She wrapped her arms and legs around him and drew him deep inside her.

It was over quickly. He rolled off her and was asleep in seconds.

She lay watching him for a while. She liked the beard, but she knew he would shave it tomorrow, for English noblemen did not wear beards. She touched the new scar on his brow. It started at his right temple, at the hair line, and followed a jagged course to his left eyebrow. She ran her fingertip along it, and he stirred in his sleep. Another half inch . . . Some brave Welshman had done that, she guessed. He had probably died for it.

She poured a cup of wine and ate a morsel of cheese. She was content just to look at him and feel glad that he had come back to her alive. The Welsh were not very formidable fighters, but they were by no means helpless, and she was sure that some wives in the compound were now weeping at the news that their husbands were never coming home.

As soon as he woke up, they made love again. This time it was slower. He took off his clothes. She had time to relish every sensation, to rub her hands over his shoulders and his chest, to thrust her fingers into his hair and bite his lips.

When it was over, he said: “By the gods, I could eat an ox.”

“And I’ve roasted one for your dinner. But let me get you something for now.” She brought him wine and new bread and smoked eel, and he ate with relish.

Then he said: “I met Wynstan on the road.”

“Ah,” she said.

“He told me what happened at Outhenham.”

Ragna tensed. She had been expecting this. Wynstan was never going to take his defeat lying down. He would try to get revenge by causing trouble between her and Wilf. But she had not anticipated that Wynstan would be so quick off the mark. As soon as the messenger had arrived yesterday, Wynstan must have set out to meet Wilf, keen to get his side of the story in first, hoping to put Ragna on the defensive.

But she had her strategy ready. The whole thing had been Wynstan’s fault, not hers, and she was not going to make excuses for herself. She moved immediately to shift the ground of the discussion. “Don’t be angry with Wynstan,” she said. “There should be no rift between brothers.”

Wilf was not expecting that. “But Wynstan is angry with you,” he said.

“Of course. He tried to rob me while you were away, thinking to take advantage of me in your absence. But don’t worry, I prevented him.”

“Is that how it was?” Clearly Wilf had not previously looked at the incident as an attack by a powerful man on an undefended woman.

“He failed, and that made him cross. But I can deal with Wynstan, and I don’t want you to feel concerned about me. Don’t reprove him, please.”