“He’s very fond of his mother.”

“How nice.”

Ragna showed her the shawl. “She embroidered this for me.”

Genevieve took the shawl and admired it. “So kind of her.”

Ragna could hold out no longer. “Oh, mother, I don’t like him.”

Genevieve made an exasperated noise. “Give him a chance, won’t you?”

“I’ve tried, I really have.”

“What’s wrong with him, for goodness’ sake?”

“He wants me to be in charge of fabrics.”

“Well, naturally, when you’re the countess. You don’t think he should sew his own clothes, do you?”

“He’s prissy.”

“No, he’s not. You imagine things. He’s perfectly all right.”

“I wish I were dead.”

“You’ve got to stop pining for that big Englishman. He was completely unsuitable, and anyway, he’s gone.”

“More’s the pity.”

Genevieve turned around to face Ragna. “Now listen to me. You can’t remain unmarried much longer. It will begin to look permanent.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“Don’t even say that. There’s no place for a single noblewoman. She’s no use, but she still requires gowns and jewels and horses and servants, and her father gets tired of paying out and getting nothing back. What’s more, the married women hate her, because they think she wants to steal their husbands.”

“I could become a nun.”

“I doubt that. You’ve never been particularly devout.”

“Nuns sing and read and take care of sick people.”

“And sometimes they have loving relationships with other nuns, but I don’t think that’s your inclination. I remember that wicked girl from Paris, Constance, but you didn’t really like her.”

Ragna blushed. She had had no idea that her mother knew about her and Constance. They had kissed and touched each other’s breasts and watched each other masturbate, but Ragna’s heart had not been in it, and eventually Constance had turned her attention to another girl. How much had Genevieve guessed?

Anyway, mother’s instinct was right: a love affair with a woman was never going to be what made Ragna happy.

“So,” Genevieve resumed, “Guillaume is probably an advantageous choice at this point.”

An advantageous choice, thought Ragna; I wanted a romance that would make my heart sing, but what I’ve got is an advantageous choice.

All the same, she thought she would have to marry him.

In a somber mood she left her mother. She passed through the great hall and went out into the sunshine, hoping that might cheer her up.

At the gate of the compound was a small group of visitors, presumably off one of the two ships she had seen approaching earlier. At the center of the group was a nobleman with a mustache but no beard, presumably an Englishman, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought it was Wilwulf. He was tall and fair, with a big nose and a strong jaw, and there flashed into her mind an entire fantasy in which Wilwulf had come back to marry her and take her away. But a moment later she realized that this man’s head was tonsured, and he wore the long black robe of a clergyman; and as he drew nearer she saw that his eyes were closer together, his ears were huge, and although he might have been younger than Wilwulf his face was already lined. He walked differently, too: where Wilwulf was confident, this man was arrogant.