Page 146 of The Evening and the Morning

“He failed, and that made him cross. But I can deal with Wynstan, and I don’t want you to feel concerned about me. Don’t reprove him, please.”

Wilf was still adjusting his picture of the incident. “But Wynstan says you humiliated him in front of others.”

“A thief who is caught red-handed will naturally feel humiliated.”

“I suppose so.”

“His remedy is to stop stealing, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Wilf smiled, and Ragna saw that she had successfully negotiated a difficult conversation. He added: “Wynstan may have met his match at last.”

“Oh, I’m not his rival,” she said, knowing it was the opposite of the truth. But the conversation had gone far enough and ended well, so she changed the subject. “Tell me about your adventures. Did you teach the Welsh a hard lesson?”

“I did, and I brought back a hundred captives to sell as slaves. We’ll make a small fortune.”

“Well done,” said Ragna, but she did not mean it. Slavery was an aspect of English life that she found difficult. It had just about died out in Normandy, but here it was normal. There were a hundred or more slaves in Shiring, and several of them lived and worked in the compound. Many did dirty jobs, removing dunghills and cleaning stables, or heavy laboring such as digging ditches and carrying timber. No doubt the younger ones served in the town’s brothels, although Ragna did not know from personal experience because she had never been inside one of those houses. Slaves were not generally kept in chains. They could run away, and some did, but they were easily identifiable, dressed as they were in rags, without shoes, and speaking in strange accents. Most runaways were caught and brought back, and a reward was paid by the owner.

Wilf said: “You don’t seem as pleased as you might.”

Ragna had no intention of having a discussion with him about slavery now. “I’m thrilled with your triumph,” she said. “And I’m wondering if you’re man enough to fuck me three times in one afternoon.”

“Man enough?” he said in mock indignation. “Get down on your hands and knees, and I’ll show you.”

The captives were put on display next day in the town square, standing in lines on the dusty ground between the cathedral and the abbey, and Ragna went out, accompanied by Cat, to look at them.

They were dirty and exhausted from their journey, and some had minor injuries, presumably having put up a struggle. Ragna imagined that any who had major injuries would have been left behind to die. In the square were men and women, boys and girls, roughly betweeneleven and thirty years of age. It was summer, and the sun was hot, but they had no shade. They were tied up in different ways: many had their feet hobbled so that they could not run; some were chained to each other; others were bound to their captors, who stood by them, waiting to haggle over a price. The regular soldiers had one or two to sell, but Wigelm and Garulf and the other captains all had several.

Ragna walked along the lines, finding the sight dispiriting. People said that slaves had done something to deserve their fate, and perhaps it was true sometimes, but not always. What crime could adolescent boys and girls have committed to deserve to be turned into prostitutes?

Slaves did whatever they were told, but they generally performed their tasks as badly as they could get away with; and since they had to be fed and housed and given minimal clothing, they were in the end not much cheaper than the lowest-paid laborers. However, the financial aspect did not trouble Ragna as much as the spiritual. Owning a person had to be bad for the soul. Cruelty was normal: there were laws about ill-treatment of slaves, but they were feebly enforced and the punishments were mild. To be able to beat or rape or even murder someone brought out the very worst in human nature.

As she scanned the faces in the square she recognized Garulf’s friend Stigand, with whom she had clashed over the ball game. He made a bow, too exaggerated to be sincere but not rude enough to merit a protest. She ignored him and looked at his three captives.

She was startled to realize that she knew one of them.

The girl was about fifteen. She had the black hair and blue eyes typical of Welsh people: the Bretons on the other side of the Channelwere similar. She might have been pretty with the dirt washed off her face. She stared back, and her look of vulnerability imperfectly masked by defiance jogged Ragna’s memory. “You’re the girl from Dreng’s Ferry.”

The captive said nothing.

Ragna remembered her name. “Blod.”

She remained silent, but her expression softened.

Ragna lowered her voice so that Stiggy could not hear. “They said you had escaped. You must have been captured a second time.” That was remarkably bad luck, she thought, and she felt a warm surge of compassion for someone who had suffered that fate twice.

She remembered more. “I heard that Dreng—” She realized what she was about to say and stopped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Blod knew what Ragna had hesitated to say. “Dreng killed my baby.”

“I’m so sorry. Did no one help you?”

“Edgar jumped in the river to rescue the baby, but couldn’t find him in the dark.”

“I know Edgar. He’s a good man.”

“The only decent Englishman I ever met,” said Blod bitterly.

Ragna saw a certain look in her eye. “Did you fall in love with him?”