In the morning he told the monks he was staying.

Wigelm came to Ragna’s bed on a warm spring night when the trees were in bud. The opening of the door awakened her and her servants. She heard the maids shift in the rushes on the floor, and Grimweald, her bodyguard, grunted, but the children remained asleep.

With no forewarning she did not have the chance to oil herself. Wigelm lay beside her and pushed her shift up around her waist. She hastily spat on her hand and moistened her vagina, then opened her legs obediently.

She was resigned to this. It happened only a few times a year. She just hoped she would not become pregnant again. She loved Alain, but she did not want another child by Wigelm.

But this time it was different. Wigelm shoved in and out but seemed unable to reach satisfaction. She did nothing to help him. She knew from female conversations that when there was no love, other women often pretended to be aroused, just to get it over faster; but she could not bring herself to play that role.

Soon his erection softened. After a few more hopeless thrusts he withdrew. “You’re a cold bitch,” he said, and punched her face. She sobbed, expecting a beating and knowing that her bodyguard would do nothing to protect her; but Wigelm stood up and went out.

In the morning the left side of her face was swollen and her upper lip felt huge. She told herself it could have been worse.

Wigelm came into the house when the children were having their breakfast. She noticed that his big nose was now marked with wine-colored lines like a red spiderweb from drinking so much, an ugly feature she had not seen last night in the firelight.

He looked at her and said: “I should have punched the other side to match.”

A sarcastic remark came to her mind but she suppressed it. She sensed that he was in a dangerous mood. She felt a cold dread: perhaps her punishment was not over. She spoke in a neutral tone through her damaged mouth. “What do you want, Wigelm?”

“I don’t like the way you’re raising Alain.”

This was an old song, but she heard a new level of malice in his tone. She said: “He’s only two and a half years old—still a baby. There’s plenty of time for him to learn to fight.”

Wigelm shook his head determinedly. “You want to give him womanish ways—reading and writing and such.”

“King Ethelred can read.”

Wigelm refused to be drawn into an argument. “I’m going to take charge of the boy’s upbringing.”

What could that mean? Ragna said desperately: “I’ll get him a wooden sword.”

“I don’t trust you.”

Much of what Wigelm said could normally be ignored. He uttered abuse and curses that meant little, and forgot what he had said within minutes. But now Ragna had a feeling that he was not just making empty threats. In a scared voice she said: “What do you mean?”