Den said briskly: “Your horses will be ready at first light.”

“Thank you,” Ragna said. Some of the English were decent folk and others were pigs, she reflected; perhaps it was the same everywhere. “You’ve probably saved my life.”

“I’m doing what I believe the king would wish,” he said, then he added: “And I’m glad to help you.” He looked at the two of them with a faint smile. “I’ll leave you to make final arrangements.” He went out.

Ragna’s heart beat faster. She had seldom been alone with Edgar—so seldom in fact that she could clearly recall each occasion. The first had been five years ago at Dreng’s Ferry when he had rowed her across to Leper Island. She remembered the darkness, the patter of the rain falling on the surface of the river, and the warmth of his strong arms as he carried her from the boat through the shallows to dry land. The second had been four years later, at Outhenham, in his house at the quarry, when she had kissed him, and he had almost died of embarrassment. And the third time had been at Dreng’s Ferry, when he had showed her the box he had made for the book she had given him, and she had as good as admitted that his love comforted her.

This was the fourth time.

She said: “Everything is ready.” She meant for the escape.

“Here, too.” He looked ill at ease.

“Relax,” she said. “I’m not going to bite you.”

He gave a sheepish grin. “Worse luck.”

Looking at him in the dim light, she wanted nothing more than to take him in her arms. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. She stepped closer. “I’ve realized something,” she said.

“What?”

“We’re not friends.”

He understood right away. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re something else entirely.”

She put her hands on his cheeks, feeling the soft hair of his beard. “Such a good face,” she said. “Strong, intelligent, and kind.”

He dropped his eyes.

She said: “Am I embarrassing you?”

“Yes, but don’t stop.”

She thought of Wilwulf, and wondered how she could have loved a warrior. It had been a girlish love, she thought. What she was feeling now was grown-up desire. But she could not say any of that, so she kissed him instead.

It was a long, soft kiss, their lips exploring gently. She stroked his cheeks and his hair, and she felt his hands on her waist. After a long minute she broke the kiss, panting. “Oh, my,” she said. “Can I have some more of that?”

“As much as you like,” he said. “I’ve been saving it up.”

She felt guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“That you waited so long. Five years.”

“I’d have waited ten.”

Tears came to her eyes. “I don’t deserve such love.”

“Yes, you do.”

She longed to do something to please him. She said: “Do you like my breasts?”

“Yes. That’s why I’ve been staring at them all these years.”