'So your father sent Sigurd for the book and Mauger for you.'
'Yes,' Cynethryth said, 'but you did Mauger's job for him by keeping me in King Coenwulf's church. He just had to make sure your filthy heathens kept their hands off me.' She said it as though this task was easily within the Wessex warrior's capabilities and I wondered what he would have done if Svein or Bram or Black Floki had tried to have their fun with the girl.
'Well, he didn't do a very good job,' I said petulantly. 'Where was Mauger when Glum and his turds came for you in the middle of the night?' She frowned at that, which I took to mean she also wondered why Mauger had not woken to protect her.
'I can't believe he's gone,' she said then. 'It seems impossible. We were not close. Never.' She shook her head. 'My father says Mauger's a vicious man, that he loves his sword more than he loves any living soul. Can a man have such feelings for a piece of iron, Raven?' she asked, and my hand went instinctively to my sword's pommel, and that was enough of an answer because Cynethryth grimaced. 'Anyway, I expect he killed his share of Mercians that night in the charcoal pit. Father will miss him.' I remembered the sickness in my stomach at watching armed riders heading for Sigurd's camp. 'Mauger was the greatest warrior in all Wessex,' Cynethryth added almost proudly. My head was spinning as I tried to make sense of everything I had heard, though one piece still did not fit with the rest, like a knife rammed into the wrong sheath.
'Weohstan was your lover?' I asked accusingly. 'You were faithless, even on the night before you were supposed to be married to another? I saw you two holding hands outside the church.'
Now Cynethryth smiled bitterly and her eyes, the colour of ivy, filled with tears as she walked. 'He was my chaperon.' She cuffed an eye. 'Officially, anyway. In truth he was supposed to remain with King Coenwulf as surety against my father's attacking him.'
'So he was not your lover?' I said.
'Weohstan was my brother.'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WHEN WE REACHED THE WESTERN BANK OF THE SEVERN RIVER WE found a boatman and his simple son and the man offered to row us across the narrowest part in his leaky old skiff. He was not so keen when I told him we had no money, nor did he believe Cynethryth was the daughter of Ealdorman Ealdred of Wessex, but he did believe my sword looked wickedly sharp when I showed it to him, and we were soon in Wessex.
We passed through a small village where Cynethryth was known to the folk who lived there and they gave us some bread and cheese and smoked ham. The women clucked around her, horrified by her ragged looks. But they were wary of me and I did not blame them, for I wore all my war gear and carried the painted round shield and had not yet cleaned the blood from them. I was used to people staring at me, for my blood-eye had always inspired fear, and I suppose I had come to relish their fear. I have heard men say that to have a man's respect is a far greater prize than to have him fear you. This is untrue. Fear is what freezes your enemy's heart and keeps his sword in its scabbard. Fear is what makes a man fight alongside you when he might otherwise fight against you. Respect is like a bejewelled mead cup, or the stone-encrusted cover of a prayer book. It is an unnecessary luxury, so I let them fear me.
We had not long left the village when riders approached us across a wide meadow of milkwort and marsh marigolds, their shields slung casually across their backs and their spears resting across their saddles. When they were a hundred paces off, one of the riders raised his hand and the band formed a crescent which could easily close to make a ring of death if the leader gave the word.
'Lady Cynethryth?' one of them exclaimed, reining in his stallion, which tossed its black head bad-temperedly. 'Is that you?' She had washed her face, but her long tunic was ragged, a Norseman had taken her fine brooch and a Welshman had taken her cloak. Though an old woman had combed the knots from her hair, it was still a filthy yellow rather than bright gold.
'Of course it's me, Burgred!' Cynethryth replied sternly, rubbing his mount's nose and calming the beast. 'Are you going to sit up there staring like a beady-eyed chicken? Give me your horse, man. My shoes are full of holes.'
'Of course, my lady,' Burgred said gruffly, seemingly irritated that his stallion was nuzzling Cynethryth's cupped hand. He gestured for one of the other men to give up his mount.
'And is my companion to walk, by Christ?' Cynethryth asked, pointing at me. 'He's weary from killing Welshmen.' The Wessexmen looked at me suspiciously, at my blood-eye and the raven's wing in my hair, then one of them grudgingly slipped from his mount and handed me the reins. So I rode back to the place where Norsemen had died, where I had fought with Sigurd's Wolfpack, and where our futures had been struck like silver coins: Ealdorman Ealdred's hall. And I rode with his daughter Cynethryth and the holy gospel book of Saint Jerome.