Throughout the meal she talked in her usual way, asking the people around her what they had done that morning, joking with the men and gossiping with the women. She caught several looking at her in surprise: they would be the ones who knew what a shock she had suffered yesterday. They expected her to be grief-stricken. She was grief-stricken, but she was hiding it.

Afterward, she left with Wilf and walked by his side to his house. As usual, he needed little encouragement to make love to her. She began by pretending her usual enthusiasm, but soon found pretence unnecessary, and in the end was almost as satisfied as normal.

All the same, she had forgotten nothing.

When he rolled off her, she did not let him fall into his habitual doze. “I didn’t know you had a son,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice.

She felt his body tense beside her, but he made his voice casual. “Yes,” he said. “Garulf.”

“And I didn’t know that Inge was still alive.”

“I never said she was dead,” he shot back. It sounded like a rehearsed answer he had been holding in readiness.

Ragna ignored it. She did not want to get into a pointless argument about whether she had been lied to or merely told less than the whole truth. She said: “I want to know all about you.”

He was watching her warily. Clearly he was not sure what she was up to. He was asking himself whether to prepare himself to be berated or get ready to make excuses.

Let him wonder, she thought. She was not going to accuse him, but she did not mind if his conscience made him uncomfortable. “Your ways aren’t the same as those of the Normans,” she said. “I should ask you more questions.”

He could not object to that. “All right.” He seemed relieved, as if he had feared worse.

“I do not want to be surprised again,” she said, and she heard the hardness in her own voice.

He was clearly not sure how to take this. She guessed that he was expecting rage, or tears, but this was different, and he had no response ready. He looked bewildered and said simply: “I see.”

In the last few hours her anxieties had resolved into two burning questions, and she decided to ask them now. She felt he would be eager to give her what she wanted.

Ragna clasped her hands together to stop them shaking. “I have a couple of things to ask you right now.”

“Go ahead.”

“Where is Inge from? What’s her background?”

“Her father was a priest. In fact he was secretary to my father.”

Ragna could easily imagine the scenario: the children of two men who worked closely together, the son of one and the daughter of the other, spending much time in each other’s company, an adolescent romance, perhaps an unintended pregnancy, finally an early marriage. “So Inge does not have noble blood.”

“No.”