Page 114 of The Evening and the Morning

“You’d better come down hard on him.”

Despite Wilf’s impatience, Ragna continued to nudge him toward saying what she wanted to hear. “You don’t think he deserves special indulgence because he’s Gytha’s nephew?”

“No! It doesn’t matter who he is, he still owes me a good day’s work.”

“I agree, and I’m glad to have your backing.” She kissed him with her mouth open, and he forgot his irritation and responded ardently. “Now you must go,” she said.

They left the house together. The men-at-arms were assemblingfor the trip, and she watched Wilf join them, exchanging a joke or a few words with three or four. As they were about to leave, a young man of about sixteen years joined the group, and Ragna was surprised to see Wilf kiss him affectionately. Before she could ask who he was, they mounted and rode out.

As soon as Wilf had gone, Gytha approached Ragna. Here it comes, Ragna thought: she’ll be angry about the carpenters. Dunnere must have wasted no time in complaining to his aunt.

But Gytha surprised her by talking about something else. “The house that was occupied by your men-at-arms is empty now,” she said.

“Yes.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

Gytha was being carefully polite. That was a second surprise. Ragna responded: “Of course.”

“Perhaps we could allow Wigelm and Milly to use it again.”

Ragna nodded. “Good idea—unless there’s anyone else who might need it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I saw someone looking at it earlier—a woman in red shoes.”

“That’s Milly’s sister, Inge. She could look after the place while Wigelm and Milly are at Combe.”

“That sounds like sensible arrangement.”

“Thank you,” said Gytha, but the note in her voice was not gratitude. It sounded to Ragna more like triumph.

Gytha went away. Ragna frowned as she returned to her own place. Why was she uneasy about the conversation? She suspected Gytha, feeling that her surface courtesy concealed an underlying hostility.

Ragna’s intuition told her that something was wrong.

Ragna’s anxiety grew through the day. Who was the boy her husband had kissed? He might be a close relative, a beloved nephew perhaps, but if so why had he not been at the wedding? The kiss could not have been sexual: Ragna was as sure as a person could be that Wilf was not interested in sex with men. And what was Gytha up to, pretending to be so nice?

Ragna decided to question Wilf the minute he got home. But as the hours went by, she wavered. She might need to be more cautious. Something was going on that she did not understand, and her ignorance put her at a disadvantage. Her father would never go to an important meeting until he was sure he knew everything that might be said there. Ragna was in a foreign country whose customs were still not entirely familiar. She had to tread carefully.

Wigleigh was not far, and Wilf returned in midafternoon, but it was a short December day, and the light was already fading. A servant was lighting basket torches mounted on poles outside the main buildings. Ragna went with Wilf into his house and poured him a cup of ale.

He drank it in one draught then kissed her with the taste of ale on his tongue. He smelled of sweat and horse and leather. She was hungry for his love, perhaps because of the disquiet that had plagued her all day. She took his hand and pressed it between her thighs. He did not need much persuasion, and they made love right away.

Afterward, he fell into a light sleep, with his muscular arms outstretched and his long legs splayed, a strong man resting after an energetic day.

Ragna left him. She went to the kitchen and checked on thepreparations for supper; she looked into the great hall to make sure it was ready for the evening meal; then she walked around the compound, observing who was working and who was lazing around, who was sober and who drunk, whose horse was fed and watered and whose had not even been unsaddled yet.

At the end of her peregrination she saw Wilf talking to the woman in the red shoes.

Something about them arrested her. She stopped and watched them from a distance. They were lit by the wavering light of the torch outside Wilf’s door.

There was no reason why they should not talk: Inge was a kind of sister-in-law to Wilf, and they might be innocently fond of each other. All the same, Ragna was taken aback by the intimacy suggested by their bodies: they stood close, and she touched him several times, casually gripping his forearm to make a point, rapping his chest with the back of her hand in a dismissive gesture as if telling him not to be so foolish, and once, putting the tip of her forefinger on his cheek affectionately.

Ragna could not move, could not tear her gaze away.

Then she saw the boy Wilf had kissed. He was young, with no beard, and though tall he gave the impression of being not quite full grown, as if the long limbs and wide shoulders had not yet knit together into a man’s body. He joined Wilf and Inge, and the three talked for a minute with relaxed familiarity.