She turned to her group. “Take possession of those carts,” she ordered.

The sheriff nodded to his men-at-arms.

Their captain, Wigbert, was a small, wiry, mean-looking man with a temper as taut as a bowstring. His lieutenant was Godwine, tall and heavy. People were intimidated by Godwine’s size, but he was the friendlier of the two. Wigbert was the man to be scared of.

Wynstan said: “Those are my carts.”

Ragna said: “And you shall have them back—but not today.”

Wynstan’s companions were mostly servants, not men-at-arms, and they backed away from the carts as soon as Wigbert and Godwine approached them.

The villagers were still on their knees.

Wynstan said: “Wait! Are you going to be ruled by a mere woman?”

There was no response from the villagers. They were still on their knees, but kneeling was free. The real issue was not who they bowed to but who they paid rent to.

Ragna had an answer ready for Wynstan. “Don’t you know about the great princess Ethelfled, the daughter of King Alfred and lord of all Mercia?” she said. Aldred had told her that most people would have heard of this remarkable woman who had died only eighty years ago. “She was one of the greatest rulers England ever saw!”

Wynstan said: “She was English. You’re not.”

“But Bishop Wynstan, you negotiated my marriage contract. You arranged for me to be given the Vale of Outhen. When you were in Cherbourg, making arrangements with Count Hubert, did you not notice that you were in Normandy, dealing with a Norman nobleman for the hand of his Norman daughter?”

The crowd laughed, and Wynstan flushed with anger. “The people are used to paying their dues to me,” he said. “Father Draca will confirm that.” He looked hard at the village priest.

The man looked terrified. He managed to say: “What the bishop says is true.”

Ragna said: “Father Draca, who is the lord of the Vale of Outhenham?”

“My lady, I’m just a poor village priest—”

“But you know who is the lord of your village.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then answer the question.”

“My lady, we have been informed that you are now lord of Outhen.”

“And so the people owe their rents to whom?”

Draca mumbled: “You.”

“Louder, please, so that the villagers can hear you.”

Draca saw that he had no alternative. “They owe their rents to you, my lady.”

“Thank you.” She looked over the crowd, paused a moment, then said: “All stand.”

They got to their feet.

Ragna was satisfied. She had taken control. But it was not over yet.

She dismounted and went to the table. Everyone watched her silently, wondering what she would do next. “You’re Ithamar, aren’t you?” she said to Wynstan’s assistant. He stared at her anxiously. She snatched the parchment from his hand. Taken by surprise, he offered no resistance. The document specified, in Latin, what dues were payable by each man in the village, with many scribbled changes. It was old, and today’s tenants would be the sons and grandsons of those originally listed.