Ragna was mortified, but tried not to show it: a protest by her would be seen as weakness. She walked slowly and with dignity between the two lines of mocking men. When they saw her hauteur they became more vulgar, but she knew she must not descend to their level.
At last she reached Wilf’s door, opened it, then turned to the men. Their noise diminished as they wondered what she would do or say.
She gave them a grin, blew a kiss, then quickly stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
She heard them cheering and knew she had done the right thing.
Wilf stood beside his bed, waiting.
He too wore a new nightshirt. It was the blue of a starling’s egg. She looked closely at his face and saw that he was remarkably sober for one who had appeared to be roistering all day. She guessed that he had been careful to limit his intake.
Impatiently, she dropped her cloak, kicked off her shoes, pulled the nightdress over her head, and stood naked in front of him.
He stared at her hungrily. “My immortal soul,” he said. “You’re even more beautiful than I remember.”
“You, now,” she said, indicating his nightshirt. “I want to look at you.”
He pulled it off.
She saw again the scars on his arms, the fair hair on his belly, the long muscles of his thighs. Without shame she gazed at his cock, which was becoming larger by the second.
Then she had had enough of looking. “Let’s lie down,” she said.
She wanted no teasing, no stroking and whispering and kissing: she wanted him inside her, right away. He seemed to guess that, for instead of lying beside her he got on top immediately.
When he entered her, Ragna sighed deeply and said: “At last.”
CHAPTER 15
December 31, 997
ost of Ragna’s servants and men-at-arms were to return to Normandy. After the wedding she kept them with her as long as she reasonably could, but the time came when she had to relent, and they left on the last day of December.
A typical English drizzling rain fell on them as they carried their bags to the stables and loaded the packhorses. Only Cat and Bern were to stay: that had been the arrangement from the start.
Ragna could not help feeling sad and anxious. Although she was deliriously happy with Wilf, still she feared this moment. She was an Englishwoman now, surrounded by people she had met only a few weeks ago. As if she had lost a limb, she missed the parents, the relations, the neighbors, and the servants who had known her since before she could remember.
She told herself that thousands of noble brides must have felt the same. It was common for aristocratic girls to marry and move far from home. The wisest of them threw themselves into their new lives with energy and enthusiasm, and that was what Ragna was doing.
But that was small consolation today. She had known moments when the world seemed to be against her—and next time that happened, who would she turn to?
She would turn to Wilf, of course. He would be her friend and counselor as well as her lover.
They made love in the evening and often again in the morning, and sometimes in the middle of the night, too. After a week he had resumed his normal duties, riding out every day to visit some part of his domain. Fortunately there was no fighting: the Welsh raiders had gone home of their own accord, and Wilf said he would punish them in his own good time.
All the same, not every trip could be completed in a single day, so he began to spend some nights away. Ragna would have liked to go with him, but she was in charge of his home now, and she had not yet secured her grip on authority, so she stayed. The arrangement had an upside: he returned from such journeys hungrier than ever for her.
She was pleased when most of the residents of the compound came to say good-bye to the departing Normans. Although some of the English had at first been wary of the foreigners, that had quickly faded, and friendships had flourished.
As they were preparing to start the long journey home, the seamstress, Agnes, came to Ragna in tears. “Madame, I am in love with the Englishman Offa,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to leave.”
Ragna was only surprised that it had taken Agnes this long to make up her mind. The signs of the romance had been obvious. She looked around and caught the eye of Offa. “Come here,” she ordered him.
He stood in front of her. He would not have been Ragna’s choice. He had the heavy look and flushed skin of someone who ate anddrank a little too well. The broken nose was perhaps not his fault, but all the same Ragna felt he looked untrustworthy. However, he was Agnes’s choice, not Ragna’s.
Agnes was small and Offa was large, and as they stood side by side they looked faintly comic. Ragna had to smother a smile.
She said: “Do you have something to say to me, Offa?”
