The outskirts of the village had been almost deserted, and a minute later Ragna saw that most of the inhabitants had gathered on the green in the center, between the church and the alehouse.
In the middle of the space, Wynstan sat on a broad four-legged stool with a cushion, the type of seat used on formal occasions. Two men stood on either side of him. The one with the shaved head would be village priest, whose name—Ragna now recalled from her conversation with Edgar—was Draca. The other, a heavy, red-faced person, would be Dudda, the headman.
They were surrounded by goods. Some coins circulated in the countryside, but many peasants paid their rents in kind. Two largecarts were being loaded with barrels and sacks, chickens in cages, and smoked and salted fish and meat. Piglets and young sheep were confined in temporary pens up against the wall of the church.
On a trestle table were numerous notched sticks and several piles of silver pennies. Wynstan’s assistant, Ithamar, sat at the table, holding in his hand a long sheet of parchment, old and stained and worn at the edges, covered with close-packed writing in neat lines, possibly in Latin. That would be a list of payments due from each man. Ragna resolved to seize that parchment.
This was a familiar sight, no different in Normandy, and she took it all in at a glance, then focused on Wynstan.
He stood up from his seat and stared, openmouthed, as he grasped the size and authority of the arriving contingent. His expression showed shock and dismay. No doubt he had thought that by causing Astrid to be lamed he had made sure Ragna could not leave Shiring. He was now beginning to realize how badly he had underestimated her. He said: “How did you—?” But he changed his mind and did not finish the question.
She continued to walk her horse toward him, and the crowd parted for her. She held the reins in her left hand and a riding crop in her right.
Wynstan, always a quick thinker, changed his tune. “Lady Ragna, welcome to the Vale of Outhen,” he said. “We’re surprised, but honored, to see you here.” He seemed about to grasp the bridle of her horse, but Ragna was not having that: she raised her riding crop just a little, as if to strike his hand away; but he saw her determination and aborted his move.
She rode past him.
She had often spoken to large groups in the open air, and sheknew how to make her voice carry. “People of the Vale of Outhen,” she said. “I am the lady Ragna, and I am your lord.”
There was a moment of silence. Ragna waited. A man in the crowd went down on one knee. Others followed suit, and soon everyone was kneeling.
She turned to her group. “Take possession of those carts,” she ordered.
The sheriff nodded to his men-at-arms.
Their captain, Wigbert, was a small, wiry, mean-looking man with a temper as taut as a bowstring. His lieutenant was Godwine, tall and heavy. People were intimidated by Godwine’s size, but he was the friendlier of the two. Wigbert was the man to be scared of.
Wynstan said: “Those are my carts.”
Ragna said: “And you shall have them back—but not today.”
Wynstan’s companions were mostly servants, not men-at-arms, and they backed away from the carts as soon as Wigbert and Godwine approached them.
The villagers were still on their knees.
Wynstan said: “Wait! Are you going to be ruled by a mere woman?”
There was no response from the villagers. They were still on their knees, but kneeling was free. The real issue was not who they bowed to but who they paid rent to.
Ragna had an answer ready for Wynstan. “Don’t you know about the great princess Ethelfled, the daughter of King Alfred and lord of all Mercia?” she said. Aldred had told her that most people would have heard of this remarkable woman who had died only eighty years ago. “She was one of the greatest rulers England ever saw!”
Wynstan said: “She was English. You’re not.”
“But Bishop Wynstan, you negotiated my marriage contract. You arranged for me to be given the Vale of Outhen. When you were in Cherbourg, making arrangements with Count Hubert, did you not notice that you were in Normandy, dealing with a Norman nobleman for the hand of his Norman daughter?”
The crowd laughed, and Wynstan flushed with anger. “The people are used to paying their dues to me,” he said. “Father Draca will confirm that.” He looked hard at the village priest.
The man looked terrified. He managed to say: “What the bishop says is true.”
Ragna said: “Father Draca, who is the lord of the Vale of Outhenham?”
“My lady, I’m just a poor village priest—”
“But you know who is the lord of your village.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Then answer the question.”
