Ragna walked along the lines, finding the sight dispiriting. People said that slaves had done something to deserve their fate, and perhaps it was true sometimes, but not always. What crime could adolescent boys and girls have committed to deserve to be turned into prostitutes?

Slaves did whatever they were told, but they generally performed their tasks as badly as they could get away with; and since they had to be fed and housed and given minimal clothing, they were in the end not much cheaper than the lowest-paid laborers. However, the financial aspect did not trouble Ragna as much as the spiritual. Owning a person had to be bad for the soul. Cruelty was normal: there were laws about ill-treatment of slaves, but they were feebly enforced and the punishments were mild. To be able to beat or rape or even murder someone brought out the very worst in human nature.

As she scanned the faces in the square she recognized Garulf’s friend Stigand, with whom she had clashed over the ball game. He made a bow, too exaggerated to be sincere but not rude enough to merit a protest. She ignored him and looked at his three captives.

She was startled to realize that she knew one of them.

The girl was about fifteen. She had the black hair and blue eyes typical of Welsh people: the Bretons on the other side of the Channel were similar. She might have been pretty with the dirt washed off her face. She stared back, and her look of vulnerability imperfectly masked by defiance jogged Ragna’s memory. “You’re the girl from Dreng’s Ferry.”

The captive said nothing.

Ragna remembered her name. “Blod.”

She remained silent, but her expression softened.

Ragna lowered her voice so that Stiggy could not hear. “They said you had escaped. You must have been captured a second time.” That was remarkably bad luck, she thought, and she felt a warm surge of compassion for someone who had suffered that fate twice.

She remembered more. “I heard that Dreng—” She realized what she was about to say and stopped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Blod knew what Ragna had hesitated to say. “Dreng killed my baby.”

“I’m so sorry. Did no one help you?”

“Edgar jumped in the river to rescue the baby, but couldn’t find him in the dark.”

“I know Edgar. He’s a good man.”

“The only decent Englishman I ever met,” said Blod bitterly.

Ragna saw a certain look in her eye. “Did you fall in love with him?”

“He loves someone else.”

“Sungifu.”

Blod gave Ragna an enigmatic look but said nothing.

Ragna said: “The one the Vikings killed.”

“Yes, her.” Blod looked anxiously around the square.

“I suppose you’re worried about who might buy you this time.”

“I’m frightened of Dreng.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s not in town. He would have come to see me. He likes to pretend we’re family.” Across the square, Ragna noticed Bishop Wynstan with his bodyguard, Cnebba. “But there are other cruel men.”