by Ken Follett
This joke caused the men to laugh uproariously. The women present did not find it so hilarious. Ragna decided to ignore it.
Wilwulf said: “And this is my stepmother, Gytha.”
Ragna saw a formidable woman of about fifty. She was short—her sons must have inherited the build of their late father, Ragna guessed. Her long gray hair framed a handsome face, with strongly marked eyebrows. Ragna imagined shrewdness and a sturdy will. She sensed that this woman was going to be a force in her life, for good or ill. She offered a fulsome compliment: “How proud you must be, to have given England these three remarkable men.”
“You’re very kind,” said Gytha, but she did not smile, and Ragna foresaw that Gytha would be slow to succumb to her charm.
Wilwulf said: “Gytha will show you around the compound, then we’ll have dinner.”
“Splendid,” said Ragna.
Gytha led the way. Ragna’s maids were waiting outside. Ragna said: “Cat, come with me. The rest of you, wait.”
Gytha said: “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of everything.”
Ragna was not ready to surrender control. She asked Cat: “Where are the men?”
“In the stables, seeing to the horses.”
“Tell Bern to stay with the baggage until I send for him.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Gytha led Ragna around. It was clear, from the deference showed to Gytha, that she was the boss, in charge of Wilwulf’s domestic life. That would have to change, Ragna thought. She was not going to be told what to do by her stepmother-in-law.
They walked past the slave quarters and entered the stable. The place was crowded, but Ragna noticed that the English stable hands were not talking to the Normans. That would not do. She put her arm around Bern. Raising her voice, she said: “You Englishmen, this is my friend Bern the Giant. He’s very gentle with horses”—she took his hand and held it up—“and with women.” There was a low chuckle from the men. They always bantered about penis size, which was said to be correlated with hand size, and Bern’s hands were huge. “He’s gentle with women,” she repeated, and now they were smiling, for they knew the gag was coming. She gave an arch look and said: “He needs to be.”
They all laughed, and the ice was broken.
Ragna said: “When my men make mistakes speaking your language, be nice to them, and maybe they’ll teach you some words of Norman French. Then you’ll know what to say to any French girls you may meet . . .”
They laughed again, and she knew she had bonded with them. She went out before the laughter died away.
Gytha showed her a double-size building that was barracks for the men-at-arms. “I won’t go in,” Ragna said. It was a male dormitory, and for her to enter might be too forward. There was a narrow line between a delightfully flirtatious woman and a contemptible tart, and a foreigner had to be especially careful not to cross it.
However, she noticed a lot of men milling around outside, and recalled that the stables had been crowded. “So many men,” she said to Gytha. “Is something going on?”
“Yes. Wilf is mustering an army.” That was the second time Ragna had heard someone call him “Wilf.” It was obviously the familiar short form of his name. “The South Welsh have raided across the border,” Gytha went on. “They sometimes do at this time of year—after the harvest, when our barns are full. But don’t worry, Wilf won’t go until after the wedding.”
Ragna felt a chill of fear. Her husband was going into battle right after they got married. It was normal, of course; she had seen her father ride off many times, armed to the teeth, to kill or be killed. But she never got used to it. It scared her when Count Hubert went to war, and it would scare her when Wilwulf did the same. She tried to put it out of her mind. She had other things to think about.
The great hall was in the center of the compound. To one side was an assortment of domestic buildings: the kitchen, the bakery, the brewhouse, and several stores. On the other side were individual residences.
Ragna went into the kitchen. As was usual, the cooks were men, but they were assisted by half a dozen women and girls. She greeted the men politely, but she was more interested in the females. A big, good-looking woman of about thirty struck her as the type who might be a leader. Ragna said to her: “Dinner smells good!”
The woman gave her a friendly smile.
Ragna asked: “What’s your name?”
“Gildathryth, my lady, called Gilda for short.”
Next to Gilda was a girl washing mud off a huge stack of small purplish carrots. She looked a bit like Gilda, and Ragna said: “Is this pretty child related to you?” It was a fairly safe guess: in a small community most people were related somehow.
“My daughter Wilnod,” Gilda said proudly. “Twelve years old.”
“Hello, Wilnod. When you grow up, will you make lovely dinners, like Mummy?”
Wilnod was too shy to speak, but she nodded.
“Well, thank you for washing the carrots,” Ragna said. “When I eat one, I will think of you.”
Wilnod beamed with pleasure.
Ragna left the kitchen.
Over the next few days she would speak to everyone who lived or worked in the compound. It would be hard to remember all the names, but she would do her best. She would ask about their children and grandchildren, their ailments and their superstitions, their homes and their clothes. She would not need to pretend interest: she had always been curious about the everyday lives of the people around her.
Cat would find out more, especially as her English became more confident. Like Ragna, she befriended people quickly, and soon the maids would share gossip with her: which laundress had a lover, which stable hand liked to lie with men rather than women, who was stealing from the kitchen, which man-at-arms was afraid of the dark.
Ragna and Gytha moved toward the houses. Most of them were half the length of the great hall, but they were not all of the same quality. All had stout corner posts and thatched roofs. Most had walls of wattle-and-daub, upright branches interwoven with horizontal twigs and covered with a mixture of mud and straw. The three best houses were immediately behind the great hall. They had walls of upright planks neatly joined edge to edge and footed in a heavy timber sill beam.
Ragna said: “Which one is Wilwulf’s?”
Gytha pointed to the central building. Ragna walked to the entrance. Gytha said: “Perhaps you should wait for an invitation.”
Ragna smiled and walked in.
Cat followed her, and Gytha was the reluctant last.
Ragna was pleased to see a low bed, plenty wide enough for two, with a big mattress and an inviting pile of brightly dyed blankets. Otherwise the place had a military air, with sharpened weapons and gleaming armor hanging from pegs around the walls—perhaps ready for Wilwulf’s coming conflict with the South Welsh. His other possessions were stored in a few large wooden chests. A wall tapestry showed a hunting scene, well executed. There appeared to be no materials for writing or reading.
Ragna walked out again and turned toward the back of Wilwulf’s home. Another fine house stood behind it. As Ragna headed that way, Gytha said: “Perhaps I should show you your house.”
Ragna was not willing to be told what to do by Gytha, and she felt the need to make that clear sooner rather than later. Without stopping she said: “Whose house is this one?”
“That’s mine. You can’t go in.”
Ragna turned. “No building in this compound is closed to me,” she said quietly but firmly. “I am about to marry the ealdorman. Only he tells me what to do. I will be the mistress here.”
She went into the house.
Gytha followed her.
The place was richly furnished. There was a comfortable cushioned chair like those used by kings. On a table was a basket of pears and a small barrel of the type that usually contained wine. Costly wool dress
es and cloaks hung from pegs.
Ragna said: “Very nice. Your stepson is good to you.”
“And why shouldn’t he be?” Gytha said defensively.
“Quite.” Ragna went out.
Gytha had said Perhaps I should show you your house, and that suggested that Ragna would have a home separate from Wilwulf’s. This was not an unusual arrangement, but somehow she had not anticipated it. The wife of a wealthy nobleman often had a nearby second house for babies and children and their nursemaids; she would spend some nights there and others with her husband. However, Ragna did not expect to spend any nights apart from Wilwulf before a baby made it necessary. The separate house seemed premature. She wished Wilwulf had talked to her about it. But they had had no chance to talk about anything.
She was uncomfortable, the more so because it was Gytha who was telling her about it. Ragna knew that mothers could be irrationally hostile to their sons’ women, and that probably applied to stepmothers, too. Ragna recalled an incident in which her brother, Richard, had been caught embracing a laundress on the ramparts of the castle at Cherbourg. Their mother, Genevieve, had wanted to have the girl flogged. It was natural that she should not want a servant to be impregnated with her son’s child, but Richard had only been stroking the girl between her legs, and Ragna was pretty sure all adolescent boys did that whenever they got the chance. Clearly there had been more to Genevieve’s rage than simple prudence. Could a mother, or even a stepmother, be jealous of her son’s lovers? Was Gytha unfriendly to Ragna because they were rivals for Wilwulf’s affection?
Ragna was wary about this, but in the end, not deeply anxious. She knew how Wilwulf felt about her and she was confident she could hold and keep his love. If she wanted to spend every night in his bed she would do so, and she would make sure he was happy about it.
She turned her steps toward the last of the three houses.
“That’s Wigelm’s place,” Gytha said, but this time she did not try to stop Ragna entering.
The interior of Wigelm’s home had a temporary look, and Ragna supposed he spent a lot of time at Combe, the town of which he was lord. But he was here now, sitting with three other young men around a jug of ale, throwing dice and betting silver pennies. He stood up when he saw Ragna. “Come in, come in,” he said. “The house suddenly seems warmer.”
She immediately regretted entering, but she was not willing to retreat hastily, as if scared. She was making a point of her right to go anywhere. She ignored Wigelm’s banter and said: “Aren’t you married?”
“My wife is at Combe, supervising the rebuilding of our home there after the Viking raid. But she will be here for your wedding.”
“What’s her name?”
“Mildburh, called Milly for short.”
“I look forward to meeting her.”
Wigelm came closer and lowered his voice to a more intimate tone. “Will you sit down and share a cup of ale with me? We’ll teach you to play at dice if you like.”
“Not today.”
Casually, he put his hands on her breasts and squeezed. “My, they really are big, aren’t they?”
Cat made an indignant noise.
Ragna stepped back and pushed his hands away. “But they’re not for you,” she said.
“I’m just checking the goods before my brother buys them.” He shot an arch look at his pals, and on cue, they burst out laughing.
Ragna glanced at Gytha and saw the trace of a smirk on her lips.
Ragna said: “Next time the Vikings raid, I hope you brave men will be there to meet them.”
Wigelm was silenced, unable to work out whether that was a compliment or a curse.
Ragna took the opportunity to make her exit.
A man could be fined for touching the breast of a woman, but Ragna was not going to make a court case out of the incident. However, she vowed to find a way to punish Wigelm.
Outside, she turned to Gytha and said: “So, Wilf has prepared a house for me?”
Her phrasing was deliberate. It was Wilwulf’s responsibility to make sure she was comfortable. He had probably left it to Gytha to make the arrangements, but Ragna would complain to him if dissatisfied, not Gytha, and she wanted Gytha to understand that from the start.
“This way,” said Gytha.
Next to Wigelm’s home was a cheaper house with draughty wattle-and-daub walls. Gytha walked in and Ragna followed.
It was adequately furnished, with a bed, a table with benches, several chests, and plenty of wooden cups and bowls. There was a stack of firewood by the hearth and a barrel that presumably contained ale. The place lacked any touch of luxury.
It was a poor welcome, Ragna felt.
Gytha sensed Ragna’s reaction and said hesitantly: “No doubt you have brought your own personal choice of wall hangings and so on.”
Ragna had not. She had expected everything to be provided. She had money to buy whatever she needed, but that was not the point. “Blankets?” she said.
Gytha shrugged. “Why do you need blankets? Most people sleep in their cloaks.”
“I noticed that Wilf has plenty of blankets in his house.”
Gytha did not reply.
Ragna looked around the walls. “Not enough pegs,” she said. “You didn’t think a bride might have a lot of clothes to hang up?”
“You can put in more pegs.”
“I’ll have to borrow a hammer.”
Gytha looked puzzled, then realized that Ragna was being sarcastic. “I’ll send you a carpenter.”
“The place is too small. I have five maids and seven men-at-arms.”
“The men can be lodged in the town.”
“I prefer them near me.”
“That may not be possible.”
“We’ll see.” Ragna was angry and hurt. However, she needed to think and plan before taking action. She turned to Cat. “Fetch the other maids, and tell the men to bring the baggage.” Cat went out.
Gytha tried to regain the initiative. She adopted an authoritative tone and said: “You’ll live here, and when Wilf wants to spend the night with you he will either come here or invite you to his house. You should never go to his bed uninvited.”
Ragna ignored that. She and Wilf would work things out without the help of his stepmother. She resisted the temptation to say so.
She had had enough of Gytha. “Thank you for showing me around,” she said in a tone of dismissal.
Gytha hesitated. “I hope everything is all right.”
Gytha had probably expected a frightened young foreign girl who could be pushed around. Now, Ragna guessed, she was anxiously revising her opinion.
“We’ll see,” Ragna said tersely.
Gytha tried again. “What will you say to Wilf about your accommodation?”
“We’ll see,” Ragna repeated.
It must have been obvious that Ragna wanted Gytha to leave, but Gytha was ignoring her hints. She had been the senior female here for years, and perhaps she did not believe she could be given orders by another woman. Ragna had to be more forceful. “I have no further need for you at present, stepmother-in-law,” she said; and when Gytha still did not go out she raised her voice and added: “You may go.”
Gytha flushed with embarrassment and anger, but she went out at last.
Cat returned with the others, the men toting chests and bags. They stacked the luggage up against the wall. Cat said: “This place is crowded, with all of us in here.”
“The men must sleep elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere in the town. But don’t unpack. Just what we need for one night.”
Bishop Wynstan came through the open door. “Well, well,” he said, looking around. “So this is your new house.”
“So it seems,” Ragna said.
“Is it not satisfactory?”
> “I’ll discuss it with Wilf.”
“Good idea. He wishes for nothing more than your happiness.”
“I’m glad.”
“I’ve come for your dowry.”
“Really?”
Wynstan frowned severely. “You did bring it?”
“Of course.”
“Twenty pounds of silver. That was what I agreed with your father.”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you would let me have it.”
Ragna did not trust Wynstan, and this request sharpened her misgivings. “I shall give it to Wilf when we are married. That was what you agreed with my father.”
“But I must count it.”
Ragna did not want Wynstan to know even which box it was in. “You may count it on the morning of the wedding. Then, after the vows have been taken, it will be handed over—to my husband.”
Wynstan gave her a look that mingled dislike with respect. “As you wish, of course,” he said, and he went out.
* * *
Ragna got up before dawn the next day.
She thought carefully about what to wear. Yesterday she had arrived in a fawn dress and a red cloak, a fetching outfit, but the clothes had been damp and muddy, and she had not looked her best. Today she wanted to be like a flower that had bloomed at daybreak. She chose a yellow silk dress with embroidery at the neck, cuffs, and hem. Cat washed the corners of her eyes and brushed her thick red hair, then tied a green scarf over her head.
While it was still dark, Ragna ate some bread dipped in weak ale and concentrated on what she was about to do. She had spent much of the night thinking over her strategy. Wigelm must be punished, but that was a secondary matter. Her big task was to prove that she, not Gytha, was now in charge of Wilf’s home life. Ragna did not want a quarrel, but she could not let Gytha’s rule continue even for a day, because every moment that she seemed to accept it left her weaker. She had to take immediate action.
It was risky, though. She might displease her husband-to-be, and that would be bad enough; but worse, she might lose the battle, and a victory for Gytha at this stage could be permanent.
