Ragna crossed the compound to Wilf’s house.

There was one other person in view. A young woman stood outside Gytha’s door, leaning against the wall, yawning. She caught sight of Ragna and stood upright.

Ragna smiled. Gytha was keeping her under surveillance, not taking any chances. As it happened, that suited Ragna’s purpose today.

She went to Wilf’s door, watched by the maid.

It suddenly occurred to her that Wilf might bar his door at night: some people did. That could spoil her plan.

But when she lifted the latch the door opened, and she relaxed. Perhaps Wilf thought that to lock his door at night might make him seem timorous in the eyes of his men.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the watching maid scurry inside Gytha’s house.

Wilf had another reason for feeling confident. As Ragna stepped inside, she heard a deep growl. Wilf had a dog to warn him of intruders.

Ragna looked toward where she knew the bed to be. There was a glow from the embers of the fire, and a faint light coming through the small windows. She saw a figure sit upright in the bed and reach for a weapon.

Wilf’s voice said: “Who’s there?”

Ragna said quietly: “Good morning, my lord.”

She heard him chuckle. “It’s a good morning now that you’re here.” He lay down again.

There was a movement on the floor, and she saw a big mastiff resume his position lying by the fire.

She sat on the edge of the bed. This was a delicate moment. Her mother had urged her not to lie with Wilf until after the ceremony. He would want it, Genevieve had said, and Ragna had known that she would want it, too. But she was determined to resist the temptation. She could not say exactly why this was so important, especially as they had already done it once. Her feelings had to do with how happy they both would feel about their marriage when at last they were able to yield to their desires without guilt or fear.

All the same, she kissed him.

She leaned over his broad chest. She grasped the hem of his blanket in both hands, keeping it in place as an additional barrier between their bodies. Then she slowly lowered her head until their lips met.

He made a low sound of satisfaction.

She ran her tongue around his mouth, feeling his soft lips and the bristle of his mustache. He buried one big hand in the thickness of her hair, dislodging her scarf. But when his other hand reached for her breast she pulled away. “I have a gift for you,” she said.

“You have several,” he said in a voice thick with desire.

“I brought you a belt from Rouen with a lovely silver buckle, but it was stolen from me on the journey.”

“Where?” he said. “Where were you robbed?” He was responsible for law and order, she knew, and any theft reflected on him.