“Still . . .” Wigelm lowered his voice, even though the room was empty but for the two of them. “To kill a brother!”

“What needs to be done must be done.”

“We can’t,” said Wigelm. “It’s out of the question. Think of something else. You’re the great thinker.”

“And I think you’ll hate it when you’re replaced as reeve of Combe by someone who hands over taxes to the ealdorman without skimming a fifth off the top.”

“Would Ragna replace me?”

“In a heartbeat. She’d have done it already, except that no one would believe Wilf had agreed to it. Once he’s gone . . .”

Wigelm looked thoughtful again. “King Ethelred wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Why not?” said Wynstan. “He did the same thing himself.”

“I’ve heard some such story.”

“Twenty-four years ago, Ethelred’s older half brother, Edward, was king. Ethelred was living with his mother, Elfryth, who was stepmother to the king. Edward went to visit them and was murdered by their men-at-arms. Ethelred was crowned the following year.”

“Ethelred must have been about twelve years old.”

Wynstan shrugged. “Young? Yes. Innocent? God knows.”

Wigelm made a skeptical face. “We can’t kill Wilf. He has a squad of bodyguards, commanded by Bern the Giant, who is a Norman and a longtime servant of Ragna’s.”

One day, Wynstan thought, I won’t be here to do all the thinking for my family. I wonder if then they will just stand still and do nothing, like an ox team when the ploughman walks away.

He said: “The killing itself is easy. It’s the management of the aftermath we have to worry about. We’ll need to move into action the minute he’s dead, while Ragna is still stunned with shock. We don’t want to eliminate Wilf only to find that she takes charge anyway. We have to become masters of Shiring before she recovers her composure.”

“How do we do that?”

“We need a plan.”

Ragna was not sure about the feast.

Gytha had come to her with a reasonable request. “We should celebrate Wilf’s recovery,” she said. “Let everyone know that he’s fit and well again.”

He was not, of course, but the pretence was important. However, Ragna did not like him to drink to excess: he became even more fuddled than a normal drunk. “What kind of celebration?” she said, prevaricating.

“A feast,” said Gytha. “The way he likes,” she added pointedly. “With dancing girls, not poets.”

He was entitled to some fun, Ragna thought guiltily. “And a juggler,” she said. “And a jester, perhaps?”

“I knew you’d agree,” Gytha said quickly, nailing it down.

“I have to leave for Sherborne on the first day of July,” Ragna said. “Let’s do it on the night before.”

That morning she made her plans and packed her bags. She was ready to depart next day, but first she had to sit through tonight’s feast.

Gytha donated a barrel of mead to the festivities. Made from fermented honey, mead was both sweet and strong, and men could get drunk on it quickly. Ragna would have forbidden it if she had been asked, but now she did not want to seem a killjoy, so she made no objection. She could do no more than hope that Wilf would not drink too much. She spoke to Bern and ordered him to remain sober, so that he could look after Wilf if necessary.