opened, and Wigelm came back in.
This time he was accompanied by four men-at-arms whom Ragna did not recognize. He must have brought them with him. They looked like ruffians.
Cat screamed.
Two men grabbed each woman, threw th
em to the floor, and held them down.
All the children cried.
Wigelm grasped the neckline of Ragna’s dress and ripped if off, leaving her spread-eagled naked, held by her ankles and wrists.
One of the men said: “Now, there’s a pair of plump pigeons, by the gods!”
“They’re not for you,” Wigelm said, lifting the skirt of his tunic. “When I’ve finished you can fuck the maid, but not this one. She’s going to be my wife.”
* * *
There was a cold wind coming off the sea, and Wynstan walked gratefully into the warm, smoky atmosphere of Mags’s house in Combe, with Wigelm behind him. Mags saw him at once and threw her arms around him. “My favorite priest!” she exulted.
Wynstan kissed her. “Mags, you sweet thing, how are you?”
She looked over his shoulder. “And your equally handsome younger brother,” she said, and embraced Wigelm.
“Every rich man is handsome to you,” Wigelm said sourly.
She ignored that. “Sit down, dear friends, and have a cup of mead. It’s newly brewed. Selethryth!” She snapped her fingers, and a flagon and cups were brought by a middle-aged woman—undoubtedly a former prostitute now considered too old for the work, Wynstan thought.
They drank the ultra-sweet potion and Selethryth poured more.
Wynstan looked at the women sitting at the sides of the room on benches. Some were dressed, others draped in loose wraps, and one pale girl was stark naked. “What a lovely sight,” he said with a sigh.
“I have a new girl I’ve been saving,” Mags said. “But which of you will take her virginity?”
Wigelm said: “How many men have taken it so far?”
Wynstan chuckled.
Mags protested. “You know I’d never lie to you. I don’t even allow her in here—she’s locked up in the house next door.”
Wynstan said: “Let Wigelm have the virgin. I’m in the mood for a more experienced woman.”
“How about Merry? She likes you.”
Wynstan smiled at a voluptuous dark-haired woman of about twenty. She waved to him. “Yes,” he said. “Merry would be lovely. Such a big arse.”
Merry came and sat beside him, and he kissed her.
Mags said: “Selethryth, fetch the virgin from next door for Thane Wigelm.”
After a few minutes Wynstan said to Merry: “Lie down in the straw, my dear, and let’s get at it.”
Merry pulled her dress over her head and lay on her back. She was pink-skinned and plump: he was glad he had chosen her. He lifted the skirt of his tunic and knelt between her legs.
Merry screamed.
Wynstan flinched away, bewildered. “What the devil is wrong with the woman?” he said.
Merry screeched, “He’s got a chancre!” She leaped to her feet and covered her vagina protectively.
“No, I haven’t,” Wynstan said.
Mags spoke in a new tone of voice. Her former anything-you-like-darling attitude had been replaced by a brisk sense of authority. “Let me see, bishop,” she said in a matter-of-fact way. “Show me your prick.”
Wynstan turned.
“Oh, Jesus,” said Mags. “It’s a chancre.”
Wynstan looked down at his penis. Near the head was an oval ulcer an inch long with an angry red spot at its center. “That’s nothing,” he said. “It doesn’t even hurt.”
Mags’s jollity had all fallen away and her voice was cold. “It’s not nothing,” she said firmly. “It’s the great pox.”
“That’s impossible,” said Wynstan. “Great pox leads to leprosy.”
Mags softened, but only slightly. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said, and Wynstan felt she was humoring him. “But whatever it is I can’t let you fuck my girls. If any kind of pox got around this house half the clergy in England would be out of action before you could say ‘fornicate.’”
“Well, that’s a blow.” Wynstan felt cast down. An illness was a weakness, and he was supposed to be strong. Besides, he was aroused, and wanted a fuck. “What am I going to do?” he said.
Mags’s demeanor regained some of its usual coquetry. “You’re going to get the best hand-fuck you’ve ever had, and I’m going to give it to you myself, my sweet priest.”
“Well, if that’s the best you can do . . .”
“The girls will put on a show for you at the same time. What would you like to watch?”
Wynstan considered. “I’d like to see Merry’s arse flogged with a strap.”
“Then you shall,” Mags said.
Merry said: “Oh, no.”
“Don’t complain,” Mags told her. “You get extra pay for flagellation, you know that.”
Merry was contrite. “I’m sorry, Mags. I didn’t mean to complain.”
“That’s better,” said Mags. “Now, turn around and bend over.”
CHAPTER 35
March 1003
agna and Cat were teaching the children a counting song. Osbert, almost four, could more or less carry a tune. The twins were just two, and they could only drone, but they were able to learn the words. Cat’s daughters, aged two and three, were somewhere in between. They all liked the singing, and as a bonus, they were learning their numbers.
Ragna’s main occupation in prison was keeping the children busy with activities that taught them something. She remembered poems, made up stories, and described every place she had ever visited. She told them about the ship Angel and the storm in the Channel, the thief Ironface who had stolen the wedding present, and even the fire in the stables at Cherbourg Castle. Cat was not as good at stories but had a bottomless fund of French songs and a pure voice.
Entertaining the children also kept the two women from sinking into a swamp of suicidal despair.
As the song was ending the door opened and a guard looked in. It was Elfgar, the youngster, not as hardened as Fulcric and inclined to be sympathetic. He often told Ragna the news. From him she had learned that the Vikings were attacking the West Country again, with the dreaded King Swein at their head. The truce that Ethelred had bought for twenty-four thousand pounds of silver had not lasted into a second year.
Ragna almost hoped that the Vikings might conquer the West Country. She could be captured and ransomed. At least she might get out of this prison.
Elfgar said: “Exercise time.”
“Where’s Agnes?” said Ragna.
“She’s feeling ill.”
Ragna was not sorry. She hated seeing Agnes, the woman who had betrayed her, the one responsible for her imprisonment.
The open door let in cold air, so Ragna and Cat put the impatient children into their cloaks, then released them to run outside. Elfgar closed the door and barred it from the outside.
With the children gone, Ragna gave herself up to misery.
She had been here seven months, according to the almanac she had scratched on the wall. There were fleas in the rushes on the floor and nits in her hair, and she had a cough. The place stank: two adults and five children used a single pot for their toilet, for they were not allowed to go outside for that purpose.
A day spent here was a day stolen from her life, and she felt a resentment as sharp as an arrowhead every morning when she woke up to find herself still a prisoner.
And Wigelm had come again yesterday.
His visits were mercifully less frequent now. At first he had appeared once a week; now it was more like once a month. She had learned to close her eyes and think about the view from the ramparts of Cherbourg Castle, and the clean salty air blowing in her face, until she felt him withdraw like a slug leaving her body. She prayed he would soon lose interest altogether.
The children returned, red-faced from the cold, and it was the turn of the two women to put on cloaks and go out.
They walked up and down to keep warm, and Elfgar walked with them. Cat asked
him: “What’s wrong with Agnes?”
“Some kind of pox,” he said.
“I hope she dies of it.”
There was a pause, then Elfgar said conversationally: “I won’t be here much longer, I shouldn’t think.”
Ragna said: “Why? We’d be sorry to lose you.”
“I shall have to go and fight the Vikings.” He was pretending to be pleased, but Ragna detected an undertone of fear beneath his bravado. “The king is raising an army to come and defeat Swein Forkbeard.”
Ragna stopped walking. “Are you sure?” she said. “King Ethelred is coming to the West Country?”
“So they say.”
Ragna’s heart leaped with hope. “Then he must surely learn of our imprisonment,” she said.
Elfgar shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Our friends will tell him: Prior Aldred, and Sheriff Den, and Bishop Modulf.”
“Yes!” said Cat. “And then King Ethelred is bound to free us!”
Ragna was not sure.
“Isn’t he, my lady?”
Ragna said nothing.
* * *
“This is our chance to find Ragna,” Prior Aldred said to Sheriff Den. “We must not let the opportunity slip through our fingers.”
Aldred had come from Dreng’s Ferry to Shiring specifically to talk to Den about this. Now he studied the sheriff for his reaction. Den was fifty-eight, exactly twenty years older than Aldred, but they had much in common. Both were rule keepers. Den’s compound testified to his liking for order: his stockade was well built, the houses stood in lines, and the kitchen and dunghill were in opposite corners, as far from each other as possible. Dreng’s Ferry had acquired a similar orderly look since Aldred had taken over. But there were differences, too: Den served the king; Aldred served God.