He relived every minute: the kiss; her taking off her dress; her breasts; the way she had kissed his cock, lightly, affectionately, almost in passing; her telling him to open his eyes and look at her. Had two people ever enjoyed each other so intensely? Had two people ever loved each other so much?

Well, probably, he thought, but perhaps not very many.

With his head full of the most pleasant thoughts, he drifted off to sleep.

The monastery bell woke him. His first thought was: Did I really make love to Ragna? His second: Am I late?

Yes, he had made love to her, and no, he was not late. The monks got up an hour before dawn. He had plenty of time.

He and Ragna had not thought beyond the next two days. They would get out of Shiring, they would travel to Dreng’s Ferry, Ragna would take refuge in the nunnery, and then they would think about the future. But now he could not help speculating.

The social distance between them was not as great as it had been. Edgar was a prosperous craftsman, an important man in both Dreng’s Ferry and Outhenham. Ragna was a noblewoman, but a widow, and her financial resources were under attack by Wynstan. The gap was smaller—but still too large. Edgar saw no way out of this, but he was not going to let that spoil his happiness today.

He found Sheriff Den in the kitchen, breakfasting off cold beef and ale. Edgar was too tense and excited to feel hungry, but he made himself eat something: he might need his strength.

Den looked through the door up at the sky and said: “It’s getting light.”

Edgar frowned. It was not like Ragna to be late for anything.

He went to the stable. The grooms were saddling three horses, for Ragna, Cat, and Agnes, and loading a packhorse with panniers for the supplies. Edgar saddled Buttress.

Den appeared and said: “Everything is ready—except for Ragna.”

“I’ll go to her,” said Edgar.

He hurried through the town. Dawn was brightening and smoke rose from a bakery, but he did not see anyone on his way to the ealdorman’s compound.

Sometimes the gate entrance was barred and guarded, but not now: this year there was a truce with the Vikings, and the Welsh were going through a dormant phase. He opened the gate quietly. The compound was silent.

He walked quickly toward Ragna’s house. He knocked sharply on the door then tried the handle. It was not barred from the inside. He opened the door and stepped inside.

There was no one there.

He frowned, suddenly terribly fearful. What could have happened?

There were no lights. He peered into the gloom. A mouse scampered across the hearth: it must be cold. As his eyes grew accustomed to the faint light from the open doorway, he saw that most of Ragna’s possessions were here—dresses hanging from pegs, cheese box and meat safe, cups and bowls—but the children’s cots had gone.