When Lord Ealdred saw me with Cynethryth his face darkened and his mouth twitched beneath his long sandcoloured moustache. He looked towards the fortress gate, no doubt wondering where the other Norsemen were, then threw his cloak over his shoulder and took Cynethryth in his arms, watching me suspiciously over her head.
Cynethryth tugged her father's moustache affectionately, but Ealdred pulled away and eyed me for a while, and there was distrust in those eyes.
'Come, daughter,' he said, then nodded to me and turned towards his hall, leaving his slaves and retainers hurrying about the place, organizing an impromptu feast to celebrate Cynethryth's safe return.
After telling of what had befallen the Wolfpack, Cynethryth told her father about Weohstan, and tears fell amongst the rushes as she spoke. Ealdred's face seemed to melt like tallow, though his jaw remained clenched so that the muscle in his cheek twitched like an insect trapped beneath the skin. He turned from Cynethryth and bellowed in fury, frightening the slaves, who cowered and hurried out of the hall to find other jobs to do.
'If not for Raven I would be dead too, Father,' Cynethryth said, taking Ealdred's hands in her own. Ealdred suddenly glared at me and his eyes were cold and hard like river stones.
'You fought alongside my son?' he asked, his hand pulling away from Cynethryth to rest on his sword's pommel.
'Yes, my lord,' I replied. 'Weohstan fought like Beowulf himself. Killed more of the whoresons than I did. We would both be dead if not for him.'
Ealdred's eyes flickered with pride, then he stood silently, staring at me as though he did not know whether to embrace me or cut my throat. Eventually, he nodded.
'I owe you a great debt, Norseman,' he said with a scowl, twisting his moustache round his finger. 'My daughter is very precious to me.' He turned and gave Cynethryth a smile that held both grief and love. 'Very precious,' he repeated. Then his face darkened again. 'But I had an agreement with your Jarl Sigurd and he has failed to honour it.' Slowly, as though he bore a great weight across his shoulders, he sat on one of the long mead benches beside the great hearth.
'No, lord,' I said, stepping forward to place the sack containing the holy book on the oak table. I glanced about the hall for signs of the bitter fight, but saw none other than the new door of pale oak which stood out against the dark stained wood of the rest of the hall. The White Christ hangings still swayed in the breeze and there might have been a dark bloodstain above the god's thorn-crowned head.
Ealdred's eyes flicked from me to Cynethryth, and then to the sack, which he stared at for some time. Eventually, his shaking hands touched the drawstring and his fingers began to work feverishly on the knot. 'It cannot be . . .' he mumbled, his long moustache quivering, 'it is not possible . . .' But it was possible, and Lord Ealdred of Wessex roared for someone to bring him a torch to illuminate one of the greatest treasures in Christendom. He held the book at arm's length as though fearful of it, then with a finger stroked the inlaid cross of fine gold within the book's silver cover, lingering on the precious red and green stones set in each corner. 'Beautiful,' he whispered, shaking his head in awe. 'So beautiful.'
Cynethryth stood behind her father, looking over his shoulder, and I dared step closer to the holy book, though I admit I was afraid of it. The cover alone would fetch a fortune, but that was not the source of its power. Just to witness its hold over Lord Ealdred was enough to remind me never to touch the thing again. I was no Christian. I told myself that whatever magic lay within its vellum leaves had no hold over me. And yet Father Egfrith, Ealdred, Weohstan, Cynethryth, King Coenwulf of Mercia, and even King Egbert of Wessex all coveted the book. I had learned always to be wary of that which inspires men. Even fools who pray to a god of peace will fight with their last breath for the mysteries scratched in ink on a dried calf's skin. They will kill with a war god's fury for words.
Ealdred turned the stiff pages, his eyes hungry for every swirling pattern, every elaborate knot of green, purple, blue, and gold adorning them. Some of the patterns formed writhing beasts like those carved on to the prows of Sigurd's longships, and I did not know if they had words inside them too, or whether it was only the small black shapes that spoke to those who knew their magic. 'Cynethryth, go and let the women tend to you,' Ealdred said, tearing his gaze from the book. 'Your mother would roll in her grave to see you in such a state.'
'Don't be silly, Father,' she replied, beginning to plait her dirty hair. 'I'll wash later. I want to stay with you and Raven. Besides, you always adored Mother's hair when it was wild and untamed.'