by Ken Follett
She moved around the village, doing her best to stay out of Wigelm’s sight. She told the young men to put the horses to graze in a neighboring pasture. Then she picked out the houses where Wigelm and his entourage might spend the night, choosing the homes of older couples or young marrieds with small babies, avoiding those where there were adolescent girls. It was usual to pay the householder a penny for accommodating four men, and the family were expected to share their breakfast with the guests.
The village priest, Draca, who raised beef cattle, butchered a young steer and sold it to Eanfrid, who built a fire behind the tavern and roasted the joints on a spit. While the men were waiting for the meat they drank ale, and Eanfrid emptied two barrels and opened a third.
They spent an hour singing raucous anthems of violence and sex, then became argumentative. Just when Ragna feared a fight was imminent, Eanfrid served the beef, with bread and onions, which shut them up. After eating they began to drift off to their lodgings, and Ragna judged she could safely go to bed.
She returned to the house in the quarry with Osgyth and Ceolwulf. They barred the door firmly. They had brought blankets with them, but it was not yet winter cold, and they lay down in the straw wrapped only in their cloaks. Ceolwulf lay across the door, the approved position for a bodyguard, but Ragna caught a look between the two young people and guessed they planned to move closer together later.
Ragna lay awake for an hour or more, unnerved by the surprise appearance of her enemy Wigelm; but finally she drifted into a perturbed sleep.
She awoke with the sense that she had not been asleep long. She sat up and looked around, frowning, wondering uneasily what had disturbed her. In the firelight she saw that Osgyth and Ceolwulf had gone. She guessed they wanted to be alone, and had slipped away into the woods, where they were now probably under a bush, discovering sex in the moonlight.
She was less inclined to be indulgent now. They were supposed to care for her and protect her, not sneak off and leave her alone in the middle of the night. They would both be sacked when they got back to King’s Bridge.
She heard a drunk man talking loudly and incoherently, and guessed it was Gab. The voice must be what had awakened her. However, she was safe behind a barred door, she thought; then she realized that Osgyth and Ceolwulf must have unbarred the door to get out.
The drunk came closer, and she recognized the voice. It was not Gab, but Wigelm, she realized with a fearful chill.
He had found her house easily, despite his state, she guessed in a dreadful flash—he had simply followed the canal—but it was a tragic miracle that he had not fallen in the water and drowned.
She leaped to secure the door, but she was a moment too late. As she put her hands on the heavy timber bar, the door opened and Wigelm stepped in. She sprang back with a cry of fear.
Wigelm was barefoot and without a cloak, despite the chill of the autumn night. He was not wearing a belt or carrying a sword or knife, which gave some relief to Ragna. He looked as if he had got up from his bed and had not troubled to get properly dressed.
There was a strong, sour smell of ale.
He peered at her in the firelight as if unsure who she was. He was swaying, and she realized that he was very drunk. For a moment she optimistically hoped he might pass out right there and then, but his puzzled expression cleared and he said in a slurred voice: “Ragna. Yes. I was looking for you.”
I can’t take this, Ragna thought. I can’t suffer any more by this man. I want to die.
She tried to hide her despair. “Please go away.”
“Lie down.”
“I’ll scream. Gab and his wife will hear me.” She was not sure that was true: the two houses were widely separated.
Her threat was ineffective for a different reason. “What will they do?” he said scornfully. “I’m their ealdorman.”
“Get out of my house.”
He shoved her hard. Caught off balance, and surprised by how strong he was despite being drunk, she fell on her back. The impact knocked the wind out of her.
He said: “Shut your mouth and open your legs.”
She caught her breath. “You can’t do this, I’m no longer your wife.”
He toppled forward. Clearly he intended to land on her, but at the last moment she rolled sideways, and he fell on his face. She got up on her hands and knees, but at the same time he turned on his back and grabbed her arm, pulling her toward him.
Trying to keep her balance, she moved her leg and, without intending it, planted her knee squarely in his belly. He said: “Oof!” and gasped.
Ragna moved the other leg so that both knees were in his belly, then she grabbed his arms and pressed them to the ground. In normal circumstances he could have thrown her off easily, but now he was unable to shake her.
It was an ironic reversal. For the first time ever, she had him at her mercy.
But what was she going to do?
His head moved from side to side, his eyes closed, and he gasped: “Can’t breathe.”
She realized that her knees were constricting his lungs, but she did not move to ease him, because she was terrified that he might regain his strength.
He seemed to convulse, and there was a smell of vomit. Liquid trickled from the corners of his mouth. His arms and legs went limp.
Ragna had heard of drunk men passing out and choking to death on their own puke. She realized, in a moment, that if Wigelm were to die now she would get Alain back: no one would say he should be raised by Meganthryth. A momentary wave of hope passed over her. She would have prayed for Wigelm to die, except that such a prayer seemed blasphemous.
Wigelm was not dying. His nose was full of liquid vomit but air was bubbling through it.
Could she kill him?
It would be a sin, and it would be dangerous. She would be a murderess and, although there was no one here to see what she was doing, she might nevertheless be found out somehow.
But she wanted him dead.
She thought of the year in prison, and the repeated rape, and the theft of her child. By forcing his way into her house tonight he had shown that his torture of her would never end, not while he lived. She had taken all she could stand; it had to end here and now.
God forgive me, she thought.
Tentatively, she took her hands away from his arms. He did not move.
She closed his mouth, then placed her left hand over his lips and pressed firmly.
He could still breathe through his nose, just.
She put her right forefinger and thumb either side of his nose and squeezed his nostrils.
Now he could not breathe.
She had not killed him, not yet; there was still time to change her mind, to release her grip. She could roll him over and clear the fluid from his mouth and enable him to breathe. He would probably survive.
Survive to attack her again.
She maintained her hold on his mouth and nose. She waited, watching his face. How long did a man live without air? She had no idea.
He twitched, but he seemed barely conscious, and could not struggle. Ragna remained with her knees in his belly, closing his mouth with one hand and his nose with the other. All his motion ceased.
Was he dead now?
The house was silent. The embers in the fire made no sound, and there was no rustle of small creatures in the rushes on the floor. She listened for footsteps outside but heard none.
Suddenly Wigelm opened his eyes. The shock made her shriek with fear.
He looked with terror at Ragna. He tried to shake his head but she leaned forward, pressing down harder with her two hands, holding him still.
He stared into her eyes, in a half-conscious panic, for a long moment of high tension. He was in fear of his life but he could not move, like a man in a nightmare. “This is how it feels, Wigelm,” she said, her voice taut with loathi
ng. “This is what it’s like to be helpless at the mercy of a killer.”
Suddenly his feeble efforts ceased and his eyes rolled up into his head.
Still Ragna held her grip. Was he really dead? She could hardly believe that the man who had tormented her for so long might have left this world for good.
At last she summoned the courage to release her pressure on his nose and mouth. His face showed no change. She put her hand on his chest and felt no heartbeat.
She had killed him.
“God forgive me,” she prayed.
She found herself shaking uncontrollably. Her hands trembled, her shoulders shuddered, and her thighs felt so weak she wanted to lie down.
She struggled to control her body. What she needed to worry about right now was how men would react. No one would believe her innocent. The ealdorman, her great enemy, had died in the middle of the night with no one present but her. The evidence was incriminating.
She was a murderess.
At last she became steady and stood up.
It was not over yet. What would tell against her most was that the body was here with her. She had to move it. But where could she put it? The answer was obvious.
In the canal.
Wigelm’s drunken companions would have assumed he had gone to take a piss. In his state he could easily have passed out, fallen in the canal, and drowned before he could come around. That was exactly the kind of thing drunken fools did.
But no one must see her disposing of the body. She needed to move quickly, before Osgyth and Ceolwulf tired of canoodling and came back, before one of Wigelm’s half-conscious men began to wonder what was taking him so long and decided to go in search.
She grabbed one leg and heaved. It took more effort than she had expected. She moved him a yard then stopped. It was too much. He was a heavy man and, literally, a dead weight.
She could not be defeated by such a simple problem. Her horse, Astrid, was in a nearby pasture. If necessary Ragna would fetch the horse to drag the body—though that would take time and increase the risk of discovery. It would be quicker if she could put Wigelm on something, like a board. She remembered the blankets.
She took one and spread it on the floor next to Wigelm. With considerable effort she rolled him onto the blanket. Then she seized the head end and pulled. It was not easy, but it was possible, and she dragged him across the floor and out through the door.
She looked around in the moonlight and saw no one. Gab’s house was dark and quiet. Osgyth and Ceolwulf must still be in the woods, and there was no sign of a search party looking for Wigelm. Only the inhabitants of the night surrounded her: an owl hooting in the trees, a small rodent scurrying past so quickly that she saw it only out of the corner of her eye, the distinct swooping movement of a silent bat.
She decided she could manage without Astrid, just about. She hauled Wigelm slowly across the quarry. The body made a scraping noise as it moved, but not loud enough to be heard in Gab’s house.
From the quarry the ground sloped up gently, and her work became harder. She was already panting from the effort. She rested for a minute, then forced herself to resume the task. It was not much farther.
At last she reached the canal. She lugged him to the edge and rolled him in. There was a splash that sounded loud to her, and a smell of waste and rot from the disturbed water. Then the surface calmed, and Wigelm steadied, facedown. She saw a dead squirrel floating next to his face.
She rested, breathing hard, exhausted, but after a minute she realized this was not good enough. The corpse was still close enough to the house to arouse suspicion. She had to move it farther away.
If she had had a rope she could have tied it to him then walked along the bank, pulling Wigelm through the water. But she did not have a rope.
She thought of riding equipment. Astrid was in a field but her saddle and other tack were in the house. She returned there. She folded the blanket and put it at the bottom of the pile, hoping its dirty state would not be noticed for many days. Then she detached the reins from the bridle.
She returned to the canal. Still there was no one in sight. She reached across the water and grabbed the corpse by the hair. She pulled it to her, then fastened the strap around the neck. She stood up, tugged on the strap, and walked along the canal bank toward the village.
A part of her exulted to think that Wigelm was now so powerless that she could lead him along like a dumb animal.
She scanned all around her, peering into the shadows under the trees, scared that at any second she might run in to some nighttime wanderer. In the moonlight she saw a pair of yellow eyes, which gave her a momentary fright, until she realized she was looking at a cat.
As she neared the village, she heard raised voices. She cursed. It sounded as though Wigelm’s absence had been noticed.
She was not yet far enough from the quarry to divert suspicion. To rest her arm she changed hands and walked backward, but she could not see where she was going and, after stumbling twice, she put the tired arm back to work again. Her legs began to ache, too.
She saw lights moving among the houses. Wigelm’s men were looking for him, almost certainly. They were too drunk to search systematically, and their calls to one another were incoherent. But all the same one of them might spot her by chance. And if she were caught dragging Wigelm’s corpse along the canal there would be no doubt about her guilt.
She kept moving. One of the searchers came toward the canal with a lamp. Ragna stopped, got down on the ground, and lay still, watching the jerky movement of the light. What would she do if it came nearer? What story could she possibly tell to explain Wigelm’s corpse and her strap?
But the light seemed to go in the opposite direction and fade. When it disappeared she got to her feet and carried on.
She passed the back of one village house, then another, and decided that was far enough. Wigelm had been incapable of walking in a straight line so it would be assumed he had not taken the most direct route to the canal, but had staggered around at random on his way.
She knelt down, put her hands in the water, and unfastened the strap from Wigelm’s neck. Then she pushed his body out into the middle of the canal. “That way to hell,” she murmured.
She turned and hurried back to the quarry.
There was no movement around Gab’s house or Edgar’s. She hoped the lovebirds had not returned in her absence: she was not sure how she would explain what she had been doing.
She crossed the quarry with quiet steps and entered the house. No one was there.
She took her place in the straw and closed her eyes.
I believe I got away with it, she thought.
She knew she should have been full of guilt, but all she could do was rejoice.
She did not sleep. She relived the night in her head, from the moment she had heard Wigelm’s slurred voice to her final rush back along the bank of the canal. She asked herself whether she had done enough to make the death look like a drunken accident. Was there anything about the corpse that might cause suspicion? Had she perhaps been seen by someone who did not reveal himself? Had her absence from the house somehow been noticed?
She heard the door creak and guessed that Osgyth and Ceolwulf had returned. She pretended to be fast asleep. There was a soft thud as the bar was replaced—too late, she thought resentfully. She heard their tiptoe footsteps, a smothered giggle, and soft rustling as they lay down. She guessed that Ceolwulf had resumed his guard position, lying across the doorway, so that no one could get in without waking him.
Both young people were soon breathing rhythmically.
Clearly they had no idea of the night’s drama. And now Ragna saw that their negligence would work in her favor. If asked, they would swear that they had been in the house all night, guarding their mistress as was their duty. Their dishonesty would give her an alibi.
Soon it would be a new day, a happy day, her first in a world without Wigelm.
She hardly dared to think about Alain. With Wigelm dead, surely she would get her child back? No one would want Meganthryth to raise him, now that Wigelm was no longer around to bully them—would they? It would make no sense, but it might be done out of spite. Wigelm was gone, but his evil brother, Wynstan, was still alive. People said Wynstan was going mad, but that only made him even more dangerous.
She fell into a fretful doze and was awakened by a knock at the door, three sharp taps, polite but urgent. A voice said: “My lady! Eanfrid here.”
Now for the aftermath, she thought.
She stood up, brushed off her dress, and smoothed her hair, then said: “Let him in, Ceolwulf.”
Dawn was breaking, she saw when the door was opened. Eanfrid entered, red-faced and panting from the effort of carrying his considerable bulk at a fast walk. Without preamble he said: “Wigelm is missing.”
Ragna adopted a tone of brisk efficiency. “Where was he when you last saw him?”
“He was in my alehouse, still drinking with Garulf and others, when I fell asleep.”
“Has anyone looked for him?”
“His men have been wandering around calling his name half the night.”
“I didn’t hear anything.” Ragna turned to her servants. “Did you?”
Osgyth said quickly: “Nothing, my lady. It was quiet here the whole night through.”
Ragna was keen to get them both to commit to lying. She said: “Did either of you go outside at all in the night, even just to piss or anything?”
Osgyth shook her head, and Ceolwulf said firmly: “I didn’t move from my place by the door.”
“Right.” She was satisfied. It would now be difficult for them to change their story. “It’s daylight, so we must organize a systematic search.”
