Ragna could restrain herself no longer. She leaped off her horse and ran to him. The onlookers cheered at this display of uncontained enthusiasm. His smile became wider. She threw herself into his arms and kissed him passionately. The cheering became thunderous. She put her arms around his neck and jumped up with her legs around his waist, and the crowd went wild.

She kissed him hard, but not too long, then put her feet on the ground again. A little vulgarity went a long way.

They stood grinning at each other. Ragna was thinking about making love with him, and she felt he knew what was in her mind.

They let the people cheer for a minute, then Wilwulf took her hand and they walked side by side into the great hall.

A smaller crowd waited there, and there was more applause. As Ragna’s eyes grew accustomed to the dimmer light, she saw a group of a dozen or so people, more richly dressed than those outside, and she guessed these were Wilwulf’s family.

One stepped forward, and she recognized the large ears and the close-set eyes. “Bishop Wynstan,” she said. “I’m pleased to see you again.”

He kissed her hand. “I’m glad that you’re here, and proud of the modest part I played in making the arrangements.”

“For which I thank you.”

“You’ve had a long journey.”

“I’ve certainly got to know my new country.”

“And what do you think of it?”

“It’s a bit wet.”

Everyone laughed, which pleased Ragna, but she knew this was not the moment for candid honesty, and she added an outright lie. “The English people have been friendly and kind. I love them.”

“I’m so glad,” said Wynstan, apparently believing her.

Ragna almost blushed. She had been miserable ever since she set foot in England. The alehouses were dirty, the people were unfriendly, ale was a poor substitute for cider, and she had been robbed. But no, she thought, that was not the whole truth. Mother Agatha had welcomed her, and that ferry boy had been zealously helpful. No doubt the English were a mixture of good and bad, as were the Normans.

And the Normans had no one like Wilwulf. As she made small talk with the family, pausing often to search her memory for the right Anglo-Saxon word, she glanced at him every chance she got, feeling a jolt of pleasure each time she recognized a familiar feature: his strong jaw, his blue-green eyes, the blond mustache she was longing to kiss again. Each time she looked she found he was staring at her, wearing a proud smile with a hint behind it of impatient lust. That made her feel good.

Wilwulf introduced another tall man with a bushy blond mustache. “Allow me to present my younger half brother, Wigelm, the lord of Combe.”

Wigelm looked her up and down. “My word, you are very welcome,” he said. His words were kind but his grin made Ragna uneasy, even though she was accustomed to men staring at her body. Wigelm confirmed her instinctive dislike by saying: “I’m sure Wilf explained to you that we three brothers share everything, including our women.”