Why had the kiss been so intense? Perhaps because of what had happened before it. They had discussed Wilwulf’s problem like equals, and he had listened to her. This despite the outward impression he gave of being a typical aggressively masculine nobleman who had no time for women. And then they had killed a boar together, collaborating as if they had been a hunting team for years. All that, she thought on reflection, had given her a degree of trust in him that meant she could kiss him and enjoy it.
She wanted to do it again; she had no doubt about that. She wanted to kiss him for longer next time. But did she want anything else from him? She did not know. She would wait and see.
She resolved not to change her attitude to him in public. She would be cool and dignified. Anything else would be noticed. Women picked up on that sort of thing the way dogs scented boar. She did not want the castle maids gossiping about her.
But it would be different in private—and she was determined to get him alone at least one more time before he left. Unfortunately no one had any privacy except the count and countess. It was difficult to do anything in secret at a castle. Peasants were luckier, she thought; they could sneak off into the woods, or lie down unseen in a big field of ripe wheat. How was she going to arrange a clandestine meeting with Wilwulf?
She arrived back at Cherbourg Castle without finding an answer.
She left Astrid to the stable hands and went into the keep. Her mother beckoned her to the private quarters. Genevieve was not interested in hearing about the hunt. “Good news!” she said, her eyes gleaming. “I’ve been talking to Father Louis. He starts for Reims tomorrow. But he told me he approves of you!”
“I’m very glad,” said Ragna, not sure she meant it.
“He’s says you’re a bit forward—as if we didn’t know—but he believes you’ll become less so with maturity. And he thinks you’ll be a strong support for Guillaume when he becomes the count of Reims. Apparently you resolved the problem at Saint-Martin skillfully.”
“Does Louis feel that Guillaume is in need of support?” Ragna asked suspiciously. “Is he weak?”
“Oh, don’t be so negative,” her mother said. “You may have won a husband—be happy!”
“I am happy,” said Ragna.
She found a place where they could kiss.
As well as the castle there were many other buildings within the wooden stockade: stables and livestock barns; a bakery, a brewery and a cookhouse; houses for families; and storerooms for smoked meat and fish, flour, cider, cheese, and hay. The hay store was out of use in July, when there was plenty of new grass for the livestock to graze.
The first time, Ragna took him there under the pretext of showing him a place where his men could temporarily store their weapons and armor. He kissed her as soon as she closed the door, and the kiss was even more exciting than the first time. The building quickly became a place of regular assignation. As night fell—late in the evening at this time of year—they would leave the keep, as most people did in the hour before bedtime, and go separately to the hay store. The room smelled moldy, but they did not care. They caressed each other more intimately with each passing day. Then Ragna would call a halt, panting, and leave quickly.
They were scrupulously discreet, but they did not completely fool Genevieve. The countess did not know about the hay store, but she could sense the passion between her daughter and the visitor. However, she spoke indirectly, as was always her preference. “England is an uncomfortable place,” she said one day, as if making small talk.
“When were you there?” Ragna asked. It was a sly question, for she already knew the answer.
“I’ve never been,” Genevieve admitted. “But I’ve heard that it’s cold and it rains all the time.”
“Then I’m glad I don’t have to go there.”
Ragna’s mother could not be shut down that easily. “Englishmen are untrustworthy,” she went on.
“Are they?” Wilwulf was intelligent and surprisingly romantic. When they met in the hay store he was gently tender. He was not domineering, but he was irresistibly sexy. He had dreamed one night of being tied up with a rope made of Ragna’s red hair, he told her, and he had woken up with an erection. She found that thought powerfully arousing. Was he trustworthy? She thought he was, but evidently her mother disagreed. “Why do you say that?” Ragna asked.
“Englishmen keep their promises when it suits their convenience, and not otherwise.”
“And you believe that Norman men never do that?”
Genevieve sighed. “You’re clever, Ragna, but not as clever as you think you are.”
That’s true of a lot of people, Ragna thought, from Father Louis all the way down to my seamstress, Agnes; why shouldn’t it be true of me? “Perhaps you’re right,” she said.
Genevieve pushed her advantage. “Your father has spoiled you by teaching you about government. But a woman can never be a ruler.”
“That’s not so,” Ragna said, speaking more heatedly than she had intended. “A woman can be a queen, a countess, an abbess, or a prioress.”
“Always under the authority of a man.”
“Theoretically, yes, but a lot depends on the character of the individual woman.”
“So you’re going to be a queen, are you?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to be, but I’d like to rule side by side with my husband, talking to him as he talks to me about what we need to do to make our domain happy and prosperous.”
