Page 120 of The Evening and the Morning

“Where is Inge from? What’s her background?”

“Her father was a priest. In fact he was secretary to my father.”

Ragna could easily imagine the scenario: the children of two men who worked closely together, the son of one and the daughter of the other, spending much time in each other’s company, an adolescent romance, perhaps an unintended pregnancy, finally an early marriage. “So Inge does not have noble blood.”

“No.”

“When my father agreed to my marriage with you, he certainly foresaw that my children would be your heirs.”

He did not hesitate. “They will be.”

That was important. It meant she was the ealdorman’s official wife, not just one of a number of women of unclear status. She was not going to be made number two.

Needing to be sure, she pressed him. “Not Garulf.”

“No!” he said, annoyed to be asked twice.

“Thank you. I’m glad to have your solemn word on that.”

She was pleased to have extracted from him such an important promise. Perhaps he had never intended anything different, but the days were over when she took such things for granted.

He was mildly irritated at having been pushed up against the wall by her. In a voice that suggested his patience was running out he said: “Anything else?”

“Yes, one more question. Do you intend to fuck Inge?”

He chuckled. “If I have any energy left.”

“It’s not a joke.”

His face hardened. “Something you need to be in no doubt about,” he said. “You will never tell me who I may or may not bring to my bed.”

Ragna felt as if she had been slapped.

Wilf said: “I’m a man, an Englishman, and the ealdorman of Shiring, and I do not take orders from any woman.”

Ragna looked away to hide her sadness. “I see,” she said.

He took her chin in his hand and turned her head back so that she was forced to look at him. “I will fuck anyone I like. Is that clear?”

“Very clear,” said Ragna.

The damage to Ragna’s pride was painful but she could live with it. The wound to her heart was worse.

She mended her pride by holding her head high and concealing her sorrow. She also remembered Aldred’s advice, and looked for an early opportunity to assert her authority. But nothing eased the hurt in her heart. She just nursed it, and hoped it would fade in time.

Garulf had received a gift of a ball, a piece of leather sewn with strong twine and stuffed with rags, and in January the adolescent boys of the compound began to play a rough game in which two teams competed, each trying to carry the ball into the opponents’ “castle,” a square marked on the ground. Garulf was captain of one team, of course, and the other was led by his friend Stigand, called Stiggy. They played between the stable and the pond, irksomely near the main gate.

The rowdiness was a nuisance to the adults, but Garulf was the ealdorman’s son, so a degree of tolerance was expected. However, as the days went by, Ragna noticed the game becoming violent, while at the same time the boys were more careless of inconvenience to passersby. It was worse when Wilf was away, and Ragna began to see it as a challenge to her authority.

Then one day when Wilf was away the ball struck the kitchen maid Gilda on the head, knocking her down.

Ragna happened to see it. She snatched up the ball to stop the game, then knelt beside Gilda.

Gilda’s eyes were open and after a moment she sat up, holding her head. “That hurt,” she said.

The boys were standing around, panting with effort. Garulf didnot express regret about the accident or concern for Gilda, Ragna noticed. He just seemed irritated that his fun had been disrupted. That annoyed her.

“Sit still for a minute,” Ragna said to Gilda. “Catch your breath.”