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 dresses 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?