Northwic, 872

First there was silence.

Then came the laughter.

It was a nasty sound, mirthless and tinged with scorn. Oswald's hands tightened at his sides, and he inhaled sharply, trying to straighten his spine. The Danes could not stop laughing—except for Finnr and Valdis, who evidently saw no humour in the situation.

"I will be king," Oswald said, once the wolves were done with their mockery. "I am of an illustrious lineage, kin to the saintly King Aethelbert, just as Edmund was. My mother was a daughter of the Wuffingas, who were themselves descended from old Woden. My lands in Norfulc are bountiful and prosperous. Why would I not be a good candidate?"

Again, his words were met with roaring laughter. Despite this, Oswald managed to hold on to his glare—through what miracle, he could not tell. Eventually, Finnr motioned at him with his chin. Oswald kept his head up high as he followed the steward to Aethelred's old chambers. Valdis came with them; once they were inside, she leaned on a wooden pillar with her arms crossed, the perfect picture of indifference.

Finnr groaned, passing both hands over his face. "Are you sure you know what you are doing, lad? You don't look like you know what you are doing."

"What do I look like, pray tell?" Oswald said.

"Like a green boy who has spent too much of his life hiding behind more experienced men." Finnr's face twisted into a disdainful scowl. "Though, from what Aethelred told me of East Anglian lineages, you really are the only suitable candidate."

"Then—"

"That does not mean Halfdan's people will embrace you," Finnr said. "They loathed that fool Aethelred, and he was a man, not some boy barely off his mother's teat."

"I am about to see my twenty-third winter. I'm not a child." And yet, Oswald thought with some embarrassment, why do I sound so petulant?

Finnr made a face. "Ech. Really? With those beardless cheeks, I was thinking… you mean to tell me that you keep that fresh-faced boy look on purpose?"

"There must be a way to make them see sense," Oswald said, ignoring that last barb. "To make them accept my claim."

"They didn't laugh because they enjoyed the sharpness of your wit, little lord," Finnr said. "It would take… what is it that you Christians are so fond of saying? A miracle? Aye, it would take them a miracle to have them accept you as king."

Oswald stifled another curse, turning toward Valdis. She had not uttered a sound so far, though it was evident from the intense look on her face that she was deep in thought. Oswald met her eyes, and she frowned. He remembered Aethelred's words…

"Finnr," Oswald croaked, heart slightly pounding at the absurd idea now seizing him, "how do your people usually forge the bonds of an alliance?"

Finnr tugged at his beard. "Through the bartering of favours, for one. Or the exchange of riches."

"What about… marriage? It's often done, here in England."

Valdis's eyebrows shot up her forehead, and she looked at Oswald in surprise.

"It is the same for our culture, yes," Finnr said, with a shrug. "It's why Halfdan wanted—" He stopped with a sputter, looking at Valdis and Oswald in quick succession. "No… surely, you don't mean…"

Oswald swallowed nervously, now addressing Valdis, "Would you consider it, my lady? Would you marry me, even though I am not a Dane?" Even though I am a weak-willed follower of Christ… "In exchange, you would gain a crown, and your clan would have legitimacy over the lands of East Anglia. It would be a union of our two powers, just as Halfdan Ragnarsson intended."

To say Valdis seemed taken aback would have put it mildly. Oswald would have fallen to his knees to declare his fervent passion, and he was sure she wouldn't have looked so shocked.

"I…" she began, with uncertainty, "I think…"

"If you wish for some time to think it over, I understand," Oswald said. Despite the terror currently gripping his insides, he managed a genuine smile. If this woman was to be his wife, then she deserved all the kindness he could muster, didn't she? "I would not want to rush you, especially for such an important and delicate matter. Take all the time you need, truly."

Again, Valdis's face showed unusual surprise. Then, that emotion was gone, and she said, in a detached tone, "It's a sensible arrangement. Yes, Oswald of Elmenham, I will marry you."

Finnr huffed out a laugh of relief, and he clapped his hands. "Good! Finally! I was starting to think that every poor fool on this thrice-cursed island also ends up suffering a leave of their senses! Halfdan will be pleased to—"

He was interrupted by an angry exclamation. One of the red-haired men was stomping his way into Aethelred's old chambers, blue eyes blazing at Oswald. His brother closely followed him, face twisted in fury as well.

Valdis made a noise of irritation. "Now, you two choose to eavesdrop? Of all the time to—"

The red-haired warrior went on another tirade, angrily pointing at Oswald. Valdis dragged him away. "Broder," she hissed, giving the man a murderous look.

"What is he saying?" Oswald asked Finnr. In his anger, the man had been speaking too fast for Oswald to understand.

"I'm saying," the man answered in Saxon, "that Fimbulvinter will come before I'll allow you to fuck our sister, sheepherder!"

"What?" Oswald's mind was disturbingly blank. "Why would I—" He inhaled sharply. These two were Valdis's brothers, the ones Aethelred had warned him about. Oswald had gone behind their backs by proposing this marriage alliance directly to Valdis, shaming these two proud roosters in the process.

"Well, at least the groom is around her age this time," Finnr commented with a shrug. "Valdis, you are pleased with this match, are you not?"

Valdis shrugged. "Neither of us have much choice in the matter."

Oswald felt as she had just struck him. Her cold, indifferent tone was worse than her brothers' anger. He had known from an early age that he would find a bride through an arranged marriage. Still, he had always hoped to find a wife who would grow to care for him—a good Christian woman with whom he could raise a family. Now, Oswald realized, he would be married to someone who would disdain him at best, despise him at worst.

Of course, that only mattered if he lived long enough to be wed in the first place…

"The matter should be resolved as quickly as possible," Valdis continued. "We have more pressing issues, namely Rued and his—"

"You've got balls bartering our sister's hand like that, old man!" her other brother shouted at Finnr, completely ignoring her intervention. "Last I checked, you've sired none of us!"

"Brothir," Valdis snapped, "now is not the time to have a pissing contest at my expense."

"Go back to Halfdan," the one named Broder told the steward, "and tell him no good is going to come from sitting a Saxon arse on the throne! No drengr worth his salt is going to fight for this Christian whelp, not one!"

Finnr raised a thick grey eyebrow. "Go to Jorvik and tell him yourself, boy. I'm sure he'll be glad to hear how you'd rule in his stead."

Broder sputtered, obviously stung. He and his brother spat more insults at the old man before storming out of the king's quarters. Valdis rolled her eyes as she followed after them.

"Lord," Oswald whispered. "What have I done?"

"What needed to be done," Finnr said. "Though it's a shame that it won't amount to anything." He squinted at Oswald. "I need a drink, a stiff one, preferably. What about you? Need anything?"

"No," Oswald croaked. "No, I do not… I do not wish to drink…"

"Suit yourself. I wouldn't want to experience any of this sober, but what do I know? I'm not the one facing certain death at the hands of the warlord pillaging my kingdom."

And Finnr staggered away, leaving Oswald feeling quite alone despite the crowd of people still quarrelling within the longhouse.

Northwic, 872

The next weeks seemed to pass in a blur. It had fallen to Oswald to prepare Aethelred's funeral. The ceremony had been a grim affair, and it had been attended by a shockingly low number of people. More survivors of the ongoing raids flooded Northwic, filling the city to bursting. Would they even have enough food for all of those poor souls? Rued's men continued to ravage the countryside, burning the fields and slaughtering the livestock; as a result, the harvest had been rather poor all across East Anglia this season. Oswald did not dare to dwell on how they would survive the coming winter.

And, of course, Oswald had a bride to court.

They met on some occasions, he and Valdis. Oswald often sent grain and other supplies from Elmenham, always accompanying his men to Northwic to supervise the dealings. Following Finnr's counsel, Oswald remained formal with his bride-to-be, treating their meetings more like an exchange of favours. Valdis seemed satisfied with the arrangement.

"Why the generosity?" she had once asked, on a frosty autumn day they had met outside Northwic's northernmost gate. "Winter will be upon us soon, and your holdings might need these supplies as well."

"'If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them," Oswald had cited, "how can the love of God be in that person?'" He had felt a brief pang at the thought of Aethelred and his mother, who had made sure he'd learned his scriptures by heart. Oswald had consoled himself by remembering that they were now in a better place.

In response, Valdis had only stared at him with one eyebrow raised.

"Ah, it's not important," Oswald had said, feeling his cheeks reddening. "Is there anything else the people of Northwic need?"

"No, this will be enough," Valdis had replied, looking at him intently. Her scrutiny had only served to make his blush deepen.

"Perhaps the raids will abate during the winter months," Oswald had said. "Surely one can hope."

"It is better to plan for the worst. Hope is a poisoned gift."

Valdis had said these words so… wearily. For the first time since they'd met, Oswald had felt something akin to pity for his bride-to-be. He wondered what kind of life she might have led to make her believe such harsh views.

When in Elmenham, Oswald wrote her letters—carefully written letters, bereft of anything that could be mistaken as passion. Valdis' own missives were always very brief. Impersonal, even. It was obvious she held no enthusiasm for their betrothal. Oswald… well, Oswald had learned to make peace with it. He had to. His happiness mattered very little when compared to the prospect of a peaceful and united East Anglia. Evidently, Valdis thought the same. Deep down, Oswald was relieved to marry someone who was so mindful of her duty. Their union would be loveless, but perhaps at least there could be respect in it, even friendship.

Still, in the lonely darkness of the night, Oswald's mind would sometimes betray him, and he would picture her face—the regal port of her head, the lovely arch of her brows, those serious, piercing green eyes—and he would wonder… how it would be to hold her hand in his? To have her smile at him, to embrace her? To feel the fullness of those lips against—

Oswald always smothered those thoughts before they strayed too far.

Instead, he would sit at his desk and write. Finnr had advised him to keep emotions out of his dealings with Valdis, yes, but Oswald's father had told him it was expected of a groom to properly court his bride with poems. Surely Valdis deserved such a thoughtful attention?

(Valdis, I have never heard a name such as yours. But it brings to mind the flowers of my —no, that would not do. Oswald's mother had taught him everything she knew about the flora of East Anglia, and he was aware of no flower that bore Valdis's name.

Dear Valdis, you shall be my queen. Together, we will bear the fruits of—Oswald had hastily struck that last sentence, cheeks growing crimson. That sounded like he was making lewd advances. It would do him no good to sound like a lech.

Valdis, you are the sole captor of my soul, my burning ember, the igneous—He'd groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. What had possessed him to write such drivel?)

Whenever the first rays of the sun would finally peer inside the longhouse, Oswald would always startle awake at his desk, drool trickling out of his mouth. He would then be faced with an embarrassingly large stack of parchment covered in maudlin scribble…

"My sweet lord, what in God's name has happened to you?" Gunhild, one of his servants, had asked upon seeing him one of these mornings. Oswald suspected the bags under his eyes were now as dark as bruises. "Goodness gracious, you look like a man half dead!"

Oswald glanced at his hands, splattered with ink, and he thought of the piles of parchment covering his desk. He blushed; perhaps it was time to think of another kind of gift for his betrothed…

"Guthild," he began, "do you know of someone in town who might be good with embroidery…?"

Northwic, 873

Winter finally arrived, and with it, a surprising lull in the number of raids. Oswald almost did not want to believe it. Food remained scarce, but Northwic and the surrounding villages held on, in no small part because of the legendary stubbornness of the East Anglian people. Oswald almost dared to hope.

Then came the first week of spring, and the raids began anew.

Rued's marauders burned farmsteads across all of Sudfulc with renewed ardour, creeping closer and closer to Northwic with each new attack. Inside the city, tensions grew to an all-time high between the bereaved Saxons and the Dane invad—settlers. Oswald had been disheartened to hear many stories of fights breaking out between Christians and pagans. More often than not, he found himself having to make the journey south, to help Valdis hold court and hear the people's grievances, yes, but also to enjoin her brothers to act.

"I can raise a fyrd while the three of you gather your warriors," Oswald had proposed one morning he'd come to the longhouse at Northwic. Valdis had forcibly dragged her brothers out of bed, and neither of them had been very happy to be dealing with Oswald at such an early hour. "With Saxons and Danes forces acting together as one, then—"

"Then what?" one of the twins had said. Broder, Oswald thought; that was the brother with both sides of his head shaved save for that one strip of hair trailing in a long braid down his back.

The other brother, recognizable by his long, thick beard, scoffed. "We serve as meat shields for the Saxons," Brothir said. "Isn't that what you're hoping for?"

"No, of course not." Oswald thought of Aethelred, and he supressed a shiver. "With my marriage to Valdis—"

Broder let out a mirthless laugh. "That won't happen. You will not get within ten feet of our sister—"

"He already has," Valdis said, dryly. "He is standing next to me right now."

"Tonight at Elmenham," Oswald continued, "I will show you how seriously I consider the courtship of your sister. I will demonstrate with gifts just how it matters to me to have our people bonded with this union. You will come to my home this evening, won't you?"

"Listen, you wet piece of sheep dung," Brothir said, jabbing a finger at Oswald, "there is no way we will—"

"Of course we will come to Elmenham," Valdis said, throwing scathing looks at both of her brothers. "It will be a good occasion to settle on the mundr and the heiman fylgia."

"Good! I… I should go, make sure the preparations are under way. Lords…" Oswald nodded at the brothers, "My lady…" He directed a smile at Valdis. God, he hoped it did not make him seem as foolish as he felt. "Farewell, and take care."

Northwic, 873

Oswald had barely ridden out of the northern city gate when he was stopped by a mob of panicked people standing on the muddied road. Before he had even finished climbing down his horse, the terrified villagers surrounded him, all of them speaking at once. They were the survivors of yet another attack, Oswald understood with some horror.

"And they rushed in like wolves, lord," one woman explained, "killing and burning as they went!"

"It wasn't us!" a man protested. A Dane, from his accent and manner of dress.

"Your folk destroyed this country once before!" she retorted, jabbing a finger at his chest. "Now you're doing it again!"

"We live here, you blistering fool! We were attacked as well!"

"You live here because you took our land!" the woman hollered.

"I built myself a home here," the Dane replied, shaking his head. "Rued's clan attacked us as well!"

"Oh!" another man interjected. "How nice to have a home, man! Mine was burned to the ground years ago! And by whom, I wonder?"

"Please, all of you!" Oswald said. "Be we Dane or Saxon, we all want the same peace… with land to till and a home to keep, without fear of Rued's violence."

"Till they break the peace with another bleedin' raid!" the man retorted.

"Nonsense," Oswald argued. "Their homes are here now, same as ours. Our futures run together, not apart." Naïve fool, he could almost hear Aethelred's voice in his head. You'll doom us all with by showing mercy to these beasts…

"So, what of these Danes attacking us, eh?" the man said, with a sneer. "What will you do about them?"

"When I am king—" Oswald started. He was interrupted by a scoff from the Dane. Oswald steeled his gaze and continued, "When I am your king, I'll set things right."

The first man shook his head, leaving without a backward glance. To Oswald's dismay, the rest of the crowd dispersed as well. The Dane only snorted, waving his hand in a dismissive manner.

"You will be king when I am a flying troll," he said, before turning to leave as well.

Oswald stilled as he watched them go, feeling as if he was rooted to the ground. He could still hear the noises of the bustling city behind him, could still see the line of people coming and going out of the gate… and yet he had never felt so alone. Oswald thought of the family who had cherished him so dearly—he thought of his father's smile, of his mother's embrace, of his sweet sisters's laughter. He thought of that scoundrel Aethelred, of poor King Edmund, of his fellow thegns, so savagely murdered.

Gone. All gone, too soon, to the Lord's side, far out of Oswald's reach.

And now he stood alone, one man against the rising tides threatening to engulf the whole of his beloved kingdom.

Oswald felt as if he was plummeting, hard and fast, toward a dark, unknown depth. He looked at his trembling hands, vision blurring. He had been wrong to think that he could change anything, to think that he could save his kingdom, to think that he could stand for the people of—

"You handled that well," a voice rang out from behind, loud and clear as a church's bell, snapping him out of that dark spiral.

Oswald turned, very slowly, to look behind him. A rather formidable shieldmaiden was making her way toward him, guiding her horse by the bridle. She was tall and broad-shouldered, with a fierce, scarred face and blonde hair gathered in an elaborate braid. Oswald stared mutely at her; mercifully, his hands stopped shaking.

"Disputes between Saxons and Danes don't always end so cleanly," she continued. Her voice was low and coarse, but not unpleasant to the ear.

"That was a clean result?" Oswald couldn't help but say.

"A dispute ending without bloodshed is as clean as they come," she answered.

"Quite a brutal outlook."

"But a pragmatic one." The woman examined him more closely. "I am Eivor, of the Raven Clan. Are you Oswald?"

"I am…" Oswald narrowed his eyes a little. The sigil on her shield—two black birds circling one another—was unfamiliar to him. Neither Valdis nor Finnr had spoken of a Raven clan. Possibly they had not settled in East Anglia. Or perhaps they were a relatively small player in the game of clan politics. Still, Oswald was wary. "You're not here to kill me, are you?"

"I'm not in the habit of killing kings," Eivor said, sounding amused. "But I do like meeting them."

"I am Oswald, yes. For as long as I can hold out."

Eivor folded her arms across her chest. "So, what happened here?"

"Raiders from a clan led by a Dane named Rued attacked this morning," Oswald explained, surprised by her curiosity. "They've been sacking farms and hamlets across East Anglia for some time now, growing more brazen by the day."

"Do they know this is Halfdan's land?"

Halfdan's land. Those words were a bitter draft to swallow. "They must," Oswald said. "They just don't care."

"This chaos has touched my home as well," Eivor said. "And I'm here to see that it doesn't happen again." She looked up and down at Oswald, and his cheeks coloured a little at this intense scrutiny. "Lately I've come to learn you are the hook that all hopes hang upon. Or so says Halfdan's steward."

"I doubt Finnr used such glowing terms to describe my character," Oswald said, wryly.

Eivor answered with a laugh. "Yet still, as king, you could unite all Saxons and friendly Danes."

"A minor weight to bear, isn't it?"

"Who else if not a king should bear it?"

Oswald managed a feeble smile at those words. Her tone had been light, bereft of any kind of condescension. It felt good to speak with someone and not be answered by insults or apathy.

"Travel with me, Eivor of the Raven clan," Oswald said, rather suddenly. He could not quite explain where those words had come from. Perhaps he was simply going mad, inviting strange women to share the road with him. "We can discuss my tenuous future on the way to my home in Elmenham."

She seemed amused and bewildered in equal parts. "Are you inviting me to your hall, lord?"

"You seem to be interested in the happenings of these lands, and I'm well placed to explain the situation to you." And any member of a clan at odds with Rued's raiders could be a potential ally, he added in his mind, though he knew better than to say that out loud.

"All right," Eivor said, blue eyes still shining with mirth. "I'll ride with you."

After they had climbed their mounts, Eivor asked, "What begs your attention in Elmenham?"

"Wedding preparations," Oswald answered. "Elmenham is on guard as we ready my marriage to a cousin of Halfdan's."

"Good. A well-matched marriage can forge a strong alliance. So what's the hold-up?"

Again, Oswald was shocked to hear genuine interest in her voice. When was the last time someone had treated him that way? "The hold-up? I don't have yet permission to marry Valdis. Her brothers don't approve of me."

"Why?"

Oswald stifled a sigh, not exactly wanting to delve into that subject. "For a wide variety of reasons, I suspect. With some luck, that is soon about to change."

Eivor shrugged, though she did not offer any other response.

They rode in silence for a while, meeting fewer and fewer people on the road as the walls of Northwic faded from view behind them. Then, Oswald said, "Where is your home, Eivor?"

The slight grin tugging at her lips seemed genuine. "Ravensthorpe is in the heart of Mercia, on the shores of the Nene river."

"Mercia!" Oswald said, startled. "Rued's raiders went that far?" They are getting bolder by the day, Oswald thought. His mouth went dry; surely, their attention would soon turn to Elmenham. He had to secure this alliance to provide protection for his people, and fast.

"We were lucky enough to have no casualty," Eivor said. Her face darkened as she added, "But an act like this cannot go unpunished."

By then, Oswald and Eivor were approaching Beteleah, the largest of the villages built between Northwic and Elmenham. Oswald frowned; was that smoke rising on the horizon? And what was that stench…?

"Slow down," Oswald said, feeling cold. "Something is... not quite right here."

Eivor nodded, all levity gone from her face. "There is smoke ahead."

God… no, no, no, not again… Ash filled Oswald's nostrils, and there was no mistaking the foul odour of dead and decaying flesh. "That's Beteleah," he managed. Now that they were closer, he could see the burning homes and the livestock lying dead in the fields. Lord Almighty, he wanted to retch. "It could be the same men who attacked the walls of Northwic."

"Stay here." Eivor dismounted from her horse, putting up the hood of her cloak. "I'll have a look."

"Oh, God," Oswald whispered, climbing down his horse as well. He brought both animals off the road, behind the wall of a house. His heart hammered in his chest as his ears picked up voices coming from further into the village. Oswald held on tightly to the bridles of the horses as Eivor made her way toward the heart of Beteleah. She was moving strangely, crouching very low to the ground and making the barest of sounds as she went.

Oswald chanced another look up the path and felt as if his heart had lodged itself into his throat: a group of Dane raiders were laughing and talking, two by the road's edge, three others by the charred ruins of a house. To his great relief, they had not yet seen Eivor. She hid behind a low wall, glancing toward the two men closest to her.

"Do you see how they tremble as we thunder by?" one of them said. "It makes my guts all wobbly with glee!"

The other raider snorted. "I never knew you as a man given to verse."

They exchanged a few other words, then the first man walked away, leaving his companion behind. Oswald clamped a hand over his mouth, stifling a cry, as he watched Eivor creeping behind him. Before the raider could even move a muscle, Eivor raised her right hand to his throat and—Oswald couldn't see what she did, but the man twitched in her arms for an agonizing few seconds, before going still. Eivor laid down his corpse to the ground, before stalking over to the second raider. Oswald could not suppress a little gasp as she grabbed the man from behind, delivering death upon him as well.

In a manner of seconds, Eivor had killed two heavily armed Dane warriors, both taller and bigger than she was. Oswald was terrified beyond belief, yet he could not tear his eyes away. Eivor moved, quick as a shadow, behind a shed. Two of the remaining raiders were standing near the entrance of the house, but the third was closer to her; he was whistling, and from the unusual placement of his hand, he seemed to be passing water.

The man did not even let out a sound as Eivor snuck behind him. This time, Oswald saw the bright red spurt at his neck. Again, he gave a little cry as the man's lifeless body toppled at Eivor's feet. The two raiders whirled on their spot, cursing loudly. One wielded an axe, but the other—the other raised his bow, aiming it at Eivor. Oswald held both hands over his mouth to keep himself from screaming.

From the sky, a dark blur swooped down at the archer's face, and the man screamed, flapping his arms to fend off this new threat. A raven, Oswald saw, not quite believing his eyes. In a flurry of feathers, the bird escaped the man's ineffective attempts to swat it away. One second later, and an arrow was embedded in the raider's right eye.

His companion let out a fierce cry, rushing toward Eivor with his axe raised. She simply notched a second arrow on her bow. Mere seconds before the man was upon her, she let it loose; the point lodged itself in her opponent's throat, and the man fell with an undignified gurgle.

By now, Oswald's knees were shaking so hard he could scarcely believe he was still standing. The raven glided over to Eivor, landing on her shoulder. In complete silence, she examined her surroundings, no doubt to make sure that none of Rued's raiders remained. Then, she began to make her way toward Oswald's hiding place.

He was struck by a sudden urge to flee. Even so, Oswald knew she would have caught him no matter how far away he would have run. He had no doubt she could kill him with both eyes closed and one hand tied to her back. By all the Saints above, Oswald had escaped the scornful hatred of the Ragnarssons' kin in Northwic only to stumble upon a killer more potent than the whole of them combined.

And yet… Eivor seemed to take no pride in the easy manner with which she'd killed those men, unlike Valdis's brothers, who would surely have boasted about it. She evidently derived no pleasure from those deaths, unlike vile Ivarr Ragnarsson, who would have smiled as he slaughtered. No, Eivor had disposed of these men with cold efficiency, putting an end to their lives only because they had been in her way.

Aethelred would have simply called her a different kind of monster.

"How are you, lord?" Eivor asked as she approached Oswald. "You seem… unwell…"

Oswald managed a nod. At least she could not hear his pounding heart. "E-Everything is fine. Was that the last of them?"

"The rest of the band are probably far away by now. These five were probably hoping to find more scraps to whet their appetite."

"They're nothing more than carrion birds, then," Oswald said with a hateful twist of the mouth. His eyes flicked over to the raven perched on Eivor's shoulder. "N-No offence to your feathered companion, of course…"

Eivor smiled. She raised a hand, and the bird nuzzled and nipped at her finger. "This is Sýnin. She bears that name because she shows more insight than most men I know. A better companion, you will never find."

The tensions eased in Oswald's guts at the genuine affection in her voice. She almost seemed like a different person than the ice-cold killer of only a few moments ago. It almost gave him whiplash.

"I doubt there is anything in this world worth more than a loyal friend," Oswald said, masking his uneasiness. "Though I never expected to say something of the sort about a bird of all things…."

Eivor snorted, motioning over to him. As Sýnin took to the sky, she guided Oswald and the horses through the village. Eivor's mouth set in a grim line as they looked upon the charred ruins of Beteleah. Oswald felt another dull pang, thinking of the ealdorman ruling over the area. Cenhelm had already lost both of his sons in the troubles of the past years—the first in battle against the Ragnarssons, the second in Aethelred's doomed charge outside of Burgh Castle. From what Oswald had heard, the man had not recovered from these terrible events. And now…

"Wait…" Oswald said. "There are no corpses. The villagers… where have they…"

Eivor nodded. "They've been taken as thralls, there is no doubt."

"Oh, Lord," Oswald murmured, feeling sick. Many inhabitants of Beteleah were kin with residents of Elmenham. Oswald personally knew some of them. "But these people weren't just Saxons. Some Dane families had settled in Beteleah."

Eivor kicked the corpse of one of the men she had killed. "Do you think beasts such as these would care to make the distinction?"

"They wouldn't, certainly," Oswald said. "Still, that means there is still hope for these poor souls. If we are fast enough, we might challenge these raiders and—"

"With what army, lord?" Eivor said. "You won't help these people by being dead."

Oswald looked heavenward, heart clenching painfully. "You are right. And the only way to gather such an army is…" He stifled a curse, passing a hand through his hair. "Well, it seems I'm needed at home to make yet another fruitless attempt to impress my betrothed's family."

"Show more grit than you're showing me now," Eivor said, "and they may start to like you." Again, there had been no unkindness in her voice despite her harsh words.

"Yes, sorry. I'm just... shaken." Oswald managed a smile. "You might have actually saved my life. I would have made a prime target for these marauders, wouldn't I?"

"They would have delivered bound and gagged to their jarl, a trussed-up main course for their feast."

"I would make for a poor meal. There is not much meat on these bones, as you well see."

Eivor huffed out a laugh, and Oswald's smile grew—only slightly, but it grew all the same.

"If you joined us at dinner," he said, again feeling unusually bold, "that might ease the minds of my bride's family. Think about it. My doors are open to you."

"My presence alone won't sway the family of your intended bride. That's work you must do yourself."

"Yes, yes, you're absolutely right," Oswald said. "I'm merely hoping you might provide me with… perspective."

"That I can do," Eivor replied. "I can very well glare and growl on command, in exchange for a good meal and a roof over my head for the night."

That prompted a tired chuckle from Oswald. "Wonderful. Let us be off, then."

As they mounted their horses, Oswald shot a final glance at the smouldering ruins of Beteleah. The quicker he could ingratiate himself to his bride's family, the quicker he could mount a rescue for these poor people. Murmuring a prayer to the Lord, he guided his horse forward, toward his home in Elmenham.