“I’m not nice to you. But I’m different from Dreng.”

“You are nice to me.”

He changed the subject. “Do you have names for your baby?”

“I don’t know that I’ll be allowed to name him or her.”

“You should give it a Welsh name. What are your parents called?”

“My father is Brioc.”

“I like that, it sounds strong.”

“It’s the name of a Celtic saint.”

“What about your mother?”

“Eleri.”

“Pretty name.”

Tears came to her eyes. “I miss them so much.”

“I’ve made you sad. I’m sorry.”

“You’re the only English person who ever asked me about my family.”

A shout came from inside the alehouse. “Blod! Get in here.”

Blod left, and Edgar resumed work.

The first consignment of stones had come downstream from Outhenham on a raft steered by one of Gab’s sons, and had been unloaded and stacked near the ruins of the old brewhouse. Edgar had prepared the foundations of the new building, digging a trench and half filling it with loose stones.

He had to guess how deep the foundations should go. He had checked those of the church, digging a small hole alongside the wall of the chancel, and found that there were almost no foundations at all, but that would explain why it was falling down.

He poured mortar over the stones, and here he came across another problem: how to make sure the surface of the mortar was level. He had a good eye, but that was not enough. He had seen builders at work, and now he wished he had watched them more carefully. In the end he invented a device. He made a thin, flat stick a yard long and carved out the inside to form a smooth channel. The result was a miniature version of the log canoe Dreng had used as a ferry. Edgar got Cuthbert to make a small, polished iron ball in his forge. He laid the stick on the mortar, put the ball in the channel, and tapped the stick. If the ball rolled to one end, that showed that the mortar was not level and the surface had to be adjusted.

It was a lengthy process, and Dreng was impatient. He came out of the alehouse and stood with his hands on his hips, watching Edgar, for a few minutes. Eventually he said: “You’ve been working on this a week, and I don’t see any wall rising.”

“I have to get the foundations level,” Edgar explained.

“I don’t care if it’s level,” Dreng said. “It’s a brewhouse, not a cathedral.”

“If it’s not level it will fall down.”

Dreng looked at Edgar, not sure whether to believe him but unwilling to reveal his ignorance. He walked away saying: “I need Leaf to make ale as soon as possible. I’m losing money buying it from Shiring. Work faster!”

While Edgar was working, his mind often went back to Ragna. She had appeared in Dreng’s Ferry like a visitor from paradise. She was so tall, and poised, and beautiful that when you looked at her it was hard to believe she was a member of the human race. But as soon as she spoke she revealed herself to be charmingly human: down-to-earth and warmly sympathetic and capable of weeping over a lost belt. Ealdorman Wilwulf was a lucky man. The two of them would make a remarkable couple. Wherever they went, all eyes would follow them, the dashing ruler and his lovely bride.