At the end of her peregrination she saw Wilf talking to the woman in the red shoes.

Something about them arrested her. She stopped and watched them from a distance. They were lit by the wavering light of the torch outside Wilf’s door.

There was no reason why they should not talk: Inge was a kind of sister-in-law to Wilf, and they might be innocently fond of each other. All the same, Ragna was taken aback by the intimacy suggested by their bodies: they stood close, and she touched him several times, casually gripping his forearm to make a point, rapping his chest with the back of her hand in a dismissive gesture as if telling him not to be so foolish, and once, putting the tip of her forefinger on his cheek affectionately.

Ragna could not move, could not tear her gaze away.

Then she saw the boy Wilf had kissed. He was young, with no beard, and though tall he gave the impression of being not quite full grown, as if the long limbs and wide shoulders had not yet knit together into a man’s body. He joined Wilf and Inge, and the three talked for a minute with relaxed familiarity.

These people have clearly been part of my husband’s life for many years, Ragna thought; how come I have no idea who they are?

Finally they split up, still without noticing her. Wilf headed for the stable, no doubt to make sure the grooms had taken care of his horse. Inge and the boy went into the house Ragna had agreed to allocate to Wigelm, Milly, and Inge.

Ragna could not live in doubt and suspense any longer, but still she was unwilling to confront Wilf. So who could she talk to?

There was really only one possibility: Gytha.

She hated the thought. She would be revealing her ignorance, showing herself weak, and giving Gytha the position of the wise, knowing one—just when Gytha seemed to be accepting that she was no longer the ruler of Wilf’s home.

But who else was there? Wynstan would be worse than Gytha. Aldred would be at prayers now. She did not know Sheriff Den well enough. She could not sink so low as to ask Gilda the kitchen maid.

She went to Gytha’s house.

She was glad to find Gytha alone. Gytha offered her a cup of wine, and Ragna took it, needing courage. They sat on stools near the fire, facing each other. Gytha looked wary, but Ragna sensed something else: Gytha knew why Ragna had come, knew the questions she was going to ask, and had been waiting for this moment.

Ragna swallowed a mouthful of wine and tried to assume a casual tone of voice. “I noticed a newcomer in the compound, an adolescent boy, about sixteen, tall.”

Gytha nodded. “That would be Garulf.”

“Who is he, and what is he doing here?”

Gytha smiled, and Ragna saw with horror that the smile was loaded with malice. Gytha said: “Garulf is Wilf’s son.”