Sometimes the gate entrance was barred and guarded, but not now: this year there was a truce with the Vikings, and the Welsh were going through a dormant phase. He opened the gate quietly. The compound was silent.
He walked quickly toward Ragna’s house. He knocked sharply on the door then tried the handle. It was not barred from the inside. He opened the door and stepped inside.
There was no one there.
He frowned, suddenly terribly fearful. What could have happened?
There were no lights. He peered into the gloom. A mouse scampered across the hearth: it must be cold. As his eyes grew accustomed to the faint light from the open doorway, he saw that most of Ragna’s possessions were here—dresses hanging from pegs, cheese box and meat safe, cups and bowls—but the children’s cots had gone.
She had gone. And the cold fireplace proved she had left hours ago, probably not long after saying goodnight to him at Sheriff Den’s compound. By now she might be miles away in any direction.
She must have changed her plans. But why had she sent him no message? She could have been prevented from doing so. That strongly suggested she had been taken against her will and held incommunicado. Wynstan and Wigelm had to be responsible. She had been made prisoner, then.
Anger flamed inside him. How dare they? She was a free woman, the daughter of a count and the widow of an ealdorman—they had no right!
If they had found out that she was planning to flee, who had told them? One of the sheriff’s servants, perhaps, or even Cat or Agnes.
Edgar had to find out where they had taken her.
Furious, he left the house. He was ready to confront either Wigelm or Wynstan, but Wigelm was probably nearer. When in Shiring he slept at the house of his mother, Gytha. Edgar strode across the grass to Gytha’s house.
A man-at-arms was outside the door, sitting on the ground with his back to the wall, dozing. Edgar recognized Elfgar, big and strong but an amiable youngster. Ignoring him, Edgar banged on the door.
Elfgar jumped up, suddenly awakened and unsteady on his feet. He looked at the floor around his feet and belatedly picked up a club, a length of gnarled oak roughly carved. He looked as though he was not sure what to do with it.
The door was thrown open and another man-at-arms stood there. He must have been sleeping across the threshold. It was Fulcric, older and meaner than Elfgar.
Edgar said: “Is Wigelm here?”
Fulcric said aggressively: “Who the hell are you?”
Edgar raised his voice. “I want to see Wigelm!”
“You’ll get your head bashed in if you’re not careful.”
A voice from within said: “Don’t worry, Elfgar, it’s only the little builder from Dreng’s Ferry.” Wigelm emerged from the gloom within. “But he’d better have a damned good reason for banging on my door at this hour of the morning.”
“You know the reason, Wigelm. Where is she?”
“Don’t presume to question me, or you’ll be punished for insolence.”
“And you’ll be punished for kidnapping a noble widow—a more serious offense in the eyes of the king.”
“No one has been kidnapped.”
“Then where is the lady Ragna?”
Behind Wigelm, his wife, Molly, and his mother appeared, both of them tousled and sleepy-eyed.
Edgar went on: “And where are her children? The king will want to know.”
“In a safe place.”
“Where?”
Wigelm sneered. “Surely you didn’t think you could have her?”
“You’re the one who asked her to marry you.”
