I have never known my age, but I guessed that Weohstan was two or three years older than me. His mail was well crafted and his movements were assured. He wore his dark hair cropped short and he was handsome enough to make me conscious of my own broken nose and red eye. His shoulders were broad and his arms were thick, and his eyes were full of hatred. There was little doubt he was a warrior and even less doubt he would cut my throat given half a chance. Cynethryth was about my age, a girl just become a woman. Golden-haired and green-eyed Cynethryth. Bjarni said she was too thin and Bjorn mumbled that he had seen bigger tits on a dormouse. Perhaps her nose was strong for a woman and her eyes a little too far apart. But she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and that day, as I walked beside her, I cursed under my breath because I had terrified her and now she must hate me. More than once she glanced at me, but always looked away the moment our eyes met, and I believed she saw me as an unfeeling, wild creature. It was nothing new. Sigurd believed my blood-eye marked me as a favourite of Óðin, and that had certainly saved my life. But to a good Christian girl I was a lost soul. I was something hateful that belonged to Satan.
That night, we rested just long enough to eat a meal of dried fish, cheese and some rich smoked meats meant for Coenwulf's table, for though we had gained the safety of thick forest, Mauger assured us that the Mercian king had not held his throne by keeping his sword sheathed. 'His dogs will be on our scent, Sigurd, don't you doubt it,' he had warned the jarl. 'We'll be looking over our shoulders till we make Wessex and even then it might not be ended. Not if Coenwulf believes King Egbert's behind all this.'
'If he finds us, he finds us,' Sigurd had replied loud enough for all to hear. 'We will see who is the hunter and who is the prey.'
There was no fire, no singing, and no fighting. Just forty-five men, a monk, and one young woman taking their food, resting their sore feet, and expecting at any moment Sigurd to give the word to set off once more. None complained that we would be marching through the night, for every step southwards took the Norsemen closer to their beloved longships. As they sat, their hands clenched and unclenched, hard, calloused palms eager to grip the oar again, even their soft beards longed for the salt of the ocean to encrust them.
'I swear I'd sooner row to Asgard itself than walk another mile!' Svein the Red hollered, rubbing the life back into his tired feet.
'I'll remind you of that next time Sigurd gathers a crew to row him to the home of the gods, you red-bearded brute,' Olaf mumbled, happily munching on a honeyed oatcake. He had found a dozen or more freshly baked beside a Mercian hearth. He had also found the woman who made them.
'Toss me one of those and I'll tug the All-Father's beard when we get there,' Svein said, grinning. He caught an oatcake and spent the next while sniffing it and making a low rumbling sound, which I took to be contentment. Olaf grinned and shook his head. The deal was made and Svein seemed happy with the terms.
I wondered if our prisoners felt the same stunned sickness I had felt when I had left Abbotsend burning behind me – when I had seen through smoke-stung eyes people I had known lying torn and bloodless. I watched the prisoners and they watched us, their jaws clenched in hatred and their eyes sometimes fearful, other times fierce with hope of vengeance, as though they believed their god would strike us down with spears of lightning.
Father Egfrith was sitting with them, soothing Cynethryth with words I could not hear, when Weohstan caught my eye. 'Loosen Cynethryth's bonds, heathen,' he demanded suddenly. There was no fear in his voice. 'The rope is too tight. It's hurting her.'
I stood and went over to them. The skin of Cynethryth's wrists was raw and her hands were blue from lack of blood. I took my knife and cut the rope and when it was done she spat in my face. Weohstan grinned sourly as I wiped the spit with the back of my hand.
'She'll not make a good wife, Raven,' Bram warned. 'You'd do better to marry your own right hand, lad.'
Glum wiggled a finger on his remaining hand at me. 'That English bitch would cut off your worm while you slept and you'd wake up choking on it,' he said with a grimace.
I was glad Cynethryth did not understand the Norsemen, for I was still in spitting range. 'I'm sorry for what happened to your people,' I said to the girl, ignoring Weohstan. 'That old grey-beard could have saved his people. We only came for the book.'
'That old grey-beard was my friend,' Weohstan spat, 'and his name was Aelfwald. He would rather open his own gut with a dull blade than allow a heathen to get anywhere near the gospels of Saint Jerome.'