Shadowkin

by MrsRJLupin

Aedre has been surviving as a companion to the King of the Picts' son, having escaped from Bebbanburg and saving the boy's life. Always knowing he had a famous warrior brother, she's heartbroken that he never came back for her. When she is threatened she decides to get herself to Wessex to find him. Based on the Saxon Stories by Bernard Cornwell and Last Kingdom TV Series

11. Guthred

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Thank you for your messages! Just to answer a few, I tried splitting the timelines up as a writing challenge for myself - glad you like them/sorry if you don't like them. Feedback is greatly appreciated, you lovely people :)

We will be getting to Uhtred, indeed. I only intended 1 chapter for Osthryth to meet Constantine, go to Ireland, make a bolt to get to Uhtred. Clearly she got involved a bit (a lot!) more I intended (I swear, characters have a life of their own!)

So, sorry we haven't got to Uhtred yet...SOON, I promise - there is going to be drama, tears, heartbreak, humour, betrayal, honour, respect...

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"The king has imprisoned the Norseman as his hostage!" As Osthryth continued skimming the documents the monk Cavan gave her information at top speed, about the king's arrival, the battle, the surrender of the Norse.

It was a week before Christmas. The ground was hardening. Light reflected from the smoothness of the Idunn, and she watched it each morning as the sun rose, scattering its beams through the ice crystals in the air so they sparkled on its surface. This place was so beautiful, and she fancied that she could see her motjer walking here and there, before travellimg from west coast to east, to her marriage to her father at Bebbanburg.

More peoole rode horses on the higher ground over at Strathclyde- once Rheged - whether it was reivers or Norse, perhaps the elser Thurgilson brother, but none came to challenge Caer Ligualid. It was beyond the fighting season, yet, armies still fought.

Domhnall was still to fight: no news had come to Caer Ligualid of a defeat or a victory. Each morning, as new scrolls were archived on the floor below her, she crept down to read them, searching for news, crushing the longing her gut bore, that she would be with him, fighting.

Abd, how she longed for it. Though she had triumphed, she would rather have been standing beside Domhnall. She hoped that whatever Griogair - who had lauded them all as heroes the a few nights before - needed to agree with Guthred, that it would be concluded with haste.

She had spent the day after the battle away from the scriptorium. There was a certain amount of time needed to repair and reclaim and to bury the dead, and she had been helping the warriors until Taghd had pulled her aside, giving her news which made her heart soar.

Griogair had informed Taghd and Feargus that they were to prepare to sail. To where, Taghd did not know, but guessed Alba. Osthryth thought that too, and suggested to Taghd that perhaps Domhnall had been victorious.

Taghd did not know, taking up her hand as they walked by the river, but it was known that the Scots - all the southern lands called the Gaels "Scots" - Domhnall - had defeated the Thurgilson army, which the brothers had then turned in anger and little strategy onto Caer Ligualid, with even worse losses for them.

Osthryth, looking down at Taghd as he trained with Feargus, remembered wishing he hadn't taken her hand, for it had taken all her will not to pull close to him, and kiss him. For, if the Gaels had defeated the Norse, thus suggested Domhnall had strength. She could not, yet, dare to believe he had won the throne from Eochaid and Giric.

Osthryth dragged her eyes away from Taghd, and forced herself to listen to the ebullient Cavan: her joy that she may be leaving for Alba overshadowing the monk's garrulousness.

"Of course, King Guthred wants to know the brothers are defeated. The one called Eirik has been turned over to guarantee the peace. Usually," Cavan turned, looking at the ancient script of "Y Goddydn" that Osthryth was again reading, "Hostages join the household. But, Guthred does not have a household here."

"He is married?" Osthryth thought of the Danish hay-colourd, weak-eyed ex-slave who she had saved from slaughter. Abbot Trew had told them that when they had arrived. He was not what she expected the king to be like. But, he had been chosen by Cuthbert, and she trusted the blessed saint of her land. Nevertheless, he had hardly gone screaming into battle, and imprisoning the Norseman was surely preferable to Guthred than having him at large. It implied he thought the Norseman might escape, or worse, open the city up to attack, like the Greek horse statue at a battlefield before a citycalled Troy long ago.

Then, suddenly, through the door, came King Guthred himself. Cavan put down the Cymric manuscript and looked a little abashed. He bowed, to cover his embarrassment at his free tongue.

"Brother Cavan," Guthred said, in his quiet, steady voice. Cavan glanced at Osthryth, and was about to say something when the matins rang. Cavan made his apologies and left, the door and steps creaking in his wake.

"Lord King," Osthryth acknowledged, as the door closed, getting to her feet, and bowing her head.

"No! No, my dear, it is I who must thank you." He smiled, a weak smile. "The Norse have long avoided Caer Ligualid; my own father, Harthacnut too. You have no doubt heard of his exploits?"

"I have heard of them," Osthryth replied, wondering why the king had sought her. She had planned to practise sword skill with Taghd and Feargus, but she could hardly ignore the king.

She thought back to the name she remembered, that Domhnall had showed her. Harthacnut had raided into Strathclyde, but had, like the Norse brothers the day before, had been soundly defeated. Which was why Guthred, captured as a slave, had been sold to King Eochaid, Harthacnut slain and most of his army lost. It had made Harald Finehair - kin to the Thurgilson brothers - strong on Pictland's eastern coast.

"I am returned to Haligwerfolkland, of which Caer Ligualid is its capital as, yes, my dear wife died." He fingered the ancient parchment on which Talorcan's poem of defeat to the Saxons was written. "We lived at Eoferwic, for I am King of Northumbria."

I have more claim than you, Osthryth thought, hotly. My mother was of Urien's line; my father was of Ida's. Both the Britons and the Saxons have a better claim than any Dane! And judging by your reluctance to fight for your own kingdom, I could defeat you.

But, he had not gained kingship through prowess, Osthryth reminded herself, as the weak rays of the winter morning found the tower's window. If she challenged the king, she was challenging the church.

"And you are the warrior who saved my life," Guthred continued, when Osthryth said nothing. "I saw you fight; I have never seen the like. You were outstanding."

"Lord King," Osthryth nodded, pleased he had noted her skill Down in the courtyard, distant clatters of blades echoed upwards as the Britons beyond the walls of the city cleaned up the battlefield.

"You have worked well with the manuscripts; it is good to be the ally if Domhnall."

"Against Eochaid, you mean?" Osthryth asked, suddenly. Guthred's pale eyes brightened

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"Eochaid made a mistake," Guthred said, for which I forgive him like my mistake, and I pray those who I wronged that they, too will forgive me."

"The slaves?" Guthred nodded, and Osthryth thought of Ethne again, Princess Ethne, once queen of Midhe in Eireann, Domnall's sister. She may be able to send word to him that she was alive. Would she forgive the plot that carried her away in shackles from the beach at Tara?

"Except, he will never forgive. Forgiveness is a Christian virtue. The man I wronged is a pagan, so I allowed that he avenge me by using my money to end a blood feud, and married my sister."

Guthred looked out of the window, then, down to Osthryth, then placed a parcel wrapped in cloth before her. In the distance, the matin bells rang again.

"I am to preside over a service of thanksgiving for our defeat of the Norsemen," Guthred went on. "And my alliance with Domhnall." Guthred gazed down from the window again: indeed, monks were bringing winter greenery into the church, along with silverware and, if Osthryth was not mistaken, the casket holding the body of Saint Cuthbert, her heart soaring. They were going home, and soon. She had prepared her belongings, too, they just needed to be wrapped in her blanket - unlike Taghd and Feargus, who were warm in the hayloft above the horses: the scriptorium was chilly at night.

Osthryth followed the saint's slow procession across the courtyard: even Taghd and Feargus sheathed their swords with the Caer Ligualid guard.

"It being the season of Advent, Abbot Trew has prayed on the matter and has sought God's guidance," Guthred continued, watching Osthryth as she looked down at the activity below.

"He decrees that we may celebrate our fortunes this evening. Following the service with a feast and ale."

"Good news indeed," Osthryth smiled, looking back to the king's face, and Guthred smiled at her. A feast was welcome; she could be with Domhnall's men, relax with the warriors; eat Feargus-sized portions, for she had, of late, found herself growing hungrier than usual. Perhaps this was a sign they would be soon heading home.

"This is for you," Guthred said, pulling away the cloth. Inside, a dress lay, carefully folded,

"Lord King," Osthryth began, looking at the silk - it must have cost a fortune!

"I do thank you, but - " It felt magnificent! But...no!

"Lord King, I am a warrior: these are my clothes." Osthryth pointed with her hands to the clothes that now barely fit.

"Ah," Guthred said, bending back a little. "I intended for you to to be by my side - my warrior - beside Cuthbert, of your land?"

It was at this point, Osthryth thought, much later, that she should have known: Guthred knew too much about her without having conversed with her. Why had she not suspected? Instead, she had let Guthred unfold a dress fit for a Merovignian queen, holding it by the shoulders and allowing it to fall so she could see it.

"It would be no less an honour to stand beside you, Osthryth, no matter what you wear."

And, I will be going home, Osthryth thought, back to Dunnottar. If it aided Domhnall's diplomacy, then she could. It wasn't for ever. And, it was no less than spectacular.

Osthryth looked at the fibres. Dyed with so much care and dedication to match all the threads' shades, to weave, to create.

"Lord King, I would be delighted. But - " But Guthred wasn't listening.

"I will send a servant this evening to help." He smiled his strange, thin smile, before sweeping scriptorium.

Ten minutes later, Osthryth saw Guthred in a hurried conversation with Abbott Trew and two other monks, as they pointed, gesticulated, to various parts of the city before walking, swiftly, into the church.

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But, she also may decide not to wear it, after all. Osthryth's mind filled with Alba, and Constantine and Domhnall...was he King of all Alba now? Was Eochaid executed? What of Giric.

Osthryth found Taghd in the stables, mucking out again. As Osthryth pushed through the wooden doors, which creaked, he looked up, pausing from moving the clean straw into place.

"There is to be a service for the battle. Will you be there?" Osthryth enthused. Taghd said nothing. Feargus, who was up in the hayloft, climbed down the ladder.

"Yes, we are to parade with the guards of the fortress."

"There is to be a Thanksgiving service," Osthryth continued, noticing there was none of her own enthusiasm at the prospect of returning to Alba in her comrades.

"Do you know, the king visited me in the scriptorium and gave me a dress to wear."

"Right." Taghd glanced at Osthryth, a strange tone to his voice. Osthryth made to reach for his arm, then stopped. She saw their blankets had been bundled into parcels.

"Back to Alba? To Domhnall?" Osthryth was astonished as Taghd nodded. A swell of happiness arose in her stomach. It would be absolutely fine sailing presently - though it was winter the weather was fine, and they could reach Dunadd as easily as when they left it. Osthryth wondered whether Griogair was coming with them, or remaining with the king.

She watched Taghd sweep out the old straw, the thought soared again. This was her mother's land, a hybrid of the original Christian-heathens following Pelagic and the Irish church, which just overlaid Christianity onto the heathen beliefs, and the new Augustine Christianity. And, their city was, by and large, protected by the old one left behind by the Latins now to be ruled by a Dane. It worked; Osthryth loved it. But now they were returning to their king.

"I will be with you at the feast," Osthryth continued. Taghd said nothing, but nodded, continuing to work. She glanced down at his hands, hands which she longed to embrace with her own. She dared not look at his lips, for on these too, she wished to press her mouth.

"And at Dunnottar - "

"Do as you wish, Osthryth!" Taghd snapped back, so suddenly that Feargus dropped his sword belt.

"Later, then," she nodded, "later Feargus," she added, then turned, crossing the courtyard and back to the scriptorium, not unseen by a watching figure.

Put it out of your mind, she told herself, as the stairs to the top of the scriptorium creaked under her leather boot. Wear this dress, stand beside the king. Then, feast with the warriors and leave for Alba. What did Taghd have to be so cross about?

Haf came that afternoon, bringing a tub of water and a cloth. She smiled, nervously at Osthryth, asking her to undress so she could bathe her.

"I will," Osthryth said, taking the cloth and the water. Took care to lock the door, carefully taking Buaidh and laying her sword on her cloak. She stood in the evening coolness and proceeded to unclothe, dipping the cloth into the water and wringing it out. She caught Haf's expression as the Briton looked at her.

"You - are a woman then?" Osthryth nodded. "But you fight?" She pressed, her small voice insistent.

"Wonen can fight; women do fight." She smiled at the girl's expression. "And you will marry Galmor now?"

"I will," she said, handing Osthryth a dry cloth, opening the back of the dress by drawing out the cord as Osthryth patted herself dry.

Then, Osthryth's mind really saw the gift she had been given. Silk would show every crease, so she allowed Haf to stand on a chair and glide the fabric over her body. The young girl pulled in the dress and it took Osthryth's form. It was a little tight over her breasts and hips - maybe she had been eating too much and been inside too much, and not enough fighting practise. They were to go home tonighy, and it would not take long to regain her strength.

After Haf had arranged her dress, she took a comb from her apron and smoothed it through Osthryth's hair before arranging with a piece of the silk tied into her now jaw-length hair, reminding Osthryth of Mael Muire, as she dressed before the fair at Tara.

The king was waiting for Osthryth at the bottom of the scriptorium tower. Haf helped her down each step and opened the heavy oak door. Guthred held out a hand, which Osthryth took. It was soft and Guthred smiled when he closed his around Osthryth's.

"You look beautiful." His words were soft, only for her and, despite the pageantry, Osthryth smiled.

Then she saw the procession. Every person in Caer Ligualid seemed to be standing, waiting to cross into the service and she was aware many eyes were on her. She looked behind her, trying to find Taghd and Feargus. They were leaving tonight, Osthryth reminded herself. She just had to stand, sit, pray beside King Guthred, and they would be soon rowing with the flow of the Idunn.

Next to the priests, Saint Cuthbert's casket was high upon the shoulders of its bearers and they crossed, solemnly, to the candle-lit monastery church.

Guthred escorted Osthryth to a large, oak-carved bench, close to the altar. Osthryth sat, her eyes switching between Abbot Trew and Cuthbert, who lived so long ago and, for a man who heard God most clearly on a remote, bird-inhabited island, might well have considered his journey throughout Northumbria to avoid the Norse ironic indeed

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Osthryth sat and listened, and prayed, as Trew and the monks carried through the rites. Once or twice, she looked over her shoulder to vatch Taghd's eye, but the warrior was looking at the floor.

Behind him, the Norseman she had fought to save Guthred was looking at her - at the coffin if Saint Cuthbert, atvthe monks, at the king. It was as if he had never been in a church before, and perhaps he hadn't. His blonde hair was bound into a cord at the back of his skull, small wisps moved with the currents of candlelight. He was bound, humiliatedm. Yet, he would not take his eyes of Osthryth.

She turned back, thinking of the feast. She could drink: she knew Taghd would, then maybe, she could make her way with him up to the hayloft rather than the scriptorium tower. If it did not come off, she coukd blame the ale.

Osthryth felt a blush on her cheeks as she thought of his hands on her body, and forced herself to dash them quickly. She was in church, for heavens' sake, in the presence of Blessed Cuthbert.

So, she closed her eyes, and prayed for the king, the kingdom, and to be free of enemies. And for Domhnall, that he was alive, and prospering. It was only when a hand touched hers that Osthryth realised the service was over. It was the king who had touched her so lightly, and she put it into his, which was outstretched as she opened them.

The warriors, including Taghd and Feargus, had left, as too had Cuthbert. But several monks remained, and some of the guards.

"My dear, you look radiant." Guthred took a small bow, as Osthryth rose. "Come, kneel with me, before the feast."

Before the altar they knelt. What were they praying for? Osthryth wondered.

A figure appeared, near the back of the church, indistinct and only for a second. Cavan was holding one of the altar candles, and he stepped a little closer to Osthryth, his face beaming.

"Well," he began, in his usual outpouring of words, "now you know!" He grinned wider. "I would have told you, bound to have done, if I had not gone to matins this morning!" Osthryth frowned.

"Know what?" But Cavan thought he was playing into a game with her, and withdrew a little. Before he could say anything, Guthred was standing by her, hand outstretched again. But, it was Abbot Trew who spoke. He was unsmiling, but held his robe cloth out to both Guthred and Osthryth.

"To the wedding of Guthred Harthacnutsson, King of Haligwerfolkland and Northumbria and the ward of the King of Alba, Domhnall, 2nd of his name of the line Alpin, Osthryth Lackland..."

He had won? Osthryth listened to the sentence again in her mind. Domhnall now had the throne at Dunnottar?

The church was silent, as if waiting for Osthryth to say something. Beyond the window, on the river, she saw Taghd, with Feargus, managing the coracle.

Yes, she thought. Domhnall was king and they were leaving...

...we were leaving, her mind corrected herself. And the rest of the tafl pieces surrounded her. She glared at Guthred and yanked her hand away from his. Trew's cloth fluttered to the floor.

"No!" Osthryth shouted, backing away from the king. She stopped when she felt a point to her back.

"Yes," growled a voice by her ear. It was Griogair. She glanced at the river again, remembering what she had seen. There were only two crew in the coracle. She shifted uneasily under the point. "You think I would let Cailean's death go unpunished? No. This is fitting. You will be a queen, and Domhnall will have his alliance."

"No!" Osthryth shouted as she stepped under duress back towards Guthred. The king was still smiling, but it was not as heartfelt as it had just been moments ago.

"No! Lord King! Abbot!" She looked between Trew and Guthred, and added with all the dignity she could muster, "I am already married."

Guthred looked across to Griofair, alarm on his face. "She is already married?" Behind him, some of the servants paused in their tasks, listening. Osthryth noticed that Eirik Thurgilson was also staring at her.

"Tell me you have not wed Constantine!" Abbot Trew exclaimed, a horrifying turn of politics playing out in his mind.

"A hedge marriage, your grace, nothing more. And the - " here he scorned the word, "husband, is gone." Griogair moved his head towards Osthryth. "Though yourself and the young prince now...I heard every moment of your night with him..."

In her chest, panic began to spread, like a wound unstemmed, spreading out throughout her.

"Where is my sword?" Osthryth demanded, recalling she had left it in the scriptorium. This one did npt have the feel or weight of Buaidh. "Where are my clothes?" She began pulling at the dress, ignoring the laughter around her. Because, if she could get those, there was a good chance she could still catch up with the coracle.

Griogair grabbed at the back of the dress but Osthryth ducked under his arm. The back cord ripped and suddenly, she was swamped in fabric. She pulled at the dress, to keep herself covered.

"I am sure we would all like to see you naked," Griogair said, lunging for her again. But Osthryth was too quick for him, and had swiftly drawn one of the guard's swords from its scabbard.

She glanced at Guthred's face as she advanced on Griogair, feeling a little stab of guilt. It was clear now her marriage to Guthred was the alliance, and Osthryth suspected that Griogair had swiftly used her as a bargaining piece to guarantee Guthred's alliance and risk his own forces to a prince who had yet to secure his kingdom.

But, this time - and Osthryth knocked Griogair's blade from his hand with renmarkable ease - Domhnall was not going to get his alliance. He was now king: Guthred's alliance was irrelevant.

"I bound your hand, lady," Trew intoned, officiously. "You are wed to King Guthred." He swept an arm in an arc and pointed to a monk, who was writing onto a parchment in a huge volume, no doubt taken from the very room Osthryth had slept in.

"And, does it say "Osthryth Lackland?." Osthryth stood towards Abbot Trew, Griogair still under blade.

"It says, "Osthryth Lackland, ward of Domhnall 2nd, King of Alba," the monk replied. It still sounded good to Osthryth a swcomd time.

"But that is not my name," Osthryth cautioned. "I am married, and my name is my husband's: Taghd of Doire." A smirk crossed Griogair's face.

"He will be dead before he even gets to Alba!" he scoffed. "He returns with only half his crew, at midwinter, in the most treacherous of seas."

"He is Irish," Osthryth continued. Keep it going, long enough to formulate the plan.

"And is it consummated?" This time, Abbot Trew asked the question.

"What do you think?" Osthryth laughed, lying. "Of course it is consummated, why else would we be handwed?" And, she considered, she had it. "So you wish that I wed another, and have two husbands?"

Osthryth looked around at the people who remained in the church. She had noticed that many of the servants, even a few of the guards, were not Dane, Saxon nor Angle: she was of this country, Rheged: the old north. Bigamy was not tolerated within the British heathen faith; further, a woman's word was as equal to a man's. Osthryth had read it in the scriptorium, read it amongst many, many things of her mother's homeland, and knew exactly what she needed to do.

Politics was delicate in Caer Ligualid, as in Cumbraland: the Saxons needed to hold onto the territory as it was nominally British, so tolerated their heathen practises, while the heathen, accepted Northumbria was their kingdom.

"I am sorry, Lord King," Osthryth kept the blade of the warrior pointed at Griogair. "I claim the right to settle the dispute before the dwrydd," she said, in Cymric. "Will he, or she make themselves known?"

It took a few minutes anything happened. The Norseman moved in his chains, but no dwyrdd came forward.

"Then, in that case," Osthryth continued, her options narrowing suddenly, "I fight the king." This caused a stir. The monks behind Trew began to whisper. She plunged on, anger holding, refusing to let fear take its place..

"If I lose, then God - the gods - know I am false, my marriage is false and I will marry King Guthred - "

" - you are already married to the king!" Trew shot back.

"If I win, I take this land, Eoferwic and Northumbria - "

"You are... "

"I am Northumbria!" Osthryth raised her voice, at the denials of validity. But, she could see the Cymry were on her side. It was a heathen-religious method if settling a dispute, after all.

"Impossible!" Trew declared. But Guthred was sweeping past Osthryth, not looking at her, or indeed, anyone else. He paused, as if listening to sonething Eirik was saying as he passed, then continued swiftky through the churvh door.

"Impossible!" Shouted Trew again.

"Why?" The voice came from the shadows. In the guttering candlelight stood the Northman. "Why is it imposssible?" He glance at Osthryth. "She offers fair odds."

"But the king - " Trew continued.

"He is no longer here," said Eirik, "and, as I am here as a result of her skill, I offer to fight in my countryman's stead.

"Yes," Osthryth agreed, nodding to Eirik. It could very well be a trap. But she must take it. Abbot Trew looked at Griogair.

"Secure her in the scriptorium," Griogair said. But Osthryth pressed the blade to his throat.

"Where?!" Griogair asked. "Ot is already dark.

"Here." Around them, seats were beibg drawn back. An area of bare oak planks were revealed. Yes, she could fight here.

"Trew, are you mad?" Griogair asked, as Osthryth assessed the ground. "You canna possibly accept this! She is the king's wife!"

Now it was Osthryth'svm turn to smirk. She could win this, or she would never have propoaed him. Shevhad beaten the Norseman once before - Griogair knew this. He knew, too, that it was his reputation that would be in ruins if he allowed it. But, as he was at the sharp end of Osthryth's blade, he had little choice.

"I move," Abbot Trew continued, looking gravely at Griogair, "to speak for the king. Justice should be done. The outcome is God's will." He bowed his tonsured head. "The proposal is sound - we should see how the queen defends the honour of her king."

That wasn't what she's said, and he knew it. Osthryth made to clarify the point, but noticed that, already, the cords holding the Norseman fast were already loosening. Osthryth made to steady her mind: Eirik Thurgilson was standing in place of Guthred - he was Guthred in this fight. One of the guards handed him a sword, and he strode out to the cleared space in the centre of the church.

Osthryth was about to raise her sword, but for a patter of small feet beside her. She turned. It was Haf.

"May Belenos be with you!" She whispered, under the cover that she was securing Osthryth's torn dress. Osthryth turned, kissing the girl on the cheek.

"Thank you." Haf stepped back by her father who, Osthryth noticed, was holding the girl's hand tightly. They were on her side, Osthryth thought. She must not let them down.

The Norseman could not be beaten on strength, for he was far stronger than Osthryth. But, she was fleet, and though she felt a light headed from the incense, she threw herself towards the Norseman, striking out with her inferior sword.

There was a gasp as the blade caught him cleanly through the thigh and came away coated in crimson. But too late did she see the Northman's own sword and her slowness was rewarded with agony as he used the flat of his sword to strike her chest.

Osthryth twisted toward him, but her leg buckled as he drove the blade towards her her calf. He had kissed, and this time, she wad quick enough to move away.

Osthryth landed heavily on one knee, still lashing out towards the hostage with her blade, flashing in the candlelight. And she could see what she needed to do. And thrust herself forward with more strength than she thought she had.

Their blades clashed as Osthryth went on the offensive. Neither had a shield so they were using their swords to defend the blows. He was weaker than she exected, though he was fightingvl as if he had no injury to his leg.

A figure darted to Osthryth's right. Who that was, Osthryth didn't know but it was enough for the Norseman to catch her in the small of the back. He stabbed with the hilt, and Osthryth fell heavily, the room passing before her eyes. This was the end now, Osthryth thought. He had beaten her. And, more than that, he was avenging his defeat by actually slaughtering her.

Somehow, though, Osthryth manage to roll away. Blood, presumably from the Northman, was flowing onto the wooden floor. And, she got to her feet. Damn them! Anger began to flow through her. She had been parted from Taghd and Feargus, and her body was flabby. Weeks of little training was bearing out. She twisted up and was now behind the Northman, who had slipped on the blood, and she kicked his other ankle so that he slammed, chest first, onto the woiden floor.

One more lunge brought down Eirik. It wss a foolish, childish move taught to her by Ceinid, but it had worked.

Then, she felt the pain in her hip, saw the blood absorbing into the cloth, the big gash down her thigh. Osthryth tottered forward, her left arm clenched to her side.

And then, she was falling towards the Northman and expected to fall heavily on to him. But was stopped in her tumble as a strong, protective arm wrapped around her chest and pulled her forcefully backwards into an embrace.

She had won. The Northman was down, though the fight had been easy and swift. It was then that Osthryth began to have doubts as Guthred, who had clearly witnessed God's decision, held fast to her. Osthryth felt her heart beating. She refused to look at Guthred, however, and he loosened his grip of her as Eirik Thurgilson staggered to his feet.

"Do with her as you will," the king said, thrusting Osthryth towards Griogair, who grabbed her wrists tightly together.

"My lord king!" Abbot Trew started in Guthred's direction, and at Griogair. "She is your wife! She is your queen! You are one; the annals declare it!"

"When she learns to behave as one, we will see, Griogair." Guthred turned.

"My lord king!" Trew exclaimed, scrambling past Eirik, still lying on the floor, and out of the door. "Guards, remove the Norseman," he added, in his wake.

"Do as I will..." he looked Osthryth, then barked orders to leave to the monks" servants and guards.

"You will let me go!" Osthryth demanded, but instead, Griogair hauled Osthryth by the arms behind the injured Northman, out of the church and into the icy courtyard. She struggled against Griogair, who kicked the back of her legs.

Osthryth stumbled, and Griogair caught her hair. She gritted her teeth in pain, as he pulled up her by it .

"Have a good look!" Griorgair shouted, pulling off the rest of the ruined dress so Osthryth's frame shivered in her slip.

"Queen of Cumbralaland!" He dragged her by her hair, wielding a hand towards the prison door past the two guards for it to be unlocked, before throwing her into the dungeon, opposite the church.

The Northman had already been returned to the cell and Griogair pushed her inside too. She fell onto the straw as the metal lock clicked closed.

"Your marriage to the king is legal," Griogair spat, "Domhnall sanctioned it and Guthred will have you by his side."

"I will not! I won my freedom, as well you know!" Osthryth spat back. But Griogair had already left.

She pulled herself to the bars, looking out, but could see little. Tiny pinpricks of light illuminated in the distance, which Osthryth took to be candles, or the warriors' torches guarding the gates. She shivered. Very little remained of the dress, and no wonder the men had stared: the front was in ruins, her breasts, most of her stomach and her legs were bare.

She folded her arms across herself, glaring into the darkness where she knew Eirik Thurguilson. For the fight had been over quickly and such an experienced a warrior had yielded suspiciously soon.

"Why are you here?" The Northman said, after a few moments. The moon was gibbous and gave enough light to see the man's face. He seemed genuinely curious.

"Because I wouldn't accept the king," Osthryth replied. She shivered again. A bitter wind was building from the east, and she had mere scraps of a once spectacular gown hanging from her shoulders.

Had Taghd known about this? It explained his mood that afternoon, if he'd been told she was to marry the king: they were Domhnall's men; they'd already lost Finnolai amd now she was here, prisoner of the Haligwerfolkland king.

"But you won!" The Northman pointed out. "Everyone saw it."

"Everyone saw it, but few will accept it. The Abbot, the King, my own king's man will never honour it."

"And they say we are barbarians," Eirik said, and winced as he spoke. But Osthruth was too angry to care.

"Why did you let me win? She asked, bitterly. "I needed to have won, I need to be - "

"Ruler of Northumbria?" Eirik scoffed. "You did win, girl. The injury you gave me at the battle was enough to slow me, and then you got my leg. There was no, "let you" about it." The Northman moved on the cold straw beneath him. "I am truly glad no kin of mine were there to see me."

A clank of chains indicated the man was getting up.

"Do you need treatment?"

"I have survived worse. I am a hostage, not a prisoner, though you might not know it." He took a few steps towards her, and Osthryth backed away, suddenly as he came i to the moonlight.

"Looks like you have a few wounds yourself." Osthryth pulled her clothing round her more, though they were inadequate against the cold.

You speak English well." Osthryth observed, ignoring his comment.

"I spent a long time in Eoferwic." Osthryth tried some Gaelish, and then Cymric. At both he looked blank.

"Not so much time in Strathclyde or Pictland or Alba," she baited him.

"No, indeed," the Northman replied, evenly at her dig.

"Why did you offer to fight me?"

"Honour. If you have no honour you have nothing. At least now I know you are a warrior of honour, even though the rulers here do not."

"And what you said to Guthred?" The Norseman paused.

"I merely reminded Guthred of his Danish line. Honour is our race, not Christianity. Here." He passed her a thin cloak, perhals his own. Despite her anger, Osthryth reached out for it, bundling it up around her.

"Thank you. What is "thank you" in Danish?"

"Tak," said Eirik Thurgilson.

"Tak," repeated Osthryth. Then, she sat down in the straw, trying to get warm. The Northman clanked his chains close by. Osthryth shuffled back, her hands outstretched.

"I will do nothing to you," the Northman said. "You are a victorious warrior, cruelly treated. Though your body is desirable would not - will not..."

"Tak," Osthryth said again, hynching down to a cold night.

After a time, when the Northman, too, settled at the other side of the cell, he spoke.

"Are you really married? Or did you lie to the king?"

"I'm married," Osthryth nodded

To one if those Scottish warriors who left tonight, I'm guessing."

"Yes." Osthryth looked down, in the darknes. Her love for Taghd, different from her attachment to Constantine or her bond to Domhnall, was all encompassing. He filled her senses; filled her mind. She would be with him, heart and soul...and she was beginning to care not they were comrades. Osthryth desired him, and she could be with him, were she just to escape.

"I must get away," she murmured, as she tried to close her eyes. How had it come to this? This morning, she was gazing down to Taghd, to the Cymry beyond the walls.

"None will know of this." A voice murmured across from Osthryth. She opened her eyes.

"Monks were there. They would have written it in the Annals of Cumbraland. News of my so-called marriage, and our fight will be sent out to the kingdoms." The Northman let put a big sigh.

"Are you being truthful?"

"Sadly, yes," Osthryth nodded.

"Then Siegfried, my brother, may yet hear of me." Osthryth's eyes brightened.

"Not if we escape."

"We cannot escape from here; I have tried."

Osthryth shivered again, despite Eirik's cloak. Where were Taghd and Feargus tonight? Along the coast? What would happen when they reached Domhnall?

Her mind fixed on Taghd. He had told her not to trust him. And now he was king. But: no! Unless Domhnall told her to her face, she would never believe it. No, Osthryth was sure, this was Griogair's scheme. He knew so much about her, even the name Lackland that she had given herself.

Some while later, after the moon set, and the place was inky black, Eirik's voice came to her ears. It was then, that Osthryth realised she had been asleep.

"You did win, warrior."

"Osthryth."

"You did win, Osthryth," he said again. "You are not meant to be married to this king."

"I am not meant to be imprisoned with no sword, no means to serve my lord."

"You are a woman," he added.

"I am a warrior!" Osthryth retorted.

"I meant no offence. Norse and Danish women are often warriors. You fight with skill and courage."

"Tak," Osthryth replied.

The next time Osthryth was woken that night was for a tiny "tshink" sound of the lock of the cell to open. Osthryth listened, and heard a light thud near the gate. Who was there?

And in the morning, she found her own a thick, woollen cloak folded neatly and placed carefully near her feet.

88888888

"Let me out!" Osthryth screamed again by the bars of the gates. Since the weak dawnlight, Osthryth had shouted. At first, the guards were alerted, and approached as she called in Cymric, Anglish and, if Griogair was still there, Gaelish.

"Shout again," a voice called from the monastery, and you will have no food or water this day.

"Send me Griogor mac Dungal!" Osthryth changed her shout, but this time, there was no reply.

Her clothing looked worse in the daylight. She awoke with Eirik looking at her, and she curled herself up inside her cloak, turning her back to him. Osthryth was angry. Yet, no-one came, not Griogair, not Trew, nor even yet Guthred.

Eirik was let out of the cell, chained, that by two nervous-looking guards. Osthryth glanced over to them, as he pulled on his boots, considering whether to making a run for it. But she was neither armed nor had silver.

When a servant came with some food, he accompanied by a guard. They called Eirik over and habded him brrad and ale.

None for Osthryth. The servant, probably a heathen, at least had the decency to look sorry.

They want me weak, Osthryth thought, neither moving nor speaking. Like her uncle treated prisoners at Bebbanburg - weaker prisobers were more likely to confess, or at least, die quietly.

"What do you know of Harthacnutsson?" Eirik asked, offering Osthryth aome of his bread. Without shame, she took it, taking little bites, a technique Glymrie, had once explained, Aed had used when they were lightened of most of their food one winter by Ivarr.

"A weak puppet for the Saxons," Osthryth replied, dismissively.

"Good looking, is he not?" Eirik grinned, goading her. "Now your husband is gone.

"You marry him then," Osthryth replied, grateful of the ale that the Norseman offered to her, too, trying not to think of Taghd. Eirik threw back his head and laughed.

"I'd rather marry his sister," he mused.

"Is his sister beautiful?"

"Yes," he conceded, looking interestedly at Osthryth. "She is - was - promised in marriage to a Lord of Bebbanburg - " Osthryth froze, but said nothing.

"Or, so the abbot tells me. But she never married him and ran off with a Dane." He looked at Osthryth with very blue eyes.

"Why not give in to Guthred? You will be released from here; he will treat you well. You will be a queen."

"I am a Gaelish warrior," Osthryth replied. "I wish to fight for my king. Forever."

"A king who has abandoned you? Who arranged for your marriage as an alliance?" Osthryth didn't reply. Instead, she stared at the bars again

.

"It is Griogair, I am certain."

"The Scot?"

"I killed a kinsman of his." For he was creeping, like a thief, with his men to Domhnall on Iona.

When Osthryth stood, hand in sword, on the battlefield over Griogar, at a time in the future, she would think on that point again. Honest men, she would reflect, as the tip of Buaidh would score Griogair's jugular, are welcomed as such.

Osthryth handed back the jar to Eirik, who drained the last of it. Then, she moved across to the cell's door, knees to chin, arms wrapped around them, the woollen blanket tucked in where cold might creep, looking out to the courtyard for clues. And opportunities. For she was determined to be at liberty as soon as she possibly could.

Eirik sat for most of the afternoon in silence too. Osthryth wondered what the Dane was thinking about. He spoke of honour, so he was unlikely to wish to escape too. After a time, he got to his feet and moved to the corner of the cell, dropped his breeches and took a piss.

Osthryth looked away and back to the courtyard. Little had changed; little had happened since the day before. The horses were on their winter food; if Guthred had intended to join Domhnall immediately they would be eating hay and being exercised.

As darkness fell outside, Osthryth suddenly got to her feet. Someone she knew was treading her way across the courtyard.

"I found these," she said, breathlessly as she pushed them through the bars. Have you eaten? Father thinks you are awfully brave." She said this in Cymric and Osthryth replied in kind.

"Thank you." There was bread and, surprisingly, wrapped up in a thin cloth, fish, plus boiles water in a stone jar. Osthryth's eyes opened wide as she saw it all.

"Diloch fawr, a cariad," Osthryth said, taking Haf's little hand.

"You need your strength." And Osthryth suspected she knew what the girl meant, for she had insisted in feeding Osthryth at risk to herself and her father if she were discovered. Osthryth wondered whether she could ask her, and decided that she would.

"In my clothing, in the scriptorium, in the pocket," Osthryth began. Was the lily root, she wanted to continue. Boil it well and bring it to me, and take the silver, also in a pocket for yourself. For, Osthryth knew she needed its scouring ability. Constantine's: it could be no other.

But Haf's answer made Osthryth's heart sink.

"All gone," she said, big eyes shining up to Osthryth. "Taken."

"My clothes?" She nodded.

"My sword?" Haf nodded again.

"Where?"

"I could not say, for I do not know," she said. Osthryth looked away. Taken. My clothes, my sword.

"Can you search?" But she had gone too far, and Haf slunk from the bars and left, slowly, walking sedately across the courtyard. Osthryth looked down into her lap. How lucky she was to have a friend such as Haf, to have brought her food such as this.

She was aware that Eirik was looking at her.

"Here," Osthryth said, in Anglish. She offered the cloth to Eirik. He looked at the fish but shook his head. "It was brought to you, by a friend, it would seem. She likes you."

Not getting the Northman's meaning, Osthryth nodded, breaking off the bread and using the crust to scoop up the beautiful herring.

"Is toil leam sgadan," she told the herring, vaguely, telling it sbe liked the taste of it, her heart suddenly sore as she thought of Taghd and what she suspected was germinating within her. She could be wrong, but would have taken the root, to be sure.

"What did you wish the girl to do for you?" Eirik asked.

Osthryth drew her blanket around herself, biting more of the bread.

"That is my business," she replied defensively. Then, after the food began to warm her stomach, conceded, "I wanted my clothes, my actual breeches and jerkin, my boots. My sword." She reached for the stone jar with the water in. "Gone. Taken."

"By those who wish to kerp you here?"

"That would make sense," Osthryth replied.

"Who taught you to fight?" He asked.

"The king's household guard. His general." Ceinid. The man's face appeared in her mind. She would stand by him again, and fight, of that she was determined.

"I was awarded a place in the king's household," Osthryth continued, "When I saved his son from the bastard Nor - " She broke off. "Some bastard Norse, who were choosing to raze Dunnottar," she added. Eirik laughed.

"It was not us. But we are bastards, otherwise we would not gain land. Have the Saxons never done the same?"

"They did exactly the same, when the Britons owned this land. When my ancestors were rulers here." It felt refreshing to say that aloud. Even growing up, when the stories were told, even in her uncle's presence, Urien of Rheged was esteemed. She wished she could have found out more of her mother, Gytha's life. She would be of one of the noble families, who were the warriors here. She supposed she would never know now.

"You speak many languages," Eirik continued.

"I do not speak Danish though, as you can tell. Tak," Osthryth added, to which the Northman laughed.

"Tab og vind med samme sind," Eirik said. "Win or lose with the same mind."

"Tab og vind med sam-me sind," Osthryth repeated.

"You speak as a Saxon," Eirik remarked.

"An Angle," Osthryth clarified. "Like Norse and Danes: different but the same. Like Cymry and Gaels, different but the same." She drained the jug and leaned over to the cell's iron gates, placing the jug onto the cold, hard stone and folding up the thin cloth in which the herring had been wrapped.

"Have you a child?" Eirik asked suddenly. Osthryth stopped as she drew back from the cell bars, and turned to look at the Northman in the gloom.

"Is that why you so desire to reach your husband?"

"I once grown a child, a little," Osthryth admitted, as she wrapped herself back up in the blanket, trying to find the warmest place in amongst the dank straw. "It wasn't my path, it seems. God has other ideas."

"Your god wishes you to be a warrior?"

"Yes. I am good at it. If men do not wish to be warriors - "

"They must fight all the same. Women should accept their place."

"Women can still die by a sword. It is why my - " Osthryth broke off. So easy was this Northman to talk to she had nearly admitted where she came from.

"Why your - "

"Nothing," Osthryth replied. And Eirik said nothing more.

Little changed the next day. No-one came to Osthryth, but Haf brought her food shortly after a guard brought some for Eirik. Again, he was let out for exercise, and this was when Haf crept back to Osthryth.

"Here," she whispered, as she pushed another stone jar towards her. "As you asked." Lily root water, Osthryth thought, then thought about her route back to Dunnottar, imagining as intricate a journey as possible to distract her from the bitter taste.

"You have my clothes? My sword?" But Haf shook her head. "I paid a healer for the root." Osthryth reached to the girl's hand. "You are a very good friend, and I do not deserve it." Haf smiled, but again said nothing before slipping away as Eirik returned.

The weather grew colder, and Osthryth's days were taken up with talking to Eirik, who was teaching her Norse words, and pushing down the envy of his hour away from the cell. She used that time to relieve herself in peace, and had seen no evidence of the lily root's efficacy. A germ of life was not growing in her.

For that, and for the hot water Haf brought too her regularly, Osthryth was profoundly grateful.

Eirik was also good company. He told Osthryth of his life in Norway, where the weather was far colder than here. They taught one another languages: Norse and Danish were broadly interchangeable, and she learned "manner" 'kvinde" and some similar words as Anglish.

It was amazing that more words were not known, but the Norse and Danes spoke so quickly and pronounced those which were similar so differently, Osthryth could understand why.

Aa week before Christmas, Haf came one evening as Eirik was discussing the Norse gods and Osthryth mentioned this to Haf. She proceeded to explain in Cymric about the gods, which Osthryth translated, then whispered, "The church added their story to ours. They were good Christians at first. But the Saxon Christians tried to make us forget." Her eyes were bright, as she told Osthryth, as if her words were dangerous, which they probably were.

"But my mother remembered, and told us. She was out to death by the abbot before Trew, Abbot Eadred, as an example, my father said." Her face crinkled, and she looked down. Osthryth reached out both her hands to the girl. And, for once in long time she remembered Beatha, and Finn, her little son, and thought how muvh Haf was like them.

"It is midwinter next week," Osthryth said, soothingly.

"Medvinter," Eirik repeated, recognising the word. "Jul."

"Yule?" Osthryth asked, then turned back to Haf. "You will eat and drink when it's midwinter," Osthryth said, "your father will cook a feast?" She nodded, then leaned towards Osthryth, kissing her on the cheek. Osthryth blushed in the semi darkness as she watched the girl leave.

"She likes you," Eirik laughed.

"I'm not a man."

"So? Norse women, Danish women, they often like one another, with not a man." Osthryth looked back to towards the hall door through which Haf had vanished.

"At least someone does."

"I do, too," Eirik remarked. "You are a noble person. Honourable." He shifted from where he was and drw a little closer to Osthryth.

"You did not eat the meat she brought you."

"No," Osthryth said, offering Eirik the tin plate.

"Tak," Eirik thanked her, taking a bite of the meat. "We had a sister once, like you, though a little younger. So full of life, all loud and alive, then one day our crops got blight. It was damper season than usual. Many farmers starved and she died. Siegfried and I were away, we had gone viking."

He sighed, and took another bite. "Mother was a shadow of herself. We want land, here, to bring our families to."

"To Northumbria? To Alba?" Osthryth scoffed. "It is poor land here."

"Eventually Wessex," Eirik replied, shrewdly. Guthrum got what he wanted by becoming a Christian, as Guthred has done. They got land, power. No settled Dane or Northman will ever leave."

"Neither the Angles nor Saxons, though the Cymry nor Gaels would clearky like that. And nor they, for they displaced a people before them."

She looked across to Eirik, passing the stone jar Haf had bought. He took it and drank, spraying a lot of it back out of his mouth.

"What's this?!"

"Vand," Osthryth said. "Dŵr; uisge. Water."

"Yssh!" Eirik said, disgusted. "Not Øl."

"Not ale," Osthryth agreed.

"Alba is better than Denmark? Than Norway?"

"It is rich." Eirik put down the jar and, grom his hair, pulled a jewel, a pearl, embedded in a silver slide. The pearl glimmered in the half light.

"These come from far away, traded many times. But this?" He passed the silver clip to Osthryth. "The river that empties by Lindisfarne..."

"The Tuide," Osthryth replied, looking at the small, shimmery white gem.

"It was in the river. In the Tuide. It was the first thing I found when I landed here. It was glimmering between the rocks within two shells in which it had formed." Osthryth held it on the flat of her palm, giving it back to him.

"So what is Guthred's motivation?" Osthryth asked.

"Hm?"

"Land and riches for Guthred, as for Guthrum. But what has he to gain from allying with Domhnall? It does not seem to be purely hatred of Eochaid which drives him."

"I do not know."

They both fell silent, as the wind began to whip up a storm outside. As Eirik began to get as comfortable as was possible in the straw, Osthryth drew hers around her.

"Godnat," Eirik said, and soon his breathing was heavy as he drifted to sleep. Osthryth closed her eyes too, murmuring, "Godnat" in reply.

And was awoken to the sound of the lock of the cell being opened by someone trying to be as quiet as possible.

It was night; no moon shone and a wind blew around the courtyard and onto the cell.

Osthryth listened. Two or possibly three people were outside.

"Do not worry," said one voice. "Guthred is allying with us. Strathclyde and Cumbraland reuniting and with Picts. When the Gaels have been driven away, we will reclaim our land."

Muzzily, Osthryth listened. Some of the conversation was now muffled. She couldn't make sense of the words, and blinked, trying to listen.

More shuffling, and more discussion. Then, one of the men spome clearly. Osthryth sat up, in horror.

"Guthred has departed to Eoferwic. He can be no-one's alliance, not Domhnall, not yours, Giric."

The speaker had Osthryth's attention. Giric, Eochaid's ally, here? She shuffled closer. She recognised the voice.

But, it was too late to move. Into the cell, in the light of a torch, strode Griogair. Before she could cry out, he thrust a rag to her mouth, holding her by her hair.

"Hold her, Trew!" Griogair demanded, as Osthryth struggled, and the abbot thrust his hands around her, dislodging her blanket

Eirik still slept as Osthryth fought. Trew's nimble hamds had her hips, then her waist, before working his way to her breasts.

A sliding of cloth came from Griogair, and Osthryth kicked out when she felt his naked leg by her own.

"He...has not rejected her; you...cannot despoil her!" Trew's voice was broken between breathsband Osthryth felt a lump on the back of her leg. She struggled as Trew began to squeeze her breasts between his fingers.

"Can I not!" Osthryth felt another lump by her leg.

"No!" insisted Trew, finding her nipples. His fingers fumbled as he breathed unsteadily by her neck.

"You wish to do it Trew," Griogair accused, as a scream like an ache being relieved came from Abbot Trew's mouth, who reeled from Osthryth, letting go of her tits.

"Oh God in heaven, Giric!" moaned Trew, in Cymric and Osthryth, taking advantage of the otherwise occupied Trew, whose seed she could smell behind her, to kick Griogair.

"You!" She shouted, geting free of the gag. "You! You lied to Aed!" She was sure of it. So many things suggested the alliance between Domhnall and Guthred was other than it was made out to be. And a priapic abbot had confirmed it. Griogair was Giric, Alba's joint monarch with Eochaid. Unless...

"You are deposed!" She tried another hypothesis.

"Yes!" Griogair replied, thrusting his hands on her body. "Yes, I killed Aed! And I nearly had the boys Donhmall and Constantine at Glaschu, except Eochaid would not allow me to do so. Trew! Leave us!" He hissed, as the abbot scrambled in the straw behind her.

"You really must not - "

"Must not what?" Griogair asked, with deliberate slowness. "Tell me, Trew? Touch her body?" He grabbed Osthryth, who flailed her arms as he pushed beyond the fabric and pressed his fingers to her flesh. "Must not hold her arse and squeeze it with my hands...?

"I will say I will marry Guthred," Osthryth said, suddenly. "If it means Cumbraland will ally with Strathclyde."

Griogair stopped, and said nothing for a time. Then, he stepped away.

"Truly." It wasn't a question.

"I am of Cumbraland." Osthryth tried to sound earnest. "I found out, in the records. If you would leave me, tell Guthred I would be honoured to be his wife."

"It is...written," Trew said from beside her, panting a little to recover his breath. "It would be well...they were married in reality as well...as on...paper."

A long pause followed, before Griogair spoke.

"Very well," Griogair - Giric - said. Osthryth heard him take a step backwards. "Should that we take you out of here, and you go to Guthred, will you keep your silence?"

"Yes," Osthryth lied. She had no intention of being married to Guthred and as soon as she could she would get a message to Domhnall that Griogair was Giric, Eochaid's man.

"But...you were not the Giric we met at Glaschu..." The words fell from Osthryth's mouth before she could stop them.

"Domhnall believes what he wants to believe," Griogair replied. "He believes me a traitor to Eochaid. I hid at Glaschu; a servant took my place. But I heard every word of Aed's plan, which was why I had him murdered."

"Enough!" Hissed Trew. "She has said she will comply.

The cell doir closed with a faint "cling". Osthryth exhaled, deeply.

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It was three days before Christmas - midwinter. Snow crept in under the door, close to where she was sleeping. It had been three nights since Griogair and Trew had come to her, but nothing had changed.

She looked out at the pink-orange sky, the glow of the morning sun through ice crystals promised a cold day and a sprinkling of frost covered the courtyard.

Osthryth shivered as she watched a warrior break the ice on the water trough, dashing his head through it for a wash, and shivered more when the door was opened by a two guards, for her ripped dress and the cloak were damp from the winter air.

They rapped on the metal with a sword, and Osthryth realised Eirik still slept.

He walked past Osthryth with his now usual greeting of, "Godmorgen", and Osthryth greeted him the same way. He had given no indication that he had heard anything the night Griogair had arrived, which was a relief, for though they were companionable, Osthryth could not trust that he would not betray her.

Indeed, hadn't the very thing she had sworn she would never do sue had offered to do? No matter that it was a ruse to attempt an escape. No. Best that Eirik Thurgilson, the hostage Northman, did not know of her plan.

Which was very awkward that night.

Osthryth had been studying the key by which the cell was locked. Both guards used similar keys, with little variation in the "bit". This suggested to Osthryth that the lock was simple to turn. So, rather than sit and freeze when Eirik went to sleep, she paced around the cell to keep warm before a thought dawned on her.

She had been just about to slide the jewelled piece from the Northman's head when he caught her by both wrists and roaring into her face. Osthryth jumped, then whimpered at the sound.

When he had established she was not murdering him and was, in fact, about to attenot to use the pearled clasp to make a break from the cell, his anger turned to encouragement and, moving im his chains, brought it out for her.

It was in vain, however, and she sat by the door, shivering, until Eirik persuaded her to move a little closer, out of the draught. Maybe this would work, or a dash when she was eventually liberated. When he went to go the next morning, for his hour's walk, he fixed the jewel into Osthryth's own hair.

"Keep trying," he whispered, as he passed.

And she did, but with no joy. There seemed to be another part of the mechanism she could not get to. After Eirik returned, and told her about the Jul customs, and the little elves called Nisse who helped at this time of year, they both watched greenery being brought into the monastery.

Haf did not come that afternoon, and the day grew worse when it seemed she was being taken away by two guards. She kept looking across to where Osthryth was looking, the cell, and it looked as if she was crying. She felt a pang of sadness at being unable to help her.

When Eirik's guards brought his food, Osthryth asked after Haf.

"Heathen witchcraft," one said. "Midwinter magic. The abbot's orders. She is being expelled from the citadel." Osthryth watched the guards leave, dumbfounded, and that night, even more determined to escape.

When Eirik was asleep, exuding big sighs of slumber, she moved to the gate and began to feel the lock again with the clip. By pushing it in, and then out, she could feel movement in the mechanism.

A shadow passed over the waning gibbous moon, and Osthryth froze, withdrawing back into the shadows. It was nothing, she reasoned after she neither heard nor saw anything else.

And, too her joy, one click more meant the gate swung free! Withdrawing the jewel, she pushed it into her hair, then turned the handle of the door. It swung back and Osthryth was out into part of the stable yard. But the outer gate was still locked.

A footstep beyond and to the right made her stop again, before removing the clip and setting to work on this lock. Osthryth's heart beat faster. She was nearly out. The servants had feasted and were long since to bed.

To the kitchens first, she planned, get food, and clothing. Then the monastery: get wealth. Then, find Haf? If she could. But flee north as soon as she was able.

Another movement and the mechanism was yielding. But it was too late. Feet were approaching faster than she was able to get away from the outer gate, and Griogair saw her, the inner door swinging guiltily behind her.

He got open the gate, a grim set to his jaw, catching Osthryth as she stumbled back into the straw.

Pulling her up by her hair, Osthryth screamed as Griogair set about hitting her, about the body and the face.

"What about Guthred?" She managed.

"Guthred will acknowledge you as a wife," Griogair growled, but offers no alliegance to anyone." He hit her head again and Osthryth felt a dampness running down her cheek.

"You kill my brother Cailean; you destroy my chances of becoming king of Alba alone!"

Osthryth screamed as Griogair wrapped chains that he had with him around Osthryth's wrists, pulling them so they were fixed to the wall of the cell.

"You are going to die, slowly."

This time, Griogair's hands were not careful. They pulled at what remained of Osthryth's dress that Grluthred had given to her until she was naked.

"Are you cold? Let me see - " He put his hands to her breasts. "Yes, indeed." Ostheyth squirmed as Griogair smoothed his palms down her sides and around her buttocks.

"You have a nice body," he murmured.

"I don't care." She didnt care if men thought that or not. If she could become a man, she would.

"You should not have kilked my brother." He rounded the small of her back with his hands. Osthryth winced where her injury from Eirik had been. She tried to pull away, but this tightened the chains round her wrists and an ache began in her shoulders.

"You were assaulting the monastery! You were..."

"Plotting against Domhnall!" Griogair finished the sentence for her. Suddenly, Griogair pulled his hands away, then Osthryth felt cold metal by her throat.

"You will be dead, by morning girl," Griogar snarled by her ear. He pressed the poont of the knife into her neck. "And I will have enjoy it." He carved a line down her neckto her arm pit, under her breast and swept it onto her stomach. Osthryth felt the dampness of blood trickle down her ribs.

"Leave her!" A voice - Eirik's voice - came from the back of the celli n Anglish. "What did she do to you, Scotsman?"

"She disobeyed her Lord," Griogair replied, also in Anglish, then breathed onto Osthryth's neck as he sheathed the knife, hands over her body. Eirik must be able to see her shame in the moonlight, Osthryth thought.

"Step aside, Scotsman!" Griogair paused in his massaging of Osthryth's thighs.

"Oh, a protector!" He mocked, stepping away. "You!" he demanded. "Hump her."

"I will not!"

"I will bring guards and you you will hump her so I may watch."

"No, I will not!" This time, incensed, Griogair crunched over the straw.

"You will put her on her back and push you cock into her hole damned hard because she deserves it!" But Eirik was not raising his voice.

"I will not!"

And, Osthryth knew, Griogair knew Eirik would only fight the guards if he unchained the Northman, or himself.

Instead, he took hold of the surplus chain with which her hands were bound, and began to whip her back and buttocks with it.

"Your punishment," Griogair said, as he used his might to thrash Osthryth. Determined not to cry out lasted seconds, for this was agony as her thighs, chest and head slammed against the cold, stone cell wall.

"Stop hurtung her! She is a warrior!" Eirik's own chains rattled as he strained at them.

"A warrior?" called back Griogair. "A warrior, eh?" he gnarled in Osthryth's ear. "If the Norseman will not, then it is left to me to remind you that you are a woman."

He brought the chain around her neck. She felt dizzy and the chafing of the metal around her wrists and ankles felt distant, as if happening to someone else...like, on the beach...the sun was dying...

"Leave her! You have no honour!"

"When I've ridden yer til you haven't even the breath to cry out, girl, when your cunt can't take any more - " he growled, and with his hands he drove her bottom apart, "another man will take his turn, then another. And the biggest will be the last until every man in Caer Ligualid is satisfied!"

He pulled her back so that the rest of the old dress slipped down her legs. She was on display; Osthryth knew, as Griogair reached round to her breasts, working her nipples in turn between fingers and thumb.

This had the effect of carrying her quickly beyond any pleasure this might have incited, causing them to be rubbed raw and tender as he used all his force to both compress and twist them, before pulling them away from her body.

As he tortured her nipples, Grigoir hit her legs apart further with his knees ignoring Eirik's voice protesting that he should leave her alone.

"I am about to ruin you, bitch!"

Then suddenly, Griogair let go. Osthryth panted as a puse throbbed across her chest. Let him have finished, Osthryth prayed silently. .

But he hadn't. Legs pulled open, hand flat between them, Griogair's fingers, rough and careless, pushed hard across her lumps between her folds, two trapping the front bump, rotating it round, before stopping to hit her with his other hand when she cried out, before pressing down and squeezing it as hard as he could while slapping a hand over her mouth to stop her screaming.

Some of Griogair's other fingers found her hole and pushed his fingers inwards as far as they would go, one, then two. Three were painful, four: agonising.

"You are still very tight, Constantine's whore," he whispered, grasping her hair as he fingered her.

He increased speed, laughing as her body jerked to his violation, enjoying that he was hurting her. So, Osthryth bit his hand covering her mouth.

Griogair jumped away, yelling in pain before slapping her head hard.

"You still think you are a man?" Griogair's hot breath returned to her ear as he began to push his fingers inside Osthryth once more. She started in pain when he got as deep as he could.

"I can go no further, you slack cunted, well used whore of the Gaels!" He banged his fingers as he pushed inside her, reaching her limit again before withdrawing them and reaching round to her sore nipples, returning to his tortuous treatment of them.

Just when Osthryth thought she could take no more, Griogair slid a hand to her front bump, catching it wetly between his fingers and moving it round in circles.

Osthryth hated herself as her body responded to its stimulation. He rubbed the wet around the contents of her lips wiping the excess onto her stomach. He slapped her hard round the head. Osthryth held in the whimper.

"You will cry out!"

"I will not!"

Griogair stood back. Then, the moonlight reflected on the leather strap used to fasten open the cell door. Griogair had untied it.

"Cry, damn you!" He curaed, bringing the leather down onto her back and, legs and buttocks, then turned her body round, her wrists scraped in the metal.

This time Osthryth did cry out as the leather caught her chest and ribs, taking off a line of skin, then another, flaying another across her stomach, breast and neck. He paused as she gulped for air.

"Ah," Griogair exclaimed, pleased, as he caught his breath from the exertion of flogging her.

"She is your king's wife!" Eirik called from the back of the cell again, and again, Griogair ignored him as he pushed his groin against Osthryth's leg.

"Do you wish to see me plough a deep rut into her, Northman? Do you want to watch?"

"Let her go!" Eirik shouted, chains clinking.

"So, the Northman speaks for you?" He snarled, then turned his head. "She is nothing. You like what you hear? Do you have your cock out, pleasuring yourself?"

"I have my eyes closed," called over Eirik to Osthryth, in Danish.

"He has his eyes closed." Osthryth translated, defiantly.

Then near Osthryth's ear, Griogair's voice came again. "I am going to use you sore, girl, as will all the warriors here, when I leave the gates open, and you wide open for them to ride you."

He kneed her legs wider, pulling her hips back and Osthryth heard the frictioned rubbing of the man wanking himself to hardness, his pre-cum slapping around jucily in his hand.

Osthryth braced herself. Let him be small, she prayed, though the lump he was now rubbing wetly up and down her thigh told her otherwise.

And then, suddenly, Osthryth felt him falling away from her. She braced herself for the onslaught.

"Osthryth!"

"Who is that?" Asked Eirik. "Be warned, I will kill you too."

But, fast hands removed Osthryth from her chains and she slowly staggered around.

Into a face she knew.

Osthryth blinked several times, checking she wasn't imagining

Finnolai standing in front of her.

"Come!" he encouraged.

"No!" Eirik protested.

"I have a horse. I fed it on - look, there's no time," Finnolai said, and Osthryth could only stare at him.

"I am alive, thanks to you," he said. "I've been here since I got passage on a boat, from Tara."

Finnolai! But, he was dressed as a monk; he was a monk, here. Had he been watching her since she had arrived?

"Come," Finnolai encouraged. "I have your clothes, your sword..."

"How...?"

"No time, Osthryth," he encouraged, the same Finnolai she knew, poised to teach, sensible compassion. And, as Griogair began to stir, lethal.

Osthryth kicked him, hard, in the face with her unshod foot, not managing as hard as she would have liked, as er body ached from his abuse.

She followed Finnolai out of the cell, still barefoot, and Finnolai flung a cloak over her shoulders. Then stopped.

"Get him out, too," Osthryth implored, as Eirik rattled his chains.

Finnolai paused for a moment. He was reluctant to stop, and Osthryth knew why: people around the peripheries of the monastery and of the church were moving. Time was elemental if she were to escape.

A minute later, and Eirik was by her side, as they followed Finnolai round to the stables. Just inside, tethered, a large beast was making hot vapours of steam by its nosrils. Osthryth closed the stable door behind them, pulling Finnolai close.

"What happens, Osthryth?" Eirik asked, in Danish. "Who is he?"

The question was too big, and Osthryth answered it poorly.

"A friend." She looked up to Finnolai. "The best friend I ever had."

And she wanted to tell Finnolai everything, her friend, who had cared for her, and had been kind to her, and had laughed with her. And had fled the slavers because of her. Both betrayed, it would seem, by Domhnall.

Eirik seized her waist, moving towards the horse. But Osthryth pulled away and drew Finnolai to her.

"You are my dearest friend," she whispered by hid ear."

He held her close and whispered back, "You gave me life again."

And then Osthryth couldn't find the words. All that had happened since, in Eireann, at Iona and Dunadd. A crash behind them drew them from their embrace. Finnolai took up her hand and pressed silver into it. She pushed it away.

"What I did, Finnolai, I would have given to you a thousand times." But Finnolai pressed it still further.

"Griogair will not need it for some time. Or, perhaps ever." Osthryth pushed it behind her cloak.

Outside, footsteps, fast and frantic on the stone courtyard told all three of them that their liberation had been discovered. Eirik leaped onto the horse and Finnolai helped Osthryth up in front of him, passing up her clothes, clean and bundled neatly, and Buaidh, which she held to her body.

"You need to go - now! Do you have a blade?" Eirik shook his head. A shout outside and Osthryth's heart began to quicken. Finnolai passed him one.

"Struggle," he told Osthryth. "Pretend you go against your will," Finnolai instructed.

"There is fire," Eirik said, looking beyond the stable.

"I set it. It's a cold night, don't you think? The guards at the northern gate have just discovered it open but can't close it as they are needed to help douse the flames." He smiled his cheeky, amiable smile at Osthryth.

"I am content here," he added, walking alongside the horse as Eirik rode it from the stable. "I am safe, and I will not be discovered."

"Haf!" Osthryth said, suddenly.

"She is safe, and back in the kitchen with her father. I invented a story that exonerated her." He smiled as the horse quickened. "I am content," ge reassured her, as Eirik drew the knife to her throat.

But Osthryth's mind was in turmoil: Finnolai, her friend, was not dead! He was alive! Alive!

And she called over her shoulder as Eirik cantered across the courtyard, "Come with us!" But, in the noise and chaos, as Eirik kicked a guard with one foot and, with the knife for Osthryth's throat, stabbed another in the face.

Then, he rode with all his might towards the north gate as, around them, Caer Ligualid blazed

.

88888888

31st October 905.

The growing dread began as they passed Bebbanburg. Guards were over the ramparts searching for her uncle's enemy, and as they began to move into the wider channels of the north sea, bows began to rise; slender ash arrows threatening the cruising craft.

Gert, who was standing one leg on the prow did not move. Nor did the archers. Her nerve failing, Osthryth looked down at Aedre's copper-red head, her hair tumbling over Osthryth's stomach, against which she had rested her head and was now asleep. Osthryth put her arm around the child, enveloping her with her woollen cloak and she took up the sleeping girl's hand for comfort.

Not to comfort, but to fortify herself. For the dread of memory was playing on Osthryth's mind: the reasons why she left and why she hoped to find Beocca somewhere other than Winchester.

No arrows had fallen around them as the fishing boat continued its journey south. Maybe Bebbanburg knew Gert the fisherman. But, there may have been some confusion, as Gert would probably stop at Bebbanburg to trade, and now they were ploughing straight past. That was what Constantine had given her silver for: direct passage to Winchester.

Winchester. God, how she hated that city. Maybe when they got to Hamptun she might be able to make enquiries at the monastery at Ticcefeld. They might know where Beocca was, for it had been a monk from there who had written to a monk at Culdees, which Osthryth had read.

Then she could avoid the place altogether, avoid Eastgate, where she had once had loduld avoid Crepelgate, where the heathen Britons lived, hidden in plain sight under the very nose of the palace and continued to follow their own gods and practises.

Never walk past the nunnery where Gisela had died, her swine of a brother's lovely wife. Even now the guilt of that day hung from Osthryth's shoulders like heavy armour and she fought the memories from her mind of her hand in her death.

As a swell of wave buffetted the fishing craft, and the sky darkened, Osthryth looked at the figure of Ceinid, Domhnall's - now Constantine's - head of Dunnottar's household guard. His back was straight as he surveyed the water, his eye fixed on Bebbanburg, which had offered no challenge to them as they swept by.

His eyes were on the coast, however, and Osthryth looked at his body, lithe and muscular, little changed from the man who had stood beside Constantine and gripped her shoulder on the day Osthryth had rescued the now-kind of Alba.

Osthryth knew he cared for her: he had so often made that clear. And she could have married him by now if she had had a mind to, and lived in safety and comfort. He felt safe, too. He had embraced her once, his hands on her back, his lips on hers, just for a moment on the day she had fled Dunnottar and Domhnall to make a journey almost identical to the one they were making now.

But, he was here with her doing his king's will, Osthryth told herself, accompanying her, knowing that he was commanded to kill her if she tried to remain in Winchester and not return to him.

Constantine was not happy with her leaving: her body still ached at his abuses. Yet, despite all her assurances, he was sure she was keeping something from him. And he was right: Osthryth was. She always had been. The real reason she had run from Winchester on the night of Alfred's funeral was one. It wasn't just to protect Thyra and Beocca's child - she could have done that in Wessex. But what he had done, her brother. What he had allowed Aethelwold to do.

But he was dead now, Osthryth told herself, Alfred's pretender to the throne, as was Alfred himself. Could she hope that the great Lord Uhtred of Bebbanburg was also dead?

Spray splashed onto her arm as Osthryth, determined to face the impossible situation - the blackmail from three people - again in her mind, tried to pinpoint when it must have begun.

Had it been the words that the vermin Aethelwold had chosen, carefully and deliberately, at Dunholm, when Uhtred had challenged Alfred and fled to his brother Ragnar? Or had it been earlier?

Had someone followed her to the settlement of the pagan Britons in Crepelgate at Winchester? Had it been that bitch, Aethelflaed? Or was it Uhtred himself? Had he been behind her once, or one of his men, and found out about what she had done? Had it been Finan?

Or had the rumour grown, begun from her own mouth, back when she had thrashed to free Ninefingers from her body on the beach at the mouth of the Foyle, had it really travelled from mouth to mouth to Wessex?

The stars were beginning to spark in the sky as the sun set over Northumbria. Gert had told them they would sail overnight down the east coast, and would be in Hamptun the next afternoon.

In her arms, Aedre moved in her sleep. Osthryth felt herself shudder as she considered the day: Samhain. The sidhe were real for three men she held dear.

Domhnall, her king, who had held her close as the sidhe had tried to force entry to the stable in Doire, had fervently believed they were abroad at Samhain, and in the day of his death.

Before the sidge, she had sworn marriage to Taghd, and had succumbed to her vow, and had been his wife for the rest of his life.

To Finan they were in his mind; when he had fought in his sleep beside Osthryth against his enslavement, he had sworn to the sidhe he would avenge a man named Sverri. He would fight this man so vigorously, Osthryth had learned to get up and wait for the dream to subside, rather than risk her lover's flailing fists and feet.

To these men the sidhe were as real as the word of God through Christ made flesh. Osthryth had often thought, why can there not he both? To Ceadd and to Patrick, to ColmCille there was both.

Osthryth was not of the Irish church, but she could see how both could be true. And, as rain began to drip around them and the clouds began to accumulate in hefty piles around them, Osthryth could feel the sidhe that Samhain night.

88888888

The documents proving the legal ownership of Bebbanburg usually resided in the monastery beside her estaye in Glaswestre.

Why Aethelflaed, Lady of the Mercians had chosen to retrieve them that night, she was not entirely sure. But the strength of her brother was increasing, having now secured the lands Guthrum - Aethelstan - once owned in East Anglia and was working his way north and she knew that, one day, together, they would be pressing north.

And it was the owner of this land who would be the key to the north: he would both influence Eoferwic and the Scots. The owner of Bebbanburg mattered.

There was no mention of a cousin. Also called Uhtred, Aelfric's son had left Northumbria with no word since.

It was vital, Aethelflaed knew, that the name of the person claiming the land was called Uhtred. Uhtred, son of Uhtred. Her Uhtred had once been called Osbert. His son, whom he had rejected, had been named Uhtred. Now, he called him "Judas", the name of Uhtred being passed to Uhtred's younger son.

The cousin Uhtred, Aetgelflaed considered, could easily be dealt with. Silver here, land there to those who heard of his whereabouts which led to his capture and death. For, what would Aelfric have to fight for then when he had no legacy.

In the glimmering candlelight, Aethelflaed caressed the script inked by the Lindisfarne monks so many years ago. She loved Uhtred of Bebbanburg before she had even met him; loved the idea of a brave man, disinherited, come to find men to get back his land. Aethelflaed had been six when she had seen him, the tall, long-haired Dane as he was thought to be, swathed in fur. She loved him then, even though she haad hid from him behind her father's throne as he strode into Winchester's hall as if he owned it.

What would she not do for him now, as he fought for her, the idea of reclaiming his homeland smouldering in his heart? Their armies would get there in time, hers and Edward's, and Uhtred would have all their men, should he need them, to take back what was his.

As Aethelaed made to roll up the parchment and wrap the leather lace around it, her eye was drawn to something which she was sure she had never seen before.

Pulling the document flat, and sweeping her hair defiantly out of the way, she scanned across with her eye. There.

In a hand different to that of the original scribe, in a hand which had cramped the letters to one side next to "Uhtred, son of Uhtred," were more. A name. Daughter of Uhtred.

Aethelflaed, her arms shaking as she sought more light thrust the paper near a large sheep-tallow one, whose light glowed brighter.

"Aedre, daughter of Uhtred and Gytha of Cumbraland, of Urien's line." Aethelflaed read it again, and once more, before looking for any more nention of "Aedre". But there were none.

Aedre, Aethelflaed mused, as she took the document with her, rather than returning it to the monastery, instead, thrusting it into her saddlebag. So, Uhtred had a sister.

Did she know her? Had they met? Beocca had been the last person to possess these documents...

Aedre Uhtredsdaughter, Aethelflaed mused. Who are you?

88888888

Osthryth was strangely sad to leave Gert's fishing boat on the afternoon of All Saints' Day. Ceinid had taken the sleeping Aedre, and suggested Osthryth should sleep. When she had awoken the rain petered out, and a brighter day had dawned.

She watched Constantine's warrior as she opened her eyes and realised at once that they wouod look, to someone observing them, like a family: husband, wife and child together. It would probably afford her more protection than travelling alone, and once again, Osthryth felt the familiar rush of softness towards the man, who had only ever treated her with kindness and respect.

"Are you afraid?" Ceinid asked, when they had fed Aedre and found a room in a monastery at Rumsy, on the road towards Winchester. He took up Osthryth's hand, a strangely gentle gesture, waiting patiently for her to answer.

Osthryth looked down to his hands, as she had answered, "Yes." She had seen those hands finish three men in as many seconds, equal only to Alfred's household guard, Steapa.

If she decided to stay in Wessex, if Beocca, on meeting his daughter, decided he wanted his daughter raised by the nuns, for example, would Ceinid use those hands, those fingers to choke the life from her, as she knew he had been instructed to?

Would he use them to press a cloth to her face to stifle her? Clench them around steel and thrust downwards into her neck or her stomach, watching her blood ebb from her form?

Or would Ceinid do none of these things, if Osthryth chose not to return to Dunnottar, instead, allowing her to remain, allowing her - encouraging her - to go, as he had once done before?

But then, could she do that to the girl? Dunnottar was all she knew; Constantine was her father and Osthryth her mother. She must return her to Alba, no matter Beocca's wish.

She slept curled up beside Aedre that night, and on the bed opposite, Ceinid sat, whispering to himself in Gaelish, as he always did before a battle. For a man who had never left Alba, Wessex must have been a strange place indeed.

But the land had changed too. Somehow, the people seemed more settled, they had more self-assured. Already there had been talk, on the coach to Rumsy, and now, on the coach to Winchester, not of fear of the Danes, but of trade between burghs. And not just Wessex burghs, but those beyond the Temes to the east, and Aafon to the west, the ancient natural border between Wessex and Mercia. Some of those towns beyond even the Danelaw border.

As the miles slipped away under the wheels of the cart so Osthryth's apprehension grew. When they got to the southern gate of the city, the chalk hills rising behind it, she wanted nothing more than to run all the way back to Hamptun and give the rest of her silver to anyone who would take them to Alba.

Why had she come back? It was a hateful place; she just wanted to take up Buaidh and hack at the stones, as if it were the infrastructure itself that was to blame. And, if she found Uhtred there, Osthryth knew she would wish to take up Domnall's blade to him, too. But, then, she wouldn't, for Finan, loyal, oath-bonded Finan, Uhtred's oldest friend, would stand between them. She could never fight Finan and mean it, and he knew it, too.

That's if both of them were still alive.

"The monastery is beyond the palace walls," she told Ceinid in Gaelish. He knew one or two words of English - the important ones, like "ale" and "food", "horse" and "water" but though he didn't show it, Winchester must have felt so alien to him.

So, when Osthryth looked into a face she knew, who barred their way at the gate, it was she had to do the talking.

"We seek the - " Osthryth broke off as she thought of the status of Beocca now, once Alfred's priest, he had been turned away from the palace by Aelswyth. Steapa looked between her and Ceinid, then down at Aedre, who was gripping Osthryth's hand tightly.

"We seek a priest, by the name of Beocca," Osthryth said, the huge man's eyes searching for trouble. "He is, or he was, at the palace. We have word he sickens."

"Who asks?" Steapa's face was impassive. He made to reach for his sword as Osthryth strode forward.

It was...most loyal of men man. Slow to thought, quick to blade. Of everyone, he had judged her solely on her sword skill. She had had the job of guarding the aethling Edward and, to him, that was that.

"I do, Steapa," Osthryth said, quietly, looking up at his wide, honest face. "Osthryth Lackland."

It took a moment for this information to work round Steapa's mind but, when it did, he broke out into a wide smile.

"Osthryth! It is you!" He declared, then frowned, because the thought process didn't tally.

"Where have you been? We've missed you at the Two Cranes!" He lowered his voice and stooped closer to her, whispering near her cheek, "not that you drink, eh? But there are some fine girls...boys...at the Two Cranes Inn mm, eh?" He flung an arm round her shoulders, and added, as if accessing a memory, "Osthryth!"

When instead she flinched, rather than joining his remeniscences, Steapa took a step back, unused to Osthryth not laughing with him about the alehouse. He looked past her and eyed Ceinid, sensing she was no longer a comrade at arms.

In turn, Ceinid eyed Steapa back, touching his sword, so swift with the blade that he was, you didn't know he had it until he'd taken your arm off with it. Steapa then glanced down, at a silent, wide-eyed Aedre, then back to Osthryth, removing his arm, standing up straight.

"I've been doing the king's work, Steapa," Osthryth said carefully, hoping Steapa wouldn't press which king. "I seek Father Beocca with this child."

"He is very ill," Steapa confirmed. "He may already be dead. He was taken in to the monastery."

"Then you can let us pass." Osthryth hoped her words sounded like instruction but instead they choked in her throat. May already be dead...?

"No. You cannot." Steapa folded his arms, blocking her way. A "schm" of steel told Osthryth that Ceinid had withdrawn his sword. "Bishop Erkenwald has forbidden all visitors."

"Then, I would see the king!" Osthryth's words rang out, defiantly. "I be allowed to take this child to Father Beocca and - " But Steapa was no longer listening to Osthryth. He had drawn out his blade and was holding it towards Ceinid.

Osthryth took Aedre's hand, hoping this would subdue a scream, for the child looked very frightened.

"No!" Shouted Osthryth as the two warriors stood offensively. "Steapa!" Osthryth turned to Ceinid, "Cha toil leim seo!" And repeaed, to Steapa, "I do not like this!"

Ceinid glanced down to Osthryth, and smiled the confident smile of the experienced, wily fighter that he was. And moved. Osthryth pulled Aedre back, horrified. The head of the king's household guard lunged, but his target was no longer there: indeed, Ceinid was now behind Steapa, who had vouched for and defended Osthryth more times than she could count.

Aedre screamed, and hid her head against Osthryth's leg, clinging to her. Osthryth put her arms around her, shouting for them to stop, her words lost in the din of clattering ironware. Osthryth felt for Buaidh, but thought better of it. Just get to Beocca, then get home.

"I will take you!" Around them, a small crowd was gathering, and out of it, in grey linen a figure stood. She looked bigger than her frame, and seemed to appear like a spirit amongst them. Osthryth had no words, but the magic that Abbess Hild brought with her presence was enough to still both men's blades.

"I will take you," Abbess Hild repeated, arms outstretched, between the two warriors. They fell back, Steapa to the gate; Ceinid next to Osthryth. Her tone was softer, and she looked at Osthryth, intrigued, then held out a parchment. "Your king, of Alba, had the foresight to send a message to King Edward that you would be arriving," she added.

Of course, thought Osthryth, of course he would write to Edward. Constantine, with Domhnall, using the model of the Uí Néill's kingdom in Ireland, had achieved what Aethelflaed and Edward had yet to achieve: a united land. It would be just like Constantine to use her visit to remind Edward of this.

They followed Hild, past Steapa, who was still mutually sizing up Ceinid, up the High Street and to the town's cross, where, in the mid-afternoon's light many citizens were kneeling.

Hild said little, but led them past Aldgate, skirting the eastern wall of palace, a place Osthryth knew well, having leapt over it many times.

What was it that her shit of a brother was fond of saying, "Wid bid ful araed"...? "Fate is inexorable."...? So fate had brought her back to Winchester. But it was not the same place she had left, and the bitter memories of the time when Alfred died, up to when she left were diminishing as the sights she remembered were getting replaced in her visual memory with new ones. This was a new time, and her purpose at the capital city of Wessex was, though directly connected through Aedre, far different they had both left.

He also liked to say that reputation was all. Osthryth's reputation would hang under the cloud of her warriorship, of being Edward's whore, of the ghost of a rumour of witchcraft, which had, she reckoned, followed her right from Doire, where Osthryth herself had said begun it, trying all she had to defer Ninefingers.

The monastery was even more lavish than when Osthryth remembered. Two new sections had been added, and a third was under construction.

She glanced at the rooms built off the kitchens as Ceinid guarded their wake. This was the last place she had seen the abbess, the infirmary, when she was beyond despair, as Gisela, on her feet, screaming with pain at the difficulty of the birth, had called for Osthryth to fetch help. Now, long shadows fixed the place in her mind.

She knew what Hild meant, though the holy woman would not openly say it. Nothing the nuns had done could help the baby in breech, his little feet appearing at times, but wouod disappear and would not turn.

Did Hild recognise Osthryth now? Constantine had written, or at least, Mairi might have, or a priest or monk on his behalf - Constantine resisted writing whenever he could - so Hild would know she was Osthryth. She kept her hair short now, short since the day she had given up on Winchester, her hair that Finan had so admired discarded on the lodging floor, Uhtred's silver sewn into her clothes. What she had not banked on was the scream from Beocca and Thyra's home that afternoon, nor the fire, her rescue of Beocca's wife and Thyra giving birth in Ula's house.

And now she was here, with her theft - Aedre. What would Beocca say when he discovered the truth? Would he anger, or understand?

At the threshold of the oak-framed hall doorway, the abbess paused, looking at Ceinid.

"No weapons," she said. Ceinid who, of course, did not understand, remained unmoved.

"You may not bring weapons into this house!" Hild declared again. "No warriors!"

"No warriors?" Osthryth repeated tersely, having neglected to translate for Ceinid, and so he remained armed. She made a show of turning. "Then I go, all the way back to Alba." She looked at Ceinid, and then down at Aedre.

"We have had a wasted journey, nighean àlainn," she half whispered. At the Gaelish words for "lovely girl", Ceinid also looked at Aedre, who had turned with Osthryth. But then she stopped at Hild's protests.

"No, no!" the abbess protested, raising her hands, in protest.

"Ceinid is with me, Ceinid stays by my side, or this child will not see her father

And please tell me that godforsaken shite-arse Uhtred is not lurking around as he used to?"

"Uhtred?" Now, Hild looked puzzled, and she frowned at Osthryth. "Of Bebbanburg?"

"I also have, from the king of Alba," Osthryth pushed on, "A gift for the king of Wessex. Perhaps, as Constantine's warriors -" she spat the word bitterly, "Now you have decided we may not pass, we would please ask it if the abbess could afford as much majesty proportional to the value of the gift when you present it to Edward?"

Osthryth was enjoying the conflicting emotions of outrage and shock that her blunt words had elicited on Hild's face for the barest of moments, before kindness irradiated from it, as it always did, and Osthryth eased the wool blanket off her shoulder, which she had been carrying, bundked up with cord. Within, the book glowed in the late afternoon candle-light.

Hild's face froze; her mouth dropped open as she looked at the leather cover, and extended a hand to turn it, and look at the pages.

"A bible...!" She managed. Osthryth tok, marvelled at the pafes, illuminated in vivid colours, as had the bible painted at Kells under the instruction of Mael Muire.

"An Irish bible.." Hild said, turning more. An animal-formed decoration bordered each page, opening their mouths to breathe the word of God onto a page, or lift a paw to reveal further gospel scripture.

"It is..." Hild looked between it and Osthryth, "Spectacular...!"

"Is toil leatha i," Osthryth said to Ceinid. "She likes it."

"Chan fheum mi Angelsc a bhruidhinn gus sin fhaicinn, nighean!" Ceinid replied, wryly. "I don't have to know Anglish to see that, girl!"

"Tha an t-acras orm," Aedre whispered, looking imploringly at Osthryth. "I'm hungry."

"You ate on the carriage, look," Osthryth dropped to Aedre's height, the words in English not solely intended for the girl. "I have food for you -" Aedre brightened and looked expectant.

"I need you to visit someone here, then we will find a place for us to spend the night. You will have some in a minute - " Osthryth broke off for effect, still looking at Aedre, then pulling out half of tbe bread she had in the bundle. "Eat this now, and we will find you something in a short while. Yes?"

"Yes, Mama," Aedre replied, as if the food depended on her compliance, then took it, chewing on it, hungrily, her gold-red hair reflecting in the hall's candke-light. Then, Osthryth turned to Hild, proffering the wool blanket. Abbess Hild passed it to her, slowly, as if wishing it to remain in her fingers. Osthryth re-wrapped and shouldered it again.

"I have a child here, she needs to see her father, Abbess Hild," Osthryth said, again enjoying Hild's bemusement at an apparent stranger knowing more than they should. "Father Beocca." To her credit, Hild remained unmoved, even if she was surprised.

"Father Beocca is very unwell," she replied, holding Osthryth's gaze a fraction longer, considering Osthryth. "And the child's father's name?

"Beocca."

"Beocca is her father?"

"Does she not look like him?" Anger was getting to Osthryth now, and her phrases were becoming sharp, irritated.

"Or his wife?" Osthryth emphasised, "Thyra?" She gestured with her head to Ceinid to come, taking Aedre by the girl's free hand and walking across the hall, past Hild, still armed.

Beyond it, the sick were treated - Gisela had been treated and now Osthryth had worked up enough anger to overcome her aversion to stepping foot in that place again.

Footsteps on the stone floor suggested the abbess was following her.

"Just one moment!" Hild called. Osthryth. Osthryth ignored her and continued to step purposefully towards the infirmary. "A moment! You mentioned Uhtred!" Osthryth stopped, and turned.

"Shite-arsed Uhtred," Osthryth clarified, eyeing Hild, daring her to protest. "Tha bhràthair tuchdeen agam," she added, for Ceinid's benefit. He smirked.

"Uhtred of Bebbanburg?" Hild tried.

"Do you know another?"

I do not."

"He is not with you?" Osthryth pressed, tersely. Beside her, Ceinid raised his head as he recognised the word Bebbanburg. "For it is likely that I will kill him."

"Fairford, near the Temes, is his Mercian estate," said Hild, brightly.

Osthryth felt the sigh leave her body, in utter, utter relief. She imagined, for a second, his men with him, sitting with him, Finan close. She dashed Finan's face from her mind.

Were he here, Uhtred would have demanded to know why she had a child with her that she claimed to be Beocca. If Osthryth let him, for her festering rage was being pricked merely being in Wessex's capital.

"Forgive me, before you see Beocca, may I know your name?" Hild could see she was defeated.

You do not know me?"

"I do not. The letter merely mentioned King Constantine's loyal servant." Osthryth looked around the hall, a gesture conveying her belligerance, hiding her fear.

"This is impressive, Abbess Hild. Donations, I presume, now the Danes have ceased raiding? Wessex wealthier?" By Hild's expression, Osthryth was right. "Not like I remember, this too much." She glanced around at the fittings - wall hangings of rich wool, the polished oak table and lintels, also of oak. "You have done a great deal in six years." She continued by appraising the tapestry mat-rugs by the altar, the candle holders, the higher quality habits of the nuns bustling through laying the long oak table in the hall with tin plates and cups.

"I do know you!" Hild said, suddenly. She had got there, Osthryth realised, and gave the abbess no opportunity to say.

"I fled, on the day of Alfred's funeral, Abbess Hild, I went home. Tha mi à Alba," she added, for Ceinid's benefit. "The day that - " Osthryth hesitayed, but managed, " - Aethelwold sent a man to aggravate Thyra, to set their house alight." Hild's mouth fell open for a second time.

"That cannot be." Hild's composure returned and she carefully offered the presumed alternative, the accepted story. "Thyra, God preserve her soul, perished in that fire."

"No!" Osthryth's voice was loud, and it echoed through the hall. "No, she did not." She dropped Aedre's hand and stalked stiffly towards Hild, her voice low, menacing. "I followed; I fought the man; I took Thyra to the heathen, to Ula...she was delivered of a child."

Osthryth turned away, teeth clenched. It was as much as she could stand. Instead, she glared into the darkening annexe - the late autumn night was falling. Silence hung around them as metal on oak clinked farther away.

As Osthryth made to take up Aedre's hand, Hild bent her knees, crouchimg to look at the child, reaching up a hand to touch Aedre's golden-red hair. Then looked slowly up, belief written in her face.

I will claim sanctuary, Osthryth thought, if we are hindered. Then, I will fight, if I must. I will not remain here to hang as a pagan or a witch. Aedre, who will know her father tonight, then will return with me to Constantine tomorrow. Ceinid will...

...what would Ceinid do?

As her mind reformulated a plan, Hild rose and trod towards the infirmary.

"Come, bring the child. Beocca may see his daughter yet." They followed, but Hild stopped, suddenly, hand on the doorknob. She had stopped struggling with the something she wanted to remember.

"Osthryth," Osthryth confirmed, helpfully.

"Osthryth of Alba?" Hild tested.

"Osthryth of Alba," she nodded, "Osthryth of Bebbanburg."