It was like the sun coming from behind a cloud. He felt short of breath, as if he had been running uphill. She smiled, and he was the happiest man on earth.

She looked around his house, and suddenly he saw it through her eyes: the neat rack of tools on the wall, the small wine barrel and cheese safe, the cooking pot over the fire giving off a pleasant herby odor, Brindle wagging a greeting.

She pointed to the box on the table. “That’s beautiful,” she said. Edgar had made it, and carved a design of interlocking serpents to symbolize wisdom. “What do you keep in such a lovely container?” she asked.

“Something precious. A gift from you.” He lifted the lid.

Inside was a small book called Enigmata, a collection of riddles in poem form, a favorite of Ragna’s. She had given it to him when he learned to read. “I didn’t know you made a special box for it,” she said. “How nice.”

“I must be the only builder in England who owns a book.”

She gave him that smile again and said: “God didn’t make two like you, Edgar.”

He felt warm all over.

She said: “I’m so sorry about the burning of the bridge! I’m sure Wynstan had something to do with it.”

“I agree.”

“Can you rebuild it?”

“Yes, but what’s the point? It could be burned down again. He got away with it once, he may do so again.”

“I suppose so.”

Edgar was sick of talking about the bridge. To change the subject he asked her: “How are you?”

She seemed about to make a conventional reply, then appeared to change her mind. “To tell you the truth, I’m utterly miserable.”

Edgar was taken aback. It was an intimate confession. He said: “I’m so sorry. What’s happened?”

“Wilwulf doesn’t love me, and I’m not sure he ever did, not as I understand love.”

“But . . . you seemed so fond of each other.”

“Oh, he couldn’t get enough of me for a while, but that wore off. He treats me like one of his men friends now. He hasn’t come to my bed for a year.”

Edgar could not help feeling glad about that. It was an unworthy thought, and he hoped it did not show on his face.

Ragna appeared not to notice. “He prefers his slave girl at night,” she said with contempt in her voice. “She’s fourteen years old.”

Edgar wanted to express the sympathy he was feeling, but it was difficult to find words. “That’s shameful,” he said.

She let her anger show. “And it’s not what we promised when we made our vows! I never agreed to this kind of marriage.”

He wanted to keep her talking because he yearned to know more. “How do you feel about Wilf now?”

“For a long time I tried to go on loving him, hoped to win him back, dreamed that he would tire of others. But now something else has happened. The head injury he suffered last year has damaged his mind. The man I married is gone. Half the time I’m not sure he even remembers that he’s married to me. He treats me more like a mother.” Her eyes filled with tears.