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

13. Alba

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Chapter 13

A steady stream of people were making their way through the gates. From a position between two trees in the woods, Osthryth watched as the poor from the surrounding village: young and old, in ones and twos, or little groups were admitted into the castle.

It had long been a custom that Christmas food was given to these people, and they would, in turn, offer blessings on their lord for his generous gift. Which king, Osthryth did not know. Griogair had reported Domhnall's accession to the throne, and his coronation, yet he was Eochaid's kingmaker Giric, and his word was untrustworthy.

For all Osthryth knew, he was leading more Strathclydians and allying with the Norse to reinforce Dunnortar for Eochaid against Domhnall.

Osthryth just hoped that, whoever it was behind the walls there were warriors ready for the surprise attack that was to come.

It was remarkable what your brain thinks about in an emergency. Osthryth had been thinking about possible numbers of warriors within the fortress and, afterwards, could never have recounted just how she had crept from the forest to the postern gate, the best way to the kitchens and the armoury.

Just as she twisted the latch, Osthryth wondered whether, with the amount of people keen to bless their lord's generosity, Norsemen in disgyise might easily have walked straight in.

Osthryth raked her fingers through her shoulder length hair, dislodging twigs and leaves, massaging her scalp as she compelled her tired brain to work

And then, in the armour, she caught sight of her own reflection. Not much distinguished Osthryth from those poor wretches coming to collect their best meal of the year. She knew exactly how to stand before the king.

Joining the seemingly unending line of poor, Osthryth stood behind a family of five and was immediately joined by an elderly couple. The old woman was being supported by her husband as snow flurries danced around them.

Firewood, or a licence to collect it would be as valuable as food, and one or two people had emerged from Dunnottar with bundles wrapped up in thin wool blankets.

She was hungry. Having eaten that morning, Osthryth knew that it would not take much to convince anyone she was ravenous and she shuffled further inside, past the huge, thick oak outer gates, past the inner gates and further alobg.

Despite the cold, the main distribution of the food seemed to be putside. Part of the courtyard had been covered with richly-decorated cloths that Osthryth recognised as having been in the throne room in King Aed's time. Beneath it, many high-backed wooden chairs were arranged in a circle.

Through the candles, which were lighting the passage, she could not make put who was sitting there, nor make out the guards, and Osthryth fought to have patience and not blow her cover.

A few more steps, and Osthryth's heart began loosen: she recognised a few of the guards: they looked to be the same guards who had served Aed, yet this did norlt preclude Eochaid, for he may just have inherited the guards.

But that face did. Right in the centre of the seats, with another smaller face looking almost identical to the king, was Domhnall. His long limbs and long face, his black hair with his uncle's circlet atop, all told her so, and suddenly, Osthryth felt her legs shake, her hips wobble, as the desire to run, to scream her happiness to her king felt overwhelming.

Osthryth felt an arm lift her up before she hit the floor.

"Soon be there, laddie," the man's voice encouraged, smiling kindly at Osthryth. "The king is in a good mood today: tell them you have family too

weak to join. You will, like as not, get a wood licence.

Osthryth shook herself, blinking hard before turning to thank the man. Domhnall was there! She could tell him!

As the line inched forward more, doubts became lodged in Osthryth's mind. Would he be pleased to see her? Was she meant to have remained in Caer Ligualid?

Yet, Griogair was with the Strathclyde Cymry and Norse: there, with Alba's enemy, not here supporting his lord, if Domhnall really was king.

Moving further forward, Osthryth's mind began to race. What should she do? Four people, another wood licence...three...two...

And there was Ceinid. Stolid, reliable Ceinid, face impassive. She needed to speak to Ceinid.

It began to snow. The family before her huddled closer together as the elderly couple in front of them shuddered before Domhnall, who beckoned behind him. The woman was sheltering in the man's arms seemed poorly dressed and a word to Constantine brought forth a cloak which Domhnall himself swung over the woman's shoulders.

At that moment, Osthryth ducked. She twisted behind the two younger children and was standing before the head of Domhnall's household guard.

To his credit, Ceinid did not express surprise. What he did do, having noted Osthryth's dress and blade, was to grab around her arms and point his own sword at her throat.

Osthryth tried to struggle, but this only caused the man to grip her tighter, wrestling her away from the king and to a wall away from the proceedings.

Efficient, deft. Professional. Reliable. Osthryth knew she was right to trust in him.

"Tell me your intentions towards the king," he hissed by her ear, blade on her skin. Osthryth relaxed.

"To save his life, Ceinid," she replied. And, the head of Domhnall's guard slowly lowered his knife. Osthryth closed her eyes, relief coursing through her. "To save Domhnall mac Caustin's life."

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8

Ceinid took Osthryth across the courtyard, arm screwed behind her back. To look as if she was being apprehended was indeed the best way.

Osthryth forced herself not to look at Taghd, as they passed the king - Domhnall was still issuing gifts to his subjects had not turned. If she did, Osthryth knew she would run to him, and this would risk Domhnall's anger. Then her news of impending danger would be lost, and so might he.

But she did turn, as they reached tge guardsroom and saw Feargus's flame red hair glowing in the snowlight. Osthryth's heart picked up the pace as she glimpsed Taghd's head, too, almost a white as the flakes that drifted around them.

Ever the practical, Ceinid had ordered Ealasaid to bring a copper of water, and food and had turned away as Osthryth peeled off the damp clothes in which she had travelled. She turned away from Ceinid, trying to hide her body. She unwound the bindings that Eirik had wrapped, carefully and firmly around her breasts, a strange feeling of freedom on her chest.

Her body had been damaged by Griogair, and she felt ashamed. But, more than that, she did not know where Domhnall's authority ended at Caer Ligualid and Griogair's began.

Thankfully, the man she trusted most laid new clothes to one side, and sat with his back to Osthryth, looking out of the steel bars of the small window, and told her of King Domhnall.

After being crowned at Dunadd, Ceinid had met him at Scone, on his red, sandstone rock brought all the way from Tara, with a select group of guard, so as to not raise suspicion. He had assured Domhnall that the household was loyal to him and Domhnall had marched on Dunnottar with Feilim's Picts, Griogair's men including the Caimbeulaich, Strathclydians - once loyal to Eochaid - who had been snubbed by their king and had sworn to Domhnall instead.

The battle had made Eochaid flee, Ceinid continued, as Osthryth bathed her body and then she told him what she had learbed in Caer Ligualid. Ceinid merely nodded.

"But Griogair...Giric...is Domhnall's ally," Osthryth pressed.

"Maybe he is," Ceinid replied. "I cannot tell. His men instigated the rebellion to allow Domhnall to escape at Glaschu."

Osthryth said nothing for a moment as she thought about that night, Finnolai waking her, their fleeing to boats to sail for Iona in the darkness. Was he merely playing them both, kingmaking for them both, only to try to claim the throne solely for himself. She suggested this to Ceinid.

"It makes sense," the head guard conceded, his black hair glowing in the candlelight. He was still facing the window. "Griogair - Giric - could not unite all kingdoms under all men: he is not Uì Àlpin where Eochaid and Domhnall are. And then, in Caer Ligualid, attempting to woo the Danish king there."

"And he has almost managed it," Osthryth dropped her voice, as she imagined the man grasping first at Eochaid's Strathclydians, then the Picts when they met at Dunadd; meeting Domhnall at Iona amd ingratiating himself with the Gaels. Then, with the appointed king at Cumbraland...

"No," Ceinid shot back. "He may have been trying to do that. But none of those peoples would remain united under a man who his not a noble!" He turned to face Osthryth. "For heavens' sake, Osthryth, it would be like you trying to - "

Osthryth stopped in gettingvout of the bathwater, seeing Ceinid's face. He had glimpsed her body. He did not turn back.

"Who - did this to you, Osthryth?" He said, each word heavy as lead. Osthryth reached for the linen sheet and wrapped it around her body. She held his gaze and refused to look away.

"I will not tell you. For he may be part of Domhnall's plan. Amd I will not be responsible for Domhnall's downfall." She watched as Ceinid's face turn to anger. He was angry with her.

"And you would cheat me?" Osthryth denanded. Ceinid looked confused.

"You trained me - you taught me how to fight, what strokes give mercy and which cause slow, agonising deaths. You would deny me my revenge?" When he said nothing, Osthryth added, "So I cannot tell you. But believe me when I meet him again - and I will - I will kill him."

Ceinid said nothing for a moment, and, when he moved, bowed his head briefly.

"I will inform the king you are here," Ceinid concluded, striding to the door of the guardroom. "And of your intelligence. There will be a battle tomorrow, then." His eyes flicked to a bed built beside the fire. "Rest here."

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Osthryth did not remember sleeping. The warmth from the now burned-out fire was what she remembered as the early grey sky peered through the guardroom's bars with the same intensity as Ceinid had peered out of it.

She was warm, warmer than she had remember feeling in a long time, and it was no wonder, for she had piled upon her four blankets, and the fire's wood had to have been replenished in the night.

Osthryth folded the blankets back, and got up, in her new set of clothing. Buaidh was waiting, leaning inocuously, against the fireplace. Ceinid had definitely noticed her blade and definitely not asked why she had this one and not Faedersword.

As she ate the food - bread and milk - hidden by a linen cloth on the shelf above the fire, she watched as soldiers - Ceinid's men, each one trained, lined up in the courtyard.

Others would join them, Osthryth knew. But how long until they arrived? She had given estimates of both the Norse and Strathclydian numbers - around a thousand - and Osthryth knew that Domhnall could more than match that figure.

But, did he have time? It was Yule. The newly-apppointed lords would be resting in halls and castles the nation over and, with little time to summon them before the battle may begin, how many did Domhnall actually have to all on? Half that number? It wouldn't be enough.

Unless Domhnall had means of calling more, and he himself had defeated Eochaid, or rather, displaced Eochaid in winter: Domhnall was very aware of out-of-season battle strategy.

And, what of herself? Would she go out into the courtyard to be amongst Ceimid's men? In theory, her marriage was meant to bring Guthred's men in an alliance to Domhnall. One of her was not the same as an army of Cumbraland fighters.

So she watched the army leave the courtyard, no doubt to wait for battle. If Osthryth were to guess Ceinid's strategy, he would hide the men, to increase confusion within the Norse and Griogair, for though they knew she was heading Dunnottar, there was no telling if she had actually reached the fortress. It was what she would do, if she were in charge.

Waiting in the guardroom was not Osthryth's style, however, and she soon left the warm room after making the bed - Ceinid's bed, Osthryth reckoned - but the chief warrior to Domhnall had not slept there that night, and stepped into the chill morning.

Few people were around, so Osthryth decided to walk within the grounds, which felt stupid, but she could hardly burst into the throne room with a flourish and announce she was back.

But, it was too much. Too many decisions were being made around Osthryth: she could see securities being made around the inner palace by way of iron fittings and oak boards. Servants were being ushered indoors and the animals being locked away.

If it had been up to her - if cunning by means of surprising the enemy due to lack of numbers was Domhnall's or Ceinid's plan, leaving as much normal activity going on was vital: the castle should be seen to be operating as normal. A deserted castle was an obvious giveaway

.

The tower beside the kitchens, however, had not been boarded. The gap which led up on the outside of the brickwork was still open.

Osthryth had climbed up between the inner and outer walls more times than she could remember when she was living at the fortress, when she would hide from Constantine, and she slipped inside now, and ascended, a foot on each wall, inching up until she was at tbe very top. The effort was always worth it for she could see a lot up there. Much better.

Down in the second courtyard, beyond the guardroom, Osthryth could see Ceinid's - Domhnall's - army. It looked as if its numbers had increased and Osthryth wondered who had joined them. People from the town, perhaps?

Behind her, the Forth river flowed, and on the southern bank the eminent and formidable monastery of Culdees stood, its inhabitants just about within Osthryth's vision. The monks would fight with Domhnall, she supposed.

The cold, winter's wind whipped past her head as Osthryth turned to look the other way. It was there, in the forests to the north and to the west that the Strathclydians must have slept that night, and the Norse too.

Assuming Domhnall now knew that the Norse posed a threat, he should also surmuse that, though they may have sworn alliegance to Eochaid, Eirik and Siegfried would as easily renege on the pledge if it looked as if Domhnall's cousin was losing. And, whyever not, Eirik would say. What can they do about it?

Whyever not.

As she watched the horizons, Osthryth could see that men were coming to Dunnottar. Slowly, throughout the morning armies came to the fortress, and she saw them approach, stop, get escorted in, and add themselves to Domhnall's men

.

At mid-morning, men marched through the eastern gates. The Picts - Cruithin, they called themselves - lived in that region, Dunnottar being their historical capital.

Many would have been at Glen Orchy, Griogair's stronghold, meeting Domhnall and pledging to him; accompanying him to Dunadd.

They were there for Domhnall, and each with their lords, who had, by Ceinid's testimonty, had knelt to Domhmall at Scone. To keep each region's leaders as lords, all had been made equal to one anothet under Domhnall's kingship. To Osthryth's mind, it was very clever. No man coming to Dunnottar that morning would feel compromised or conflicted by his loyalty - Domhnall had not killed leaders to impose his will over them, instead, he. had welcomed them as participants in one land north of the Tuide river.

Osthryth looked over the battlement, following a group of warriors along a path through the moorland...as she watched, they neared, but the gates were closed and though they banged on the east gate. She looked further, and realised this group had been turned away, and were now standing around outside the fortress.

And, what would she do? Would she go back to the guardroom? Or would she dress for battle and fight? For Osthryth, there was no choice. She was here for no other reason than Domhnall. Well, one other. Perhaps even two.

The courtyard was now deserted as she crossed the muddy cobbles. Back to the guardroom, find armour. Get someone to help her with it. And when she did find it, Osthryth had difficulty finding it to fit, let alone to fasten.

Osthryth put it all down with a clatter on tbe floor before whipping off her shirt. Of course. She gad arrived at Dunnottar as a twelve tear old; fought in Cobstantine's armour. Had barely any time to find anything to wear at Doire or Caer Ligualid. Eirik's suggestion of bindings was very practical, and she tried her best to tether in her breasts, so they would at least fit the tabard-style torso armour.

Find Ceinid, Osthryth thought, as she strode from the guardroom. Join his men. Be at the centre of things. Find Griogair. And, for her king and for herself, she would make him die, slowly and painfully.

As she rounded the corner, she banged into someone. Osthryth stepped back as his hand stretched out towards her, marching her back into the entrance of the guardroom.

"Are you not supposed to be with the guard?" he demanded. "We are assembling on the battlefield!"

Osthryth said nothing. She just stared at the warrior, who whipped a hand across her helmet and threw it from her head. She couldn't help it. He was a big reason for escaping Caer Ligualid.

"Who are you - " Taghd demanded. Then simply stared at Osthryth, as if he had never seen her before.

"Osthryth," he managed, after what seemed like a hundred years.

"Yes," she breathed. Taghd of Doire was as handsome as ever she remembered. His hair, pulled back for battle, emphasised his face; his cheekbones, his bright blue eyes. Osthryth's husband.

"You're here."

Don't you know? Osthryth wanted to ask. What did Ceinid say to Domhnall? What had Griogair told you to get you to leave? The truth?

"You left Caer Ligualid," Osthryth replied.

"I have been with the king since Christmas E'en; Ceinid made no mention of you. He did make mention of a Strathclydian-Norse army."

Not mentioned her to Domhnall? The king did not know Osthryth was at Dunnottar. And, at that moment, Osthryth felt herself smiling, broadly and joyfully. "The king!" she exclaimed. "Domhnall's the king!"

"We were told to return to him." Taghd answered Osthryth's question before she had even found the words "You were to be left behind to complete work for Domhnall."

"Well, if the king decreed it, I did not fulfil it," Osthryth replied, watching his features, waiting for his expression to tell her Domhnall had intended her to marry Guthred, or that Taghd knew. "I left, in a manner of speaking."

To Osthryth's amazement, Taghd smiled a broad, and he placed his handson her forearms. She smiled back, her pleasure at seeing the warrior again, who she had known since she had got to Dunnottar, had fought shoulder-to-shoulder unquestioningly, as they did their jobs, as they fought Aed's and Domhnall's enemies.

Osthryth remembered the tall, blonde haired warrior, having crept into Gormlaith's affections and into her bed at Ard Macha, chancing on him one night, trousers down in the stables at Doire working himself into bodily exhaustion after the news the princess had been betrothed.

Then, as they had travelled to Tara, to Muire's wedding, to the appointment of the next High King, Taghd had chosen to speak the handfast, just at that moment, with Niall Glundubh on his shoulders: "I will be your fear as wed...until harvest next, be only in your thoughts, only in your heart and only a hand away..."

...and Osthryth had promised to be his bean as wed...

It had taken for them to be on the mission to Cumbraland for Osthryth to realise he was in her thought, and that he had been for a long time been in her heart.

A "geas", that was what it called; a spiritual obligation. And, to who? To who they had promised, the goddess, the land. The Morrigan.

And, somehow, her heart and mind had followed her words for Osthryth loved Taghd of Doire from her very soul, with all her might.

Osthryth was aware this man was looking at her.

And she pulled Taghd towards her, and saw the look of astonishment on his face. She felt light-headed, as though her feet weren't touching the floor. The world became...simpler. It was tunnel, leading to the future. There was nothing to see but Taghd's cold face, nothing to hear but her own breathing, nothing to feel but the warmth of the sun on her hair.

It wasn't the fiery globe of summer, but it was still much bigger than any bonfire could be.

Where this takes me, I choose to go, Osthryth told herself, letting the warmth of his lips, his hands, his body pour into her as she stood on tiptoe to reach him. It only lasted for a second, her mouth on his, but it could have been a thousand years. Osthryth then took a few steps back, breaking from his arms.

She had told him. But, he may not wish it. Harvest was a mere eight months away: then their obligation, if it really existed at all, would be over.

What Taghd did next surprised her. "Osthryth," he said quietly, his hands open towards her. "From the day you defended Constantine when he hid in that boat. You were so determined...for me, my hand-vows were - are - true. Tha gaol agam ort. I love you."

"Then, we should..." she replied, her sentence trailing off. For Guthred and her flight from Caer Ligualid were far from her mind. Yet one concern, locked away within her, was coming to her fore-mind.

But, before she could finish, Taghd pulled Osthryth to him, his strong arms enclosing around her, his lips on hers, kissing her hard, kissing her for such a long time she wondered why it was light when surely the rest of the day had just passed by.

"I can't believe you are here," Taghd whispered by her ear. "Are you wed?"

"Only to you. It is that which saved me." Taghd looked at her carefully, an expression a mixture of incredulity and amazement. "It bought me time," Osthryth added, then the words tumbled out.

"They demanded I fight for my freedom against a captured Norse warlord. I won; they imprisoned us both. And then an angel came."

"An angel?" Taghd frowned. But Osthryth could not keep from smiling.

"Who is the one person that made us whole? Made us four complete?"

"...Finnolai...?" The astonishment in Taghd's voice made Osthryth beam.

"He is safe; he is well. And he freed us before...anything happened." Taghd looked at her, in silence.

"He is well, Taghd," Osthryth reiterated. He pulled her close, one soldier to another, relief in his grasp that their comrade in arms lived.

"I knew, in my heart, he lived", Taghd breathed, the first he had ever said of Finnolai since he had disappeared at Teamreach. "He escaped the slavers, then." Osthryth drew away. He knew?

"Domhnall and Flann Sinna plotted together," Osthryth told him. "To purify the throne of all Alba of sin; to get rid of Domnall's sister, Ethne."

"Flann's first wife." Taghd nodded.

"And me," Osthryth cautioned.

"You?"

"Do you not think I am a burden, an inconvenience? I am not truly a warrior, in his eyes, I am not Gaelish, nor a man. And Constantine is too attentive. So, marry me off to the King of Cumbraland, the puppet-king of Deria, so I may be a useful pawn."

She watched Taghd's face as she spoke, and anger grew in her stomach. He knew! Knew of the arrangement made to gift her to Guthred! Feargus would have too, and neither had tried to come back for her. Then it cooled. Even though she had tried, Osthryth couldn't even feel angry at Domhnall. That is, if it wasn't just Griogair's idea on his own.

"What are you going to do now?" Taghd asked, pulling away from Osthryth, but keeping hold of her hands.

"Are you to fight?

"

"Yes, with Domhnall. More men are joining us; the king expected an attack from Eochaid; Giric is his intelligence." At this, Osthryth took a step towards him. She looked at Taghd severely, taking his arm.

"Giric - Griogair - is feeding Domhnall's information to both Eochaid and to the authorities in Cumbraland!" Osthryth declared. outraged. "He was speaking in confidence to the abbot and made it clear he sought the throne for himself!"

"Then we must tell Domhnall! Taghd turned to go. But Osthryth put a hand on his shoulder.

"I have, already. Ceinid."

And then Taghd took her up in his arms, and held her. It felt good, very good and Osthryth's heart glowed.

"Taghd, I want to be with you, I want us to be married, to you for my life." Her face was earnest, hopeful, waiting. He pushed her away. But it was not rejection. Taghd was looking into her eyes.

"Truly?"

"I will give up bring a warrior, should you wish it," Osthryth added. It was a huge concession. But Taghd laughed.

"Never! You would never give up being a warrior - it is in your heart. Osthryth," he said again, much more softly this time, his lips gentle now as he pressed his to hers once more.

Life with Taghd would make life much better than life without him. Osthryth knew he loved her now, and would love with all his heart this infant growing mightily inside her. Constantine's. It could only be Constantine's, when they had loved so vigorously at Glen Orchy.

Taghd's lips, now, told Osthryth that, as she knew he would not demand her off the battlefield, he would accept the child. They could house it, perhaps, with a nurse and a tutor, do what single warriors did with their children.

"I need to tell you - " But Taghd stifled her words with a kiss.

"Stay here, ghrà mo chroì," Taghd whispered by her ear, afterwards. "Please let this be the battle you will not fight in, and after, we can discuss."

"Discuss?" Osthryth asked. Taghd stared back at her now and, she wanted him to take her, take her into the guardroom, close the door, fuck her like they owned every moment of time.

"You wish what I wish? To be together, for always, no matter what?" Osthryth nodded, then added, as her mind resolved the words. "Yes, Taghd of the Anlech. Tha thu mo fear."

"Tha thu mo bean," he replied.

"I want to be with you for always" Osthryth pressed. They stood away from one another, their fingers the last to part.

"Then stay here, and for the one and only time I ask, wait for me, Osthryth."

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Salt water dried on her cheeks. It was the sea, Osthryth told herself, the spray of the waves flinging themselves against the fishing boat. It was inevitable she was here, now, fleeing Scotland. Everything that had led up to that moment had been inevitable.

Osthryth had done what Taghd had asked of her. She had returned to the guardroom and waited. Waited, as she heard the faint sounds of distant thuds - horses hooves perhaps.

She stayed as long as she could in the guardrolm as battle sounds permeated the walls. The sound of the war cry came, the low gurgling, menacing whoop as men drove themselves into battle. Metallic arms clashed as men fought men to defend and challenge Domhnall's throne.

Almost everyone she cared for stood before the Strathclydians, before Eichaid and Griogair. Before Eirik and Siegfried.

Tbe pale sun had snuck out from behind thin clouds as Osthryth could remain no more and she took a long walk around the courtyard and to the stables.

Taghd had smiled that radiant smile of his, like the sunniest of summer days, in the harvest months when easy good weather makes life seem easy.

She was to wake up beside him every day, having loved him, and him having loved her in the night before, and Osthryth's mind wandered to fantasy, as she thought of his hands on her body, his mouth on her neck, her shoulder, her breasts. Of his cock inside her, as he arched his back to give her pleasure, as she squeezed her pelvic muscles to pleasure him. It would be loving sex, between a husband and wife, not functional, unequal sex like with Constantine.

The sound of battle was getting louder now, and Osthryth could stand it no longer. She crossed to the tower and shinned up the inner walls to the top. It was as good a view as she could get, though she could not see much.

But what she did see made her stare. It looked as if men, the small group who had been denied entry to Dunnottar fortress that morning, were now crossing to the battlefield, prepared with helmet, shield, sword. If they were those who had beem unwelcomed - and the generous Domhnall welcomed everyone - then they were a threat.

She shinned between the walls, swinging through a small gap between them, ending up on the outside. Ten feet from the floor, the men were still below, and Osthryth hoped they weren't about to move, for she was about to drop down onto them, and fight and the ground was frozen solid.

It was a mere dozen people. Osthryth dropped from the lower ledge, Buaidh unscabbarded as she launched her attack. A lot of Cruithin swear words came from the two Picts she had landed on as she stabbed and thrust her sword at them, catching one over the arm, another on the face.

Two more men had fallen on Osthryth to attack her, which was proving difficult as she moved quicker then them and they ended up hitting one another. Another punch came which landed in the gut, but Osthryth ducked a sword thrust, which rebounded off the solid mud.

"Bitch!" one of the men growled in Pictish Cymric , and to Osthryth's astonishment it was a face she knew.

"Felim?" The Pictish leader, who she first met at Glen Orchy stopped his sword thrust, pushing back another warrior as he made for her legs.

"Osthryth! Last time I saw you, you were in a coracle with three bastard warriors!" She took a few steps back, nodding at the welcome nevertheless, but still aware that Domhnall had barred his door to them.

"Uunst," she acknowledged. "Drest..."

"Why did you attack us...girl?" another warrior asked, looking her up and down.

"You were refused as part of Domhnall's army," Osthryth accused, her sword still aloft. "You are his enemy!"

"We were refused," conceded Feilim, his arm towards his men, as if to shield them from attacking her. One was readying a seax. "But we are loyal."

"Loyal to Giric? Griogair?"

"No!" Feilim replied. "I think Domhnall believes so, however." A couple of words passed between him and Uunst, too quick for Osthryth to hear.

"But we are loyal," Feilim said. "We decided to join him, fighr for him anyway."

"Yet, Griogair is Pictish, is he not? And Domhnall your Gaelish enemy?" This time Uunst pushed past their leader.

"And that's as might be, girl, but Feilim has been made Lord Feilim when he knelt to him at Scone, the very centre of the Pictish, Dal Riadan and Strathclyde territories." Uunst weighed the sword betwwen his hands. "Did you know that, in all the things you know? Did you know Ceinid Mac Àlpin had equal Pictish and Gaelish blood?" Osthryth said nothing for a moment, but lowered her sword.

"Lord Feilim, if you swear you are for Domhnall, not Griogair, go, then, and fight for the king!" He was causing division for he sought Domhnall's throne. And this was just part of that.

Feilim turned and looked over his shoulder, his blonde-yellow hair swinging in the cold midday, nodding to his men, then pointing with his sword

.

"You honour your king well, Bernician girl," Feilim acknowledged, emphasising her origin. The Picts had lost their land to Osthryth's ancestors when Ida invaded. He turned and led the men across the hard path of frozen mud to where Domhnall was. When they were far enough ahead, Osthryth followed. She could keep her eye on them, attack if necessary. And approached the battlefield.

The fight seemed to have come to an end, Osthryth thought, as she stalked behind the Pictish warriors. Few battle sounds could be heard, no clashing of blade or roaring of warriors.

Getting to the clearing, Osthryth soon saw why, and recoiled at the horror: so many dead, on both sides, so many fallen. Now, men from both sides were collecting the bodies of their army, clearing the battlefield of their comrades, of their warriors, whole or in pieces.

Was it over? If so, who had won? Osthryth scanned the field as best she could: no Norse, if any. Clearly Siegfried was playing a numbers game, allowing both Cymric-Gaelish armies to diminish their warriors before being attacked by the Northman army, full rested and fresh for the fight with whichever army was victorious

.

Which was not clear. It was not obvious if one side was triumphant, or whether the battle was over at all.

There seemed to be a break in the fighting. Many men, presumably Strathclydians, had fallen, and men who Ceinid had marched out that morning. Ceinid was clearing the field as was a general, presumably of Eochaid's, was doing the sake for their warriors. The conflict had been bloody, and costly. And it was not over, for more Strathclydians flooded from between the trees to the clearing.

Buaidh's handle was in hers as she surveyed the battlefield. Apart from the blooded bodies, or parts of bodies, for the dead or dying, warriors stood about in groups, each around one man.

And the one man around who a group of some particular men were gathered was Domhnall.

Osthryth saw Griogair first. Beside the king, he was talking, pointing towards the woods, then back to the castle. Domhnall then stepped around to speak to his men, one man - Constantine, Osthryth presumed - who was a little shorter than his cousin, and much taller than she remembered.

No longer did he fight in the armour he used to have, that Osthryth fought in, disguised as him when Domhnall killed Ivarr the Boneless. He looked as magnificent as his Domhnall too, and his other cousin - Domnall - who was standing on Constantine's right, waiting patiently.

She also knew Feargus and Taghd's shape, standing as they were, on the other side of Domhnall and it was suddenly clear to Osthryth what Domhnall was trying to do: reform the fighting line so they could continue to war against Eochaid.

She would have to wait, Osthryth told herself, wait until he gave himself away. Behind her, the fighting had begun. Osthryth could see the Cruithin led by Feilim, slip into Domhnall's ranks. They were true to their word, at least.

Next to Domhnall, Constantine fought. It had been little more than a year before Domhnall had been berating Constantine for his lack of skill. She had not seen him at the battle behind ColmCille's monastery at Doire. But now he was magnificent, anticipating his opponents' moves: a feint here, a duck and parry there. All Ceinid had taught him had finally come together, as a chrysalis causes a caterpillar's to come together to become a butterfly.

A thought at the back of her mind caused Osthryth to look something, something which was - not right.

A spear brushed past her head and into the shoulder of the warrior next to her. Osthryth ducked, striking a Strathclydian in the back, pushing Buaidh deep between his shpulder blade. Her blade came out easily, and the man thumped at her feet.

But, no, something was still wrong...

As the men reassembled, Osthryth noticed Griogair was not with them. Instead, he was heading towards the forest, in the direction of the settlement. Osthryth wiped Buaidh on the grass and followed him.

The dense wood gave Osthryth ample opportunity to desert the battle and follow the traitor. Along the path of frosen, mulched dead leaves she trod, ice crumbling beneath her foot, which might otherwise have signalled to a more alert man that he was being pursued.

But Griogair did not turn. Instead, he pressed on, to where villagers were not. Battle, so most were barred within their homes. Or, Osthryth noticed, within the church.

Outside its tall, wooden doors two monks were speaking to one another. Osthryth did not recognise either. They were in discussion with Griogair as villagers were entering the church, children to hand, belongings wrapped in cloth. Was one of them a family of heathen? Bach's family? She hoped so.

Osthryth tried to edge forward to catch some of their conversation, but even on this cold, clear day, their voices didn't carry as far as to where she was hidden. She tried to creep further forward as monks joined the villagers in the church, but it was pointless, for Griogair was striding off towards the battle again.

Both monks, an abbot perhaps, for he held a tall staff with an intricate carving, at the top, then entered the church, closing the doors behind them.

That was shrewd, Osthryth thought, as the battle behind them increased in its intensity. The Gaels were screaming and crying their charge; the Cymry of Strathclyde were using horns to incite fear into their enemies.

Those in the church would at least feel safe until the end of the battle and someone from the winning side could inform the monks that it was safe.

So, it was under that illusion that the church was safe when everything was safe that Osthryth missed what Griogair did next. If she had realised in time, perhaps she would have been able to stop him. But she couldn't get there in time once she had seen him throw a rag into the church, which immediately exploded into flames.

Before she could get there, Griogair had gone, and the sound of screams had begun. It was only later Osthryth realised that at least one of the two men Griogair had been talking to must have been complicit, for the door was barred on the outside, and the windows nailed shut.

Screams came from the wooden building as the flames took hold. There was no stream or water she could see and Osthryth raan about the building, trying to see a way to break in

The fire had not taken hold on the eastern side. Little wind was around even in that open clearing, and the main fire was consuming the oak timbers and excreting ash as it feasted. The screams of help were heartbreaking.

Standing as near as she could, Osthryth shouted into tbe burning building. "How many of you are there?"

A man's voice came from inside, and a face pressed against one of the barred windows. She could just see his cheej and one eye, and part of his ear-to-ear tonsure.

"Three dozen!" He shouted back. "Who did this, do you know?"

"Griogair mac Dungal!" Osthryth betrayed.

"That tuchdeen abbot!" The man raged. "I thought he was in the pay of someone. We just spoke to Giric." Yes, thought Osthryth, grimly. I bet he was the one who barred the door and ran off. She told the monk, whose name was Eoma, this.

"We can't get help! There is no way out!"

Osthryth stood back and tried Buaidh against some of the nailings, nut tgey were hard as iron, having been tarred in place. She tried the door, but was not strong enough to wrench the fixings free.

"I will get help, Eoma!" Osthryth shouted, racibg back round to the north east wall.

And, behind her, a second eruption of roars and steel clash came and she realised: the Norse had held back to await a weakened field and were now engaging.

How was she to help those in the church? Everyone who could help were in the battle. But, there had to be someone.

Charging through the field, she sought someone, anyone, who could break down the church door or wall. Behind her, a swipe of an axe felled a dense Cruithin warrior of Feilim's that she recognised from earlier, slicing the man's body from shoulder to hip. She plunged Buaidh into his groin. The Norseman staggered, but towards Osthryth, who cut towards his arm. He dropped the blade, then staggered to his knees.

She wasted no time in plunging Buaidh into the back of his neck, pausing briefly as the smell of burning wood diffused into her nostrils. Osthryth needed to find someone to help, but there was no-one who was not engaged in combat.

A step behind Osthryth gave away the plan of another Norseman which was presumably to kill her. She turned, Buaidh ready for victory.

The Northman came at her, too late for Osthryth to move, and parried her sword with his, knocking it from her hand. Osthryth ducked as he swiped at her with a horizontal blow, which was half an inch from her scalp.

As he swung round for another attempt Osthryth sprang for her blade, twisting on the ground. He lost focus for a moment amd Osthryth was up again. Then she saw the eyes of her opponent, bright blue, and knew exactly who it was.

Eirik. He saw her, but it was too late to avoid his blade and it came down hard on Osthryth's back. With a groan, she fell on all fours. It should have killed her, but perhaps he had recognised Osthryth, too, and done what he could to deflect the blow.

If he had recognised Osthryth, Eirik Thurgilson did not show it. She reached for Buaidh, but he kicked it from her hand, and was about to drive his sword into her gut.

But the stroke of death did not come. A man stepled over her with one foot, striking Eirik's blade out of her way.

And fought him.

Constantine was no longer a young boy and he was canny, swift and devious where Eiric fought with heart and strength, bigger than Constantine and sought to tire him.

But, Constantine was not easily tired. If he took after Domhnall and Domnall, he could and would fight for sustained periods, tiring his enemy out, with a cut here and a slash there, while being as quick and live as he had been at the very beginning of the combat.

Osthryth slithered from between Constantine's legs, and got up again, wielding Buaidh as the Norseman's sword was in a back-hand lunge.

"Eirik Thurgilson!" She cried, with all her might. "Eirik Thurgilson!" And unbelievably he heard her, turning away at the last moment with an obvious jerk. He looked right at Osthryth, ready to bring his blade down on her. But recognition passed across his eyes, and he nodded his head very briefly, before continuing to battle Constantine.

"Just keep going," Osthryth thought as loudly as she could to Constantine. "You have the stamina and you can be beaten!"

And then she fled. Because at that moment, Griogair was also fleeing - towards the Strathclydians, and to a man, unhelmeted, who looked with his long black hair, long face and flowing upper-lip moustache, almost exactly like Domhnall. The man who had hosted them at his palace at Glaschu. It was Eochaid.

Osthryth searched the field. She was aware the church still burned and people would be, if they hadn't already, losing their lives.

And she watched Griogair, after a few brief words to Eochaid, tear across the field to a group of warriors. Her heart sank as Feilim spoke to him, and beckoned his men on to follow him, as he followed Griogair, running after the man. And behind the Cruithin Picts followed Feargus. And Taghd.

They headed into the forest in the direction of the burning church amd hurried after them. Why was she watching Griogair take men to the fire when it was the one who had set it, he and the abbot. What was he taking them to the church for? The only reason Osthryth could think of was to diminish Domhnall's force.

Catching up with the men, Osthryth just had enough time to call out as they raced to the church.

It was an appalling scene. Only in the merest, weakest way could the church be described as a building. Clouds of smoke bubbled into the air as flame billowed like the scorching sails of a ship. And below, there was precious little hull. How anyone could survive, well...Osthryth feared no-one could.

"Taghd!" Her husband turned round, his expression telling that he was certainly not expecting her.

"He's not to be trusted! I saw him fire the church!"

"Osthryth!"

"I - " -couldn't help it, she was about to use, as an excuse for not staying in the guard room. She could help it. She could have waited for him, as he'd asked.

"It matters not - tell me later. I love you, Anglish girl." He looked at the stricken church. "Now help me free these people."

Whether anyone could have got past the front doors was doubtful, as they were outlined in red from the flames behind it, and were saved from consumption, and the inevitable influx of air which would have intensified the blaze even more.

Osthryth took Taghd to the nort-eastern wall, which was blackened, but was still holding up.

"Eoma!" Osthryth called, and was sure she got a reply, faintly and unintelligibly.

"Tale this!" Taghd demanded, thrusting his seax into her hand before using the pommel of his sword to throw his weight against the wood.

Holding his hand to his face, Osthryth could see that the flames were channelling upwards, towards the converging roof beams and spire. Closer to the ground, bodies huddled, and Taghd began to push himself along the mud floor, slushy and dense, for the heat of the fire had softened the ground.

"No!" Osthryth screamed, as flames licked around him. But, she had been determined to go in, if she could have got in, earlier. She used the seax to hack at the wood, a frustratingly slow process. At the north west wall of the church, Osthryth could see that Feargus and Drest were making a similar gain, and there was, amazingly, movement from the bodies who had bundled themselves up on the ground against the inferno.

And, as she was ready to pull out any persons that Taghd may get out, chipping away t the woodwork, a kick came to her legs, sweeping her down into the mud.

"You bitch!" The words were shouted behind her, and another kick came to her stomach. Osthryth groaned at the pain, nearly toppling into the flames but managed to roll away, reaching for Buaidh. It was the abbot, with whom Griogair had conversed and whose name Eoma had cursed.

Osthryth scrambled to her feet, and shot at him, anger and outrage overcoming her as she attacked him. How dare he be complicit in tbe deaths of so many people? Why do it? What for?

It didn't take long to pound the man's face with Taghd's seax, before launchibg Buaidh into his stomach, giving him a far more humane death than he had given the poor people inside that devastated building.

The flames seemed to be getting worse and, stepping over the dead abbot, she shrieked for Taghd, hacking at the raging building as the south side of it cracked and crumbled.

Osthryth ran back, clutching her head. The devastation was appalling. Yet, to the north, Drest and Feilim had managed to drag people from the church.

Behind them, at the battle continued as men screamed into attack, the battle cries of the Gaels and the Cymric shattering the air. Osthryth, about to strike at the church again turned to look.

And there was Griogair.

Griogair was standing between the burning church which was, against the odds, being liberated of its captives and the woods.

His face, splattered with blood and mud, turned downwards and looked at the abbot, before returning his furious face to her.

It was Osthryth who began the fight, running at her abuser, Buaidh raised. Though he was clearly intending to fight her, Domhnall's traitor was taken aback at her ferocious initiation of the conflict.

He mis-stepped backwards as Osthryth roared her battle anger at him, striking a chest-blow, which he parried badly, driving his own sword under Osthryth's arm, tearing into her jerkin, and drew it back, carving a hole into her flesh.

"You bitch!" He screamed at her. "I will take your tits!"

But, Osthryth didn't hear him, and anyway, she even if she had, she would not have responded. It was a waste of energy. Instead, as Ceinid had taught her, she ducked under his arm, lunging for his back, swiping with Taghd's seax acrosd the back of his ribs. Griogair howled, thrusting his blade backwards, which missed one leg, but plunged into the inside of her thigh.

"Don't kill him!" Osthryth thought to herself. "Give him to Domhnall; make him face his betrayal!"

With all her might, Osthryth plunged her sword towards Griogair's own legs, slicing up into the hamstring. Those legs that trapped her against that wall...those hands that explored her intimate flesh...that head which enjoyed humiliating her...

Griogair fell, Osthryth's blow incapacitating him as he fell to his knees. But he was not finished yet. Pulling at Osthryth, Griogair caught her leg, toppling her onto him. Osthryth could see he had positioned his sword point upwards and she was falling towards it.

She twisted away, landing on his arm, and he pulled her towards him in a stranglehold.

"If you only had come to me that night, you could have been queen of this whole country! As it is..."

Osthryth saw him raise the sword, aiming at her chest. But, she was not beaten yet. Throwing her head and shoulders up, she used her elbow to slam into his stomach. It was enough. Winding Griogair had caused him to puff, and stop his fatal blow, and Osthryth rolled into the mud.

Her own chest and stomach ached, but Osthryth forced herself up. Griogair was trying to get up too, but Osthryth was quicker and she felt for Taghd's seax, plunging it into any available flesh she could find. Griogair screamed as the blade pierced his left wrist, leaving him pinned to the ground. With Buaidh, she severed his right hand.

Osthryth panted, choking on the acrid snoke. At a slower pace, people were still being brought from the church, and she could see Feargus, his hair now black from soot rather than its flame-red hue, and Feilim's men bending to help out those trapped. The church now resembled a heathen offering, burning wood with the human bodies inside.

"Eoma!" Osthryth called, still covering the agonised Griogair with her sword.

"Warrior!" the monk called back. He stumbled towards Osthryth.

"We couldn't save everyone," he panted, sweat making white lines through his soot-coated face. "If it wasn't for you - " Osthryth shook her head.

"Guard this man." She looked down at Griogair, who was still writhing in agony, spitting incomprehensible words at Osthryth. "He is a traitor to the king; he is a traitor to his country." She paused, catching her breath. "He set fire to the church and ran."

Eoma looked down at Griogair, who appeared to be trying to deny everything.

"I saw him. I saw him throw a flaming rag into your church."

"...and the floor had been soaked with oil by Abbot Geirim," Eoma added, grimly. "Made out it was an accident."

"Then you see why this...man needs to be kept incapacitated until the battle is won."

"Indeed, boy," Eoma agreed, and, as Osthryth drew back, the monk stepped into her place. At once, Griogair attempted to protest. Eoma leaned across to him, and Osthryth thought he was trying to listen to Griogair's words. Instead he stamped his iron-nailed boot heavily onto Griogair's face with a satisfying crunch

.

The traitor's screams ebbing from her ears, Osthryth ran from the site of the former church. She needed to get back to the battlefield, to find Domhnall, to aid her king if the day was not already won. And, by the sounds of the clashing metal and mens' cries of attack or in death agonies, it was still going.

She emerged to a field of dead and dying, as Domhnall and many men fought on. To the west, Eochaid was screaming for men to join him and continue the fight, but from the edge if the woods, Osthryth could not see more men for Eochaid.

It took a few moments for Osthryth to realise he was calling to Domhnall's Cruithin and any Cymric who had turned from him.

"Dychwelwch ataf! Ti yw fy dynion!"

None. None came. Any who might still be standing of those races did not acknowledge the call. Around them, the Norse were quitting the field, dragging away their dead and retreating into the forest. Men who had been fighting them tore after them in pursuit.

Again, Eochaid called. But after a few moments of no response, and the king of Strathclyde charged the field in anger, his target: Domhnall.

But, a fight never came. Behind the king of the Strathclyde Cymry, Constantine was holding the point of his sword. Over the dirt and blood and shit and mud he marched their cousin, forcing him upon his knees before Domhnall.

She ran to the field, looking around. Eochaid's men were standing around now, those who had fought for him raising their swords in surrender.

Osthryth raised Buaidh as a warrior ran to her. He threw off his helmet, his face red with sweat that was dripping into his long black hair. It was Domnall.

The Irish prince grinned at her in triumph as Osthryth lowered her sword, the one put up by him at Tara, which she had earned.

"We won, Osthryth!" He panted, loudly by her ear. "And you are here! Domhnall remains king! We won!"

He embraced her to him, the battle-triumph flowing through him, clapping her on the back and she held him for a minute, sighing deeply with exhaustion. They'd won. Against the odds, Domhnall was still king. And she was there, not holed up in Eoferwic as the political wife of the king of Cumbraland.

Behind them a cry went up. Osthryth turned out of Domnall's arms to see it was the monk, Brother Eoma, followed by warriors who had rescued the heartbreakingly few victins from the burning church. Osthryth looked at Feargus, then followed the line, until she got to the survivors, before tracing her eye again.

Something was wrong. But she had no time to think what. For Eoma had brought Griogair, handless and bleeding at his wrist, his face bloody from the kicking he had received. He, too, was forced down before Domhnall, throwing Taghd's seax into the mud beside him.

"I am no traitor!" Griogair spat, congealed blood escaping his lips. Eochaid, beside him, bowed his head.

"Domnall!" Osthryth whispered, for the hushed arena of battle had fallen dormant-still. "Griogair...he confessed he murdered King Aed, Constantine's father!" Domnall clapped both hards on her shoulders and looked carefully into Osthryth's face.

"You are certain?"

"Yes. And he told the Abbot Trew that he sought the throne - not as kingmaker to Eochaid, but alone!"

Domnall slowly removed his hands from Osthryth, his fave solemn. Then, he strode across to the king. As prince-in-exile, as Domhnall and Constantine had been, his status was no better than a lord. But he stood before Domhnall, and repeated, loudly, and clearly, what she had said.

And a cold feeling of shock shivered through Osthryth as Constantine and Domhnall looked across to her, giving her an imperceptable nod: They knew!

They knew about Giric as Griogair! There was no astonishment in their features at Domnall's news, no amazement. They merely turned back to Griogair, on his knees with Eoma behind him.

And, from the battlefield stalked Ruiri Caimbeulaich, who had fought with Domhnall that daay and had come all the way from Glen Orchy with him. The chief of the Caimbeulaich stood beside Domnall and said the same.

Wordlessly, Domhnall withdrew his short knife from his hip-scabbard, hidden under his cloak. In the ebbing light of the day, light-photons bounced off its polished surface as the king handed it to Constantine.

Constantine looked over the blade, then down to Griogair, raising the knife over his head. Aed was his father, Osthryth thought, any second now, he was about to avenge him.

But then he stopped, offering his hands, clutched around the hilt, back to Domhnall. Taking back the blade, Domhnall ran it into Griogair's stomach. With a thump, the traitor fell to the ground, mud splattering up from his impact. Domhnall took the blade, and on his blue cloak, cleaned the weapon.

"Here falls a traitor, a murderer of the innocent!" Domhnall declared, addressing the field. "This day is won!"

He turned to Eochaid, making sure his voice could be heard by all, and Osthryth imagined the king of Strathclyde, now kneeling in supplication, and how the slave Guthred Harthacnutson, now King Guthred, must have knelt to him

.

"I will not slay my cousin, king in his own right of the Strathclyde Cymry. I reach out to Eochaid to approach me as Àlpin kin." All waited. And then, Eochaid opened his mouth.

"As kin of Ceinid mac Àlpin, first king of Alba, I cede, and offer true and unwavering loyalty to you, Domhnall mac Caustin!"

A cheer erupted around them. Domhnall's men waved swords, shields, arms in the air.

"This is a day for celebration. The murder of King Aed has been avenged. My cousin has ceded the day and we have routed the Norse!"

The cheer was raised again, hearty and prolonged, and the king beckoned to the warriors. Domhnall's triumphant forces gathered around the king as Domhnall offered his arm to Eochaid.

Osthryth watched as Eochaid paused for a moment, before wrapping his hand around Domhnall's forearm and the king around his cousin's. Domhnall then stepped forward, calling to the men, survivors who had been on the opposing side that day.

"Come, men of Strathclyde, my people!" "For this is a day your king welcomes you to his side." He glanced ahead, at the place where the Norse had fought and fled.

His presence radiated around the battlefield, and Osthryth marvelled at Domhnall's presence, charismatic, just, easy to give your loyalty to. If she would but know it, Osthryth would compare him to another, yet unborn king next to who she would stand on a battlefield.

"We, the men of Alba together, whether of Strathclyde - " he nodded at Eochaid, " - of Pictland - " at Feilim, "of Dal Riata. Together, the Norse will never take hold of this land, will never over-run it as the Danes have in the lands to the south."

And then, his eyes met Osthryth. A thousand years passed between them in a second. Then Domhnall, king of Alba nodded to her very briefly.

Osthryth's heart soared. Her lord had accepted her! All thought that she had been disloyal by escaping Caer Ligualid flew from her mind.

She looked about her, to Eoma, to the dead being moved from the field for burial by the fortress's servants, to the line of injured being assissted, or carried for help

.

She could feel her face grow hot as adrenaline blushed her cheeks. She could find Taghd, ask Domhnall's permission for them to wed, be with him, always.

Then she saw Eoma stride towards a line of people. Uunst, Drest and Feargus, all black with soot particles were escorting them, her heart lurching. The survivors were so few. Three dozen went in, barrly ten stood between the warriors, some supporting one another as Eoma crossed to them.

Then, she looked across at their number again, trying to work out the obvious error.

"Boy!" The shout came from the Eoma, as Osthryth scanned the line again. He brandished the seax - Taghd's seax - which had pinioned Griogair to the ground. "Your seax!"

Taghd's seax, Osthryth thought, as the monk thrust it out to her. She smiled, looking at the warriors again. Feargus, now a black-haired Gael, looked away from her. He seemed not surprised to see her, and yet, he had looked away

"You fought with bravery for one so young. Who is your lord, boy?" ask Eoma.

"Girl." The voice behind her made her turn. "And she is King Domhnall's warrior."

It was Ceinid. Blood and mud was dried in clumps in his hair. It stuck to his armour and legs. Yet, his face was light and alive with mirth. Osthryth felt her heart light as air.

"We won!" she declared.

"Indeed," he replied. He looked past Osthryth as Eoma began to lead away the village survivors. A cold wind blew around them as the monk ushered them to come to the monastery.

"And you go to meet the other survivors," Osthryth proposed. But Eoma did not reply.

"No others survived." Ceinid's hands took her shoulders. Osthryth turned to face him.

"But..." Ceinid leaned towards her, as the image of Taghd fighting with all his might to enter the inferno. His words were quieter, and she strained to hear over the noise of armour over tge newly freezing earth.

"Did you no hear me lass? No-one."

"Oh." That was all Osthryth could say. "Oh." The battle was over and she was exhausted. Osthryth stepped wearily towards the king's general. She put her head on his chest and head on his shoulder and, still standing, closed her eyes, too tired to move, to sad to cry.

88888888

The dark days of winter were lit with Domhnall's victory. That very night a feast was held in honour of the warriors - all warriors of the united kingdoms - a land, Domhnall named as Alba.

"For this land was once united against the common foe of the Latins, who built the Southern Wall."

The statement was heavy with expectation: all men of Alba knew Domhnall meant he wanted the lands to the wall, and that meant Bernicia: a huge chunk of Northumbria, including Bebbanburg's lands.

And he had given power to the lords across the lands - a shrewd move. The warriors remained at Dunnottar for several weeks and the buoyancy of victory filled the whole place. Though not with her.

While Osthryth listened, as the king toasted those who had lost their lives for him, Osthryth, turned away, the yawning gap in her heart open and vulnerable.

She had to crush her hope that he may be alive: she had even followed Eoma back to the church that day, after Ceinid had helped with the dead. But all there had been was hot ash. Not even one dead body, not even a shape of one person who might have been Taghd.

Taghd, the mighty, beautiful, soulful warrior from Doire was dead and, Osthryth had told herself mercilessly, she had better get used to the idea.

Domnall had met her off the field, inflrming her that King Domhnall wished to see her.

"Now," he had insisted, when Osthryth tried to excuse herself to change. So she had stood before the him, Constantine on his right, and had accepted her back, thanking her for her bravery and loyalty.

He had suspected Griogair was disloyal, he added, but hadn't been able to prove it. So she was at liberty, and accepted her as his true Gaelish warrior again.

Osthryth should have felt deep honour at his words, spoken in public this time, commending her as Gaelish. And, she did. But the palace, from which they had fled nearly three years before, Constantine insisting to his father she must go with him, was grey and empty, with the same pale light inching darkness as felt her mood amd back again as dawn began.

Some days Osthryth did not feel like rising from her bed, back at the corner of the kitchen, at all. Even at the pinnacle of celebration, she had eaten at the feast, but the food tasted of nothing and she had crept away to the anaesthia of sleep.

One night, a few days after the battle, Constantine cornered her, trying his upmost to guile her into his chamber, but she refused to go with him as he demanded, and pulled out Taghd's seax when he's tried to tongue her mouth.

Osthryth had then spent that night getting drunk with Feargus, quietly bingeing on ale and then uisge-beatha but that had simply made the next day awful, resulting in a severe headache and had thrown up for most of it.

It was Domnall who took her for a walk and had broken her of her mood by pushing her into the well-spring, telling her to drink all she could, laughing with her at her hangover.

Osthryth had been outraged, but then, as he'd offered his hand to pull her out, unable to stop laughing, Osthryth's anger faded and she began to laugh too, looping her arm around his abd pulling him in too.

They then had walked many miles that day along the bank of the river, leavingvDunnottar and Culdees behind, Osthryth wrapped in Domnall's thick, woollen cloak as he carried hers, telling him of her refusal to marry Guthred and her escape with Eirik Thurgilson.

"In the whole time I have known you, I have never known you to drink, Osrit," Domnall had said. "What has caused this melancholy?"

"I lost a man I cared dearly for at the battle." But that was all she would confide. A skein of geese flew over thm, latecomers from the north. Snow began to flit around them.

"You fought magnificently," Domnall said. "Flann was right, you are the correct owner of that sword."

"And I now have this." Osthryth showed him Taghd's seax, withdrawing it and allowing the diffused sunlight to melt over its blade. Domnall said nothing, but put her hand over his as sge resheathed it.

"You saved my life, did you know?" Domnall said, after they had walked a few more miles, to where the river bank curved and the Forth flooded into the sea. Osthryth did not. The day had been a tumult of battle-mind, of going with the throes of the day, responding to the changes to gain, little-by-little, for Domhnall.

Remembering this had tipped her resolve. As they walked back towards Dunnottar, Osthryth knew what she was to do. She could fight, and could not with a child.

And that night, as Glymrie went to his own rest, Osthryth felt for the stone which she had once eased out, to hide her treasure in the underground spring. Hope had filled her chest, but reality grounded her: she had hidden it nearly three years before; it was unlikely to still be there

.

Yet, it was there. Her hand, delving through the cool water, found an uneven pile of stones and silt, her fingers dug down, locating the fist-sized bag of silver that Seobhridht had left for himself in the boat, in which Osthryth herself had escaped.

She removed it, and was glad water had flowed over it long enough that it was logged and the silver did not clink.

It paid to be generous to the heathen, when she could slip away to see her, Bach, who had explained to her what monthly bleeding meant, and warned her to stay away from Constantine. Osthryth had not listened, was needed by Osthryth once more.

She plunged her haand into the baag of silver, feeling the wet metal in her grasp. They were a strange sensation between her fingers, like grasping damp sand, or trailing her hands in the sea, as she had done when they left Alba for Caer Ligualid.

Would she still be alive, that healer? If not, someone else would be doing her job, for the adherants to the old Brythonic faith relied on a healer for everything from medicine to knowledge of the seasons, to sort out domestic disputes and to fortell omens of battle.

As she felt the precious coins, clinking dully from moisture between her fingers, she closed her eyes and said a heathen promise to herself, closing the door of one life and opening the door on another.

It always paid to respect the heathen no matter what the church or any king said, Osthryth thought. For, she had used the lily root, yet still she had conceived. Perhaps Beatha's supply of root was old, or Osthryth had prpared it too weak.

Replacing the bag under the stream-bed minus a generous supply of silver, before sealing the stone from the low wall, Osthryth promised herself that she would make sure that she always had a ready supply of root for the time when her own helping hand was not enough, and to never give her heart to anyone.

And the next morning, Osthryth began to do what Domnall had said he wished for her: do what made her happy. And what made Osthryth happy was to be a warrior, quick in thought and action.

To be that again, she needed to visit the heathen, and to visit the heathen, she needed an excuse. She also had made a promise to her king to spy in Caer Ligualid, so she went to find Feargus.

He seemed surprised to see her, but continued his fight training with her, which Osthryth knew Domhnall would be watching, and it wasn't long before the king came down to see her and asked her to walk with him.

Osthryth told the king what she had fiscovered in Caer Ligualid: of the heathen loyalty still under a veneer of Christianity, and that there was a clear link between Eoferwic and Wessex, for it was a priest from Alfred of Wessex who had sent word to Eoferwic about the dream which had allowed Guthred to accede the throne.

"It reminds me of Strathclyde," Osthryth said. "The people, as I remember, before we went to Glaschu. We walked so far in their country. They were loyal to the night and say, tbe wind, the sun, the water." Domhnall let her finish as she gathered her thoughts. "The people, those whose work supports the nobility, the church, they are still Rheged." She looked up to Domhnall as they passed the same spring that his cousin had pushed her into a week before.

"The land, the people have not changed since the time of Urien, if not before. Should I be you, my king, I would encourge Eochaid to seek to reclaim the land on his southern border as you would seek the land of Bernicia to the wall."

"This is Northumbria territory," Domhnall replied. Osthryth knew him well enough to know this was a game, to argue the opposing point so he could see everything. "Surely I gain new enemies."

"Guthred's tenure is tentative; the blessed Oswald appeared to their former abbot in a dream. Yet it is very convenient how his rule of Northumbria fits politically with Wessex's interest in uniting kingdoms containing Angles and Saxons. It is said to be about opposing the threat of the Norse amd Danes."

"Yes, Osthryth, I do see," Domhnall acknowledged. "And I am grateful for you telling me this." He stopped walking. The great feast of Candlemas was almost upon them and the weather had been somewhat mild. Likely, then, thaat snow would blanket the land before Lent.

"I am also sorry to heaar of your loss; Taghd was very dear to me, as I understand, to you. Had I known you were handwed, I would never have suggested your alliance to Kimg Guthred." Domhnall smiled. It was mostly veneer. You knew it was the right words at the right time for him. But sometimes you just wanted the words, and Osthryth needed them just now.

"And I would never have found out about Griogair without you having to have endured what you did." Osthryth nodded, complicitly. He did know; she had seen his face at the close of the battle: it had shown a confirmation of his suspicions, not shock at betrayal.

Had he known, and was merely using Griogair? Good for him, if so - it was the mqrk of a king to play all his hands to his advantage, like using the stone from Teamreach and placing at the tripoint of the three kingdoms of Alba; like giving regional lords power over their local people, whose minuscule politics they knew and could preside ovet.

And, what her king asked of her next, played very much to Osthryth's own advantage. He asked her to cross to Culdees for some days to collect information from the monks about Wessex.

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Culdees was much as Osthryth remembered. The short grass before the monastery was almost exactly as she remembered when she had fled from the father of the family she had been given, who had tried to steal Faedersword.

While she researched, she planned, deciding when she could get discreetly across to the village for the lily root or tansy or rue. For, it was certain, Osthryth deduced, from her lack of monthly blood, and her enlarged, tender breasts, her nipples seeping pale milky fluid which soaked through her bindings and down her stomach, that she was pregnant.

And, she was not prepared to be Aila, kitchen servant at Doire to Mael Muire, burthed by the wise Mairi, soon to be Constantine's wife, not prepared to support a bastard child of a prince - in Aila's case, Domnall, with no prospect of warfare and little prospect of a life for the child, either. Stay away from Constantine, Bach had warned her.

In the meantime, her heart soared when she chanced on correspondence from Father Beocca. It was telling his colleagues here in Alba that, while Wessex was secure, it had been secured by the Danelaw, introduced to keep Wessex and part of Mercia safe.

It could so easily have happened to thaat could easuly gave happened to Alba, had Domhmall lost. Ancient kingdoms would have resorted to local warriors, called from the fields to fight the Norse, and there would have been widespread slaughter. At least now, the lords could send their sons for training at Dunnottar, and modern warfare skills could be taught and disseminared around Domhmall's country. Fragmented, Alba could easily have been overrun and annexed, as the Anglish and Saxon kingdoms had.

Osthryth read on. King Alfred's daughter Aethelflaed, a princess of fourteen had been betrothed to a lord, Aethelred of Mercia. Sje committed this all to memory before she left, names distant to her, lands far. But, they were the life of her brother.

And, Osthryth needn't imagine it, either, for Beocca had confided that Uhtred, displaced lord of Bebbanburg, had married and living in Winchester. That he had passed over his first wife, who had gone to a nunnery, following the death of their son, also Uhtred.

Osthryth had read that, twice, her heart quickening. Her brother had a whole life, while she had fled Bebbanburg. And, Beocca was with him. A stab of pain crossed her chest, a longing to be with him, ancient thoughts of fleeing to be by his side.

As she crossed over the Forth as dawn filtered through dense clouds and thick fog the day after Candlemas, her mind was on Uhtred and she imagined his life, as lord to Alfred: was he his loyal Christian warrior, pledging his northern home to ally with the king? Was he Alfred's general, and planned his strategies in battle?

The village had changed since Osthryth had last been there. A huge, black hole stood out in the fog, where the church had been.

Next to it, work had begun on its replacement, and even now, so early in the morning, monks were supervising servants with horses through tbe trees with wood, piling it next to tbe foundation-outline of tbe bew building.

Osthryth strode hurriedly towards the east of the village, past wooden cottages where their occupants were beginning their day by hanging out their bedding and feeding their animals, to where the heathen quarter was.

When she was there before, many trees sheltered around the tiny homes and here, in tbe cold of the earky morning, some of tbe ingabitants were cooking.

Apart from some chikdren, scurrying out of her way as she trod on the mud, Osthryth was mostly ignored.

Where would the heathen healer be? The people here spoke only Cymric, and she began by crossing to the building which Osthryth thought she had been to before.

It had been by chance she had met Bach, at twelve, who sold curatives, and counselled her, while Osthryth was trying to bathe discreetly in the Moray.

The river was not the same as the sea, Bach had told her; the river was fresh and life-giving. To try the water again would try her strength, and she was strong and should not fear.

Osthryth felt better after that had returned to Bach when she awoke one morning covered in blood with no wound visible. The woman had smiled and told her to bathe in tbe river before giving her strips of cloth to wear in her breeches.

"You are becoming a woman; it's a sign your body can bear a child." She had smiled, and had pushed away the shard of silver Osthryth had known enough to bring with her to pay the heathen woman.

Now, outside the house Osthryth was sure was Bach's, a young woman stood, lighting a fire with two strike-stones.

"Bach was my mother," the young woman told her tersely, in Cymric.

"She died?" Osthryth asked.

"In the fire, in the church." She watched Bach's daughter, who was called Sula, pour water into a large pot, which she then hung above the fire.

"I am sorry."

"I am not." Sula folded her arms. She was black haired, brown eyed, dainty-looking but clearly hardy. "The king thought she was a witch, and was going to burn her. "Burning is what happens to witches in Alba" his servant told us! Ha!" She looked through the mist towards where the church had stood, and where the new one was growing.

"So she swore to be a Christian, and gave up our old ways. Then, when the Norse came, died in flame, anyway. Does your god have a sense of humour?"

"I believe He has a way of making things happen for a reason only He knows," Osthryth replied, wryly. And then, got down to business. Tansy, she needed, and lily root. Rue, root and flower.

"And you know what to do with these?" Sula eyed her with suspicion.

"Yes," Osthryth nodded, as she grasped the silver from her jerkin folds, holding it her cupped hand, so only she could see.

"I'll make some it up for you," Sula said, collecting the silver in her own hands and beckoned Osthryth into her earth-floored, dimly-lit cottage, deftly flitting from casket, to cupboard, extracting each plant that Osthryth had asked for.

As she handed them to her wrapped in a thin, linen cloth, Sula narrowed her eyed.

"I have not seen you; you never came here and I will deny having ever met you today."

"Understood," Osthryth nodded. "I, also." She accepted the medicinal herb bundle from Sula's fingers, tucking it away inside her clothing, before swallowing down the vile-tasting liquor, tansy which, as before had, almost at once, caused Osthryth's body to contract with more pain than she'd ever felt on a battlefield.

Sula held Osthryth's hand through the ordeal and, once over, would dispose of the body matter that she had passed in an appropriate ritual.

"You are not the first; you will not be the last," Sula commented, misinterpreting the relief on Osthryth's face as embarrassment. "And this is not your first abortion."

Osthryth said nothing as Sula had her sit back on a chair, knees up, while she packed her with steeped leaf mulch from the pot outside.

"Do not go near the Prince again," Sula instructed, as she pushed the sterile plant matter deeply inside Osthryth's cunt with nimble, careful fingers. "For you have tangled fate twice with your choice to divert life in this world. Use your gift."

"My gift."

"Your strength. You are a warrior and you have skill. Many men fight but they are not skilled, and many lords have battle skill but are too weak to lift even a meatblade." Sula stood back, leaving Osthryth to pull up her trousers.

As she made to get up, Osthryth groaned in pain. Sula looked at her, frowning.

"The caustic should not cause you so much pain," Sula mused.

"Caustic?" Osthryth questioned, as the burning sensation came again.

"Did the healer not show you ladt time?"

"I was alone!" Osthryth spat, doubling over in pain.

"The passage of matter is over, but this stems the bleeding - you must have bled a good deal last time, then."

"I did," Osthryth admitted. "How long does this last?!"

"I will perform the ritual; once it is over, you should feel no more discomfort."

Osthryth watched, pain irritating her insides, as she watched Sula place all that she had passed, the germ of hers and Constantine's child, still wrapped in the cloth, into a fire at the back door, throwing a white powder, then a darker one into the flames.

"The spirit is beyond, now," Sula uttered, quietly. "May I ask," she added, as, indeed, Osthryth's pain was subsided, "the last?"

Osthryth closed her eyes as images of the green sea, of her attackers, of the pain and its easing in the salt water.

"I swam in the sea, until it was all over." She watched Sula sigh. "Then its slirit will roam. Something unresolved, from that time, that place, will be with you until - "

"Until...?" prompted Osthryth. But Sula said no more, apart from instructing Osthryth to remove the leaves after two days.

And, Osthryth strode shortly afterwards, the land still covered in fog, as strongly as she was able, to her landing point from the Culdees ferry before crossing to the Dunnottar fortress, with Sula's parting words in her ears: you will not bear a child again.

As the sun broke through the cloud, its rays lighting up the fortress, Osthryth found she was pleased, pleased to know that. Should she give in to humping, she would never again be conflicted between child or lord.

And, the tiny voice, which had been burrowing at the back of Osthryth's mind, said again, if not with Taghd, with nobody.

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And life returned to a normal that felt familiar to Osthryth. Feargus and Ceinid were in charge of training the young sons of lords, who were arriving at Dunottar, sometimes meeting their fathers, brothers and uncles at the fortress, sometimes coming with a couple of guards and a servant from a far away ancient kingdom.

Constantine was put in charge of a group of young boys to teach them strategy and Osthryth had been asked to teach them the very basics of warfare: how to stand and how to defend.

Some came with the idea that they knew more than they did, keen to show what they could do; many wanted to keep their edged weapons and were outraged when Osthryth made them pick up wooden sticks and a thin plank of beech with a hamdle nailed to the back.

In cold, icy mornings, Osthryth ended each boy's misconception, and by the beginning of lent, at which point, Feargus, Domnall and Ceinid showed them the Gaelish moves, for the start of battle, drilling them in lines, having them bloodcurdlingly roar, until they could set battle formations automatically.

Osthryth still had several younger boys, one who was stubborn and very arrogant, and turned out, Constantine told her one evening, to be Owain, Eochaid's eldest son Dyrfnwal's firstborn. So, he was Uì Alpin, Osthryth mused, taking in his black, shoulder-length hair. But, she managed to train him til Ceinid though he was just about good enough to not lose his blade after two minutes.

"I will be the king of Pictland and

Fortriu, once Domhnall has reigned," Constantine said one night, mid-way through lent. They were walking back from the great hall, from a mean supper of fish and root vegetables served as a broth.

Osthryth stopped, leaning against a wall, which backed out to the river. Daylight still lit putside, and she watched a little fetty punt across tbe Forth.

"The kings of Dal Riada are subject to the crown now," Constantine continued, leaning by her. "Dyfnwal, our cousin, will beg for his life."

Dyfnwal will probably not have time to beg for his life, Osthryth considered, but didn't say so. Keeping Constantine away from her was her prime concern. He was prone to sulking and whining when he didn't get his own way and still took it out on Osthryth when she refused him, which was every time.

"Come with me, Osthryth," he begged, trying to take her shoulder. He had tried this ruse in February when he had locked her out of the fortress in dense snow, having twisted her arm up behind her back and slapped her hard around the fafe.

It turned out he had overheard the Frisian fisherboys Gert Tallerson and his older brother Ulf appraising her potential as a wife as she taught the nobles' sons.

She had slept in the stables, and claimed to Ceinid, who had deduced that Osthryth's face was bruised with more than just slaps, that a dog had attacked her in the village, whose dog, she did not know.

So, Osthryth was wary of Constantine, who was getting edgy, she knew, because of the imminent arrival from Eireann of Eira and Mairi as Domhnall's and his brides. They were to marry at Dunnottar, once the church was rebuilt, and was ready for his immature attempt at coercing her into his bed.

He had even made to strike Domnall one evening after a week of poor weather had driven tensions high. Osthryth and Domnall had fallen into their own easy company and Constantine had made to argue with him. Domnall would not, and it took Ceinid, under orders from King Domhnall, to take Constantine to his room and bar him in.

Domnall and Osthryth had continued their talk, about news from Muire, of the training of the boys, of the endlessly fascinating politics from Strathclyde and beyond the Latin wall and the Ulaid, who had done a terrible thing to one of their princes, but Domnall knew not what.

This was done tucked away in the stables, though they had faced a few words from Domhnall which amounted to Osthryth was to return to the kitchens of a night from then on.

Instead, that time, she ran, which Osthryth also knew was an immature thing to do, but knew Constantine well enough to know he wouldn't bother to chase her. That night, she ended up in a very comfortable position between a floor and a ceiling, only woken when matins were rang from Culdees.

There were many times when Osthryth would think of that moment, chancing on an air gap built between floors in Dunnottar fortress. Was it caused by Constantine? Or was it Domnall, her friend who made her life much more bearable.

She would hear her brother say, "Wyrd bith ful araed" so often that she would feel like screaming. But, he was right: fate was inexorable. No matter what had caused it, Osthryth was in a place where she could hear people. Two people.

She was above the throne room. Osthryth did not know it, but she did her footsteps as she made to scramble out of the snug gap.

And then, she heard shouting. Domhnall was shouting at Constantine after what sounded like Constine had told him he had searched for Osthryth that night.

And you didn't find me, Osthryth chuckled to herself. She made to move, to go down to Ceinid, to teach her swordskill, but heard Domhnall berate her furthet.

"The women to whom we are betrothed arrive presently. Do you wish to risk all we have worked for? Your father worked for? Muire?"

Osthryth turned her head to the oak planks, and listened, trying to catch every word.

"Domnall should leave," Constantine sulked, wretchedly. "The exile, the deoraí from Eireann!"

There was a pause, and Osthryth waited for footsteps. Was that all? She made to move, anticipating the end of the conversation, then jammed her ear to the boards again.

"FlannSinna has proposed an amnesty. I have suggested he leave after Eira and Mairi arrive, after the weddings."

Osthryth's mind skipped to the two princesses. She would love to see them again. And she thought sadly of her friend.

She remembered, too, when she had watched from the ramparts as Domnall's banner of a red right hand embroidered on white flew next to red rampant lion of Àlpin as he led the defeated Eochaid back to his newly expanded kingdom - which now included parts of Cumbraland which Guthred thought were his.

"Sinna has turned on Donnchada; Niall is keeping out it," she heard Domhnall say. "But Glundubh will be dragged into a civil war, and he will want Domnall back beside him. His big brother. Yet, Flann Sinna is too popular; he is starving out the Norse, mounting hit-and-run attacks. They will bear it for some time, but then will flee, and where do you suppose they will come?"

"Here?" Osthryth heard Constantine suggest.

"Here, Englaland. They will still raid. But, Alfred of Wessex's approach of burghs is paying off. Unity and starvation will be the only things that will work, eventually. The Danes, the Norse, will either settle and farm, or leave. But there will always be more, driven by glory of their forefathers that will come from the North-way and Daneland. And now, we have warriors, amd learning warriors, we are strong, Constantine!" Domhnall laughed his jovial laugh.

"Alba is the reality our grandfather could only dream of. Now, we look to gain more territory from our borderland."

So, that was his plan, Osthryth thought. Expansionism, as long as he could keep the Norse away

"Cumbraland?" exclaimed Constantine grumpily. "You promised Eochaid that. And then Guthred will never be your ally. What of Guthred, anyway?"

Yes, what of Guthred? It was a good question. Osthryth straibed to hear Domhnall's answer.

"Gone to Eoferwic with men from Wessex, they were told, to support his kingship."

"And you will send Osthryth?"

Osthryth lay still, silent, as she heard her name.

"So, you ask me, do we send her to Eoferwic to be with her husband? It will strengthen Northumbria's claim on Cuumbraland, and, of course, through Bebbanburg."

What? Send her to Guthred anyway? Osthryth found herself trembling

They would do this?

And the back of her memory spoke to her again. They had done worse, it reminded her. Domhnall had let his lover go; his uncle, Flann Sinna had, apparently, sold his second wife, a Gaelish princess of the Ui Neills into slavery to pursue an even more advantageous union through Mael Muire, and -

But Osthryth jammed her ear to the floor again, desperate to hear more as their voices became muffled. It sounded like Constantine was angry again.

"Yet, it was your idea that she wed Guthred, Constantine!" Domhnall retorted

Constantine's idea?

'It was not!" He denied.

"You said to forge a close diplomatic link," Domhnall pointed out. How often had Osthryth admired his way of taking political advantage. But, she wasn't caught up in it, then. Although, maybe she had always been since she had arrived.

But why? Osthryth shushed her mind and fought to listen, her heart sinking as she listened on.

"...and what is more diplomatic than a woman who has links to Cumbraland through her mother and Bebbanburg, in the lands we most desire - through her father?"

"So you say!"

"So the evidence suggests," Domhnall pointed out. "I did not expect her to give her heart to poor, loyal Taghd, and he to her. He came to me, before the battle, and asked consent for them to marry once their handfast time was done."

...he had...?

"It was certainly a surprise. But it means nothing. Aedre of Bebbanburg's name sits beside that of Guthred Harthacnutson on a document that Abbot Trew has distributed to all monasteries. She is married to Guthred, so could never be married to my loyal warrior."

Osthryth's mouth grew dry. Aedre of Bebbanburg! They knew who she was!

"No!" Constantine fought back. "What proof do you have that she is the lost Anglish princess?"

"None. As you are so concerned, Constantine, you shall confront her. Or," Dimhnall chuckled, "we could sell her back to her uncle should she persist in calling herself Osthryth. She is, particularly, used now, is she not, cousin?"

"Why must you take her from me!" stormed Constantine "Why do you take everything I like from me?"

"Because," Domhnall replied, in his well-practised voice of calm that made the other person feel you were calling them stupid, "you are learning to be a Gaelish king, not a selfish, immature princeling. We have not brought security and peace to Alba by chance, we have worked for it, built up alliances! You must forget about Osthryth, and grow accustomed that she is an asset to us which needs to he used wisely! So, we will meet the Norse brothers, offer them a battle should they wish it? But we will not offer wealth nor, you will be glad to hear, include the warrior Osthryth in any bargain they make in exchange for them to leave."

Eirik? Siegfried? Wished to make a bargain for her? Osthryth felt herself growing weak. Sell her to the Norse for peace?!

But then her preservation responses got to her mind, as her heart beat full in her chest. Not only did they know who she was, they had known for a long time, and had already used her in political negotiations.

Her mind could only suggest one course of action. She had to run with the only piece of information she had - Beocca was in Winchester as was her brother. And the Frisian fishing boat went that far south and it was due to pass that way in about an hour after delivering to Dunnottar.

Scrambling down to the kitchens, Osthryth nodded to Glymrie as he waved his innocent hand towards her. She forced herself to walk as slowly and nonchalantly as she could until she got to the stone alcove on which lay her cloak. She knelt on it, easing out the brick. She fumbled for the bottom of the stream, splashing in the cold water as she reached for the little mound of earth raised from the rest of the stream bed.

Returning the block, Osthryth slipped the cloak around her shoulder, stowing tbe damp silver in her leather jerkin. Sbe wrapped her left arm around it, covering it with her cloak. It was all she could do.

Raiding Glymrie's table and stowing it in a clean linen sheet, Osthryth slipped out of the tiny kitchen door, amd proceeded past the herb garden towards the river bank.

No-one had stopped her - no! Osthryth told herself sharply, don't turn round. Just look to the side for the Frisian fishing boat. How coukd she signal to them? Furher along was much better, where ecposed river bed angled more shallowly and she could stand to hail them. And -

Osthryth broke off. For there was a blade at her throat. She froze, as her attacker walked around in front of her.

It was Ceinid.

Was that it, then? Was he going to take her back, or kill her?

But, instead, Domhnall's head of the household guard lowered the blade, and pulled her to him, stroking her shoulder gently, affectionately, luke she remembered him doing all those years ago when he had taken her hand, at the first victory feast, to cekebrate her first battle, that he had tried her in. Osthruth had been servibg the food, and Ceinid had held her hand much longer than a mere brief accident could explain.

"What if I told you I was of Bebbanburg," Osthryth whispered by his ear, accusingly. "What if I told you my uncle still seeks me after all this time to sell me to the Danes? And that Domhnall would sell me to the Norse?"

Ceinid resheathed his blade, which he had pressed by her back, then stepped away from her, passing it to her. After a moment, Osthryth realised it was Tahhd's seax. He placed two hands on her shoulders as Osthryth fixed the blade to her hip.

"Nothing you would ever do would surprise me, Osthryth," he said quietly, looking seriously into her eyes. "I wanted to train you because they know you are the lost girl from Bebbanburg."

And, from a stake in the ground just behind her, Ceinid pointed, to a staked rope on which a horse was tied, small, dappled grey, one Osthryth had practised riding on many times.

She looked between the horse and Ceinid, whose pale eyes wete still looking intently at her

"You are no longer a girl; do you have somewhere to go?"

"I am leaving to find my brother," Osthryth replied.

Then suddenly, he embraced her in his arms - strong arms, which held her close to him. For once, Osthryth wanted to willingly do with Ceinid what she had ever done with Constantine, responding to his touch, her skin felt prickly, hot, her body wanted to press futher in, for him to press further in.

He had always, always looked out for her, amd now Ceinid had made Osthryth's job of leaving that much harder.

He kissed her, softly, like the first snow of winter landing on skin. He never asked, she never offered...under diffetent circumstamces, she and Ceinid could...

Then, he pushed her gentky away, his black hair and pale blue eyes of the Gaels held her in his gaze.

"Now, go!" Ceinid denanded, "go round the bend, two miles. You can pay any boat to take you away from here!"

He pointed to a boat which was the very one she wished to board. It was coming the other way, and within minutes would be tying up to sell fish to Glymrie. What Osthryth needed was to catch it on its journey back, and out of the Forth river into the North seam

On tbe forefeck stood Gert, now, apparently, the captain. She turned to say goodbye to Ceinid, to thank him. But, he was gone. Not just retreating, but not in her view at all.

Two hours later, letting the horse find its way home, Osthryth did manage to signal to the Frisians, offering silver, less than Sula, but Gert was delighted with it, especially when all he had to do was take her to Hamptun.

And, in time, she heard the distinctive screaming yell of the Gaelish and the lyr sounded by tbe Norse. The rage of battle. Eirik and Siegfried were trying again.

And Osthryth was not there, for she was on her way to find her brother.

88888888

Midsummer 906

Osthryth returned home. Dunnottar, with Aedre in hand and Ceinid beside her, was home, she realised, throughout her whole being.

It didn't matter all that had happened here, in Domhnall's - now Constantine's - kingdom, nor in Wessex. She was a Bernician noble in the employ of the king of Alba. Tha i Gaelisc.

The journey back had been difficult. Storms had kept Gert's fishing boat at Hamptun so, the day after their night at the palace, they had waited at the port.

Osthryth had paid the fisherman well in silver, and he had taken her hand and he promised to find her as soon as he could sail.

As it was, they had only spent two nights at the muddy, shack-lined quay, where they had fed and coddled Aedre and when the child had slept, Ceinid had held her shoulders while she thought of the man who had guided her amongst all things as a child at Bebbanburg, and told Ceinid all she could of this man, a priest, a father, a godly man.

Ulf, Gert's older brother, had found her on the third morning, and they had sailed on a dull, grey morning, tacking east through mist and fog which barely lifted for the majority of the journey back to Alba.

While they waited, in the only lodging they could obtain, Ceinid had said little but in that, he sat quietly as Osthryth spoke her scant words, scratching a grid on the floor when she'd fallen silent and handed her some pebbles, and they had played stones in the poor, leaky shelter with one bed and little comfort.

Further storms had caused Gert to land at Dunwich and again at Gyrrum, and had finally spied the twin castles of Culdees monastery on the left and Dunnottar on the right part way through December.

Their return was not heralded in the way their departure had. Even Constantine, who had seen them leave had been without the castle speaking to the current abbot of the monastery about his church reforms.

They had waited in the throne room until the king returned, and there was nothing stopping Aedre from launching herself at the man she called Athair.

Constantine confirmed with Ceinid that they had met their objective - acknowledging he had kept his word - but said nothing to Osthryth before dismissing them.

Yet, he called back Osthryth. Mairi was lost, to a fever, he told her. Osthryth was unhappy to hear that. She had liked Mairi, the clever, trustworthy, reliable girl she had once taught at the monastery in Doire. Capable, resourceful, happy to be the mother of Constantine's dynasty, mother to Cellach and Ildubh, two heirs, mother to MaelColm, Eira and Domhnall's son, nearly now a man.

"King Edward sends his regards and thanks you for the bible," Osthryth said, handing over a letter to Constantine, on vellum." Constantine read over it, in the torchlight, then looked back to Osthryth.

"He is building a nation as am I." Osthryth handed him silver for Aedre.

"You found this in Wessex?"

"I earned it in Wessex. I once hid it, and now it is to keep Aedre." This was true.

Before they had left Winchester, Osthryth had taken a detour to Cheapside, her old rented rooms not far from the river.

The leather bag containing hacksilver, had been there, still, behind the bricks at the back of the chimney. Exactly where she had left it.

Constantine had said nothing as Osthryth left it beside him. He had taken the silver. That was important. It represented the agreement between them and his reforms surely must have been costing him.

He was rearranging Pictland to be like Dal Riata: reforming the church, and appointing mormaers - regional lords - to defend different parts of Alba from the Norse and, more importantly, to prevent civil war.

And then Constantine had Osthryth dine with him, in his quarters, just the two of them, remembered Mairi, and Beocca. Then, he voiced the next part of his role for her, to travel as soon as the weather was hospitable.

"You must go alone," Constantine said. "I know how you must feel about returning to Caer Ligualid, but you must go. He is your husband, by the law of the church." Constantine fingered a letter which he handed to Osthryth.

"Domhnall knew me to be Aedre and as such I did not wed Guthred of Cumbraland."

It was the first time she had proposed that Domhnall knew her identity, the first time she had suggested the king - the former king - had betrayed her. Constantine stared at Osthryth, he too saying nothing.

"A warrior is loyal to his master," Constantine chided, as old Ealasaid cleared away the dishes. Osthryth knew this to be true, but was shocked he had said it.

"Am I Osthryth or Aedre?" she asked. "I need to know if you expect me to hump him."

"Osthryth," Constantine whined, plaintively, there is only you that can do this for me." He got to his feet, and walked towards the open door, pushing against it. "Do not hump the king of Cumbraland, unless you wish to."

There. There it was. The accusation - which was not untrue - that she had wanted to hump the king of Wessex.

But in that, it was always like a dream, a spell. So much for her being the witch - Edward, once aethling, could weave a spell over her that she could not defy.

She closed her eyes for a moment as she remembered his soft hands on her body again and had it not been for Aedre, Osthryth might have stayed with the king of Wessex. Especially if she knew it irked his sister

.

"I will see if the mood takes me." Osthryth jibed, leaving a hurt look to pass over his face. You should be glad that I will undertake this in the winter, she thought, and knew her journey would take her the same route, in reverse, that she and Eirik Thurgulson has taken.

She missed those days, sometimes, when she was full of hope, and loyalty to Domhnall was everything.

There was a thaw, which meant damp ground. But the horse she had taken was every bit as good as she remembered Sleipnir to be. Not in looks, for she was a piebald - black and white with styrdy legs and wide hooves. Yet, every bit as surefooted as the black mare who had carried them.

That night, after a perfunctory, but not disappointing, expulsion from Constantine's balls, she detailed everything that had happened at Wessex. Osthryth left out nothing, not even her time spent in the bed of the king of Wessex, though she refused to divulge details.

Constantine had received each piece of news matter of factly, as if weighing it up and incoporating it immediatey into his plan for Alba.

Because he, like Alfred, had a plan, and her role, as a person with a stake in both Cumbraland and Bebbanburg, was one this expansionist king would not ignore.

As well as exquisite sex with Edward, the king of Wessex had also asked her to spy, in a roundabout way, to get her out of accusation of witchcraft. This, she did not tell Constantine

But what could he do, in any case? The rumour must have come from Dunnottar originally, for only Constantine had been there when she had been attacked by Ninefingers. And Domnall, of course.

He would have told Domhnall; Mael Muire's court would have known what she'd claimed to have done, and so somehow it had passed to the Norse, until it had got to Wessex. Only in that kingdom had it ever given her trouble.

It had come from her own mouth, thought of those princes, Ninefingers and his brother, dead now, she supposed. The Norse had been expelled: Flann Sinna was eminently successful.

Yet Domnall was not propspering. He and little Niall Glundubh - a grown man by now, though Osthryth ever thought of him as a three-year-old interested in nature amd getting muddy - were both in exile and often in alliance with Donnchada, who hated his father and wished to overthrow Flann

.

Domnall had gone back to be king of Ailech - he and Niall had prepared to fight but had decided to share - like Griogair and Eochaid.

Would she ever see them again? Would she ever travel back to Eireann?

Before she had left for Caer Ligualid, news had come from the Uí Néill that Muire had died, and that Flann Sinna had secured victory at the Battle of Ballaghmoon. He had spent the year

erecting monuments in his own honour, as well as pursuing zero tolerance to the Norse, who were still flooding Englaland.

And at Candlemas, two months after returning to Constantine, and four months ago, she stood toe-to-toe facing King Guthred.

It had been the first time she had seen him since she was fifteen, and sitting in the monastery's high tower.

Technically, in the eyes of the church that is, they were wed, and that was what mattered: they were married.

"Is my sister happy, I wonder?" Guthred had asked her, taking Co stantine's letter from her and walking within the city's ground. Frost had decorated the cobbles, and the mud was frozen.

Osthryth remembered the day when Gisela had given her life for hers and Uhtred's second son. It had been she who had been the one to give her sister-in-law Ula's medicine, which the heathen Briton would not administer.

Nor, either, would Hild, and it had taken

Osthryth to coak the broth of Biship's Weed down the poor woman's throat, to widen the passage, and get the breech baby out.

"They have three healthy children," Osthryth told Guthred. A girl and a boy, and another boy too."

"Their children live," Guthred summarised, as a bright winter sun irradiated onto their faces. Osthryth had paused. No-one had thought to tell Gisela's brother?

"She did not survive the birth of her second son," Osthryth had told him, quietly.

"And does he favour his mother or his father?" Guthred had asked. And Osthryth had looked at his face, honest, decent, thrust into slavery then immediately into kingship. But she knew, for she had seen young Uhtred, the only son his father would acknowledge.

"He has your face," Osthryth told him.

"Then, that of my mother," Guthred had told her, before turning to Constantine's letter. And, when he had asked his next question, Osthryth was sure that the rumours about the king's sanity were true.

"I can speak for the King in this matter," Osthryth had furthered. Guthred had stopped, by the drawbridge of the city walls through which she had stormed and had brought Eirik Thurgilson to his knees.

"King Eochaid?"

"No, he is long dead."

"Dyrfnwal?" Osthryth had shaken her head.

"Owain?"

But, at the time Osthryth his excused his forgetfulness by remembering that Guthred lived in Eoferwic for most of the time, and it was widely known that a kin of Ivarr, being run close in Ireland by Flann Sinna's successful policy of starvation and no quarter, was planning to take Eoferwic.

Which meant Haligwerfolkland, Guthred's delightfully named district of Cumbraland which offered him fealty and was fixed around Caer Ligualid.

And afterwards, Osthryrth had laughed out loud as she rode east, following the Roman wall, at her own apprehension about Caer Ligualid, at her steely refusal to let the place where she had been forced against her will affect her.

And Domhnall had agreed to it. But it had been Constantine's plan, though he hadn't known Domhnall would go along with it.

Constantine, then, had proposed an incentive to be offered to Guthred as a gesture of Domhnall's goodwill and Domhnall had made the gesture Osthryth, in marriage. Further, he had known she was Aedre of Bebbanburg.

At the very least, she might be generous to him and believe that Domhnall might have been trying to keep her safe.

In all likelihood, he had disposed of her as a solved problem - Aedre of Bebbanburg would no longer be a potential threat of war between him and Aelfric and he might still get some advantage out of her.

And yet, despite all of that, Domhnall was her lord, still her king.

"The king, of Alba," Osthryth had drawn her mind back to the present, "is Constantine."

Alba had been Constantine's choice of name, meaning Britain, in Gaelish. Pictland was now Dal Riata, and the people were Scots.

"The abbot wishes to see you," Guthred had said, after reading the letter again. "He is one of my closest advisors."

Trew, thought Osthryth, malevolently. God, she would kill him. But, when she entered the monastery, she looked not into the face of the bastard who had tried to rape her, but into features she knew well.

"Abbot Finndal," Guthred had introduced, brightly. "I am sure you will get on."

And on they had, once abbot Finndal had taken her a walk diwn by the river, once a ghetto for the Brythonic poor, now a place where the Caer Ligualid guard trained.

"Finnolai!" She had exclaimed, seizing his neck and hugging her old friend. And Finnolai told her that his name at birth was Finndal, and only entering Domhnall's service he had been Finnolai.

Osthryth told him of Domhnall's demise, seven years before, and that Constantine was in the throne now. He knew, but received her news with the same enthusiasm as if he did not.

And another surprise met Osthryth's eyes. She had known about women falling in love with women, in the same way men fell in love with men. She had only ever felt it once, amd then for a short time. But to see the beautiful Haf again, now a beautiful woman of Osthryth's age had taken her breath away.

Haf was still working at Caer Ligualid, still in the service of the monastery, for she was hanging hedding out on nlibes of twine at the back of the kitchens, yet with the same beauty Osthryth had remembered.

Had the Briton married her Norseman? Did she have children now? If she did, she looked as if the years had not touched her.

"Yes, I will offer fealty to Constantine," Guthred had said, giving her a letter for the king of Alba. "But he must support me when the Eireann Norse invade to take Eoferwic."

"I will put the terms to him," Osthryth had promised, "and I am sure he will be favourable."

And, as she made to leave on her sturdy skewbald, he had taken her hand.

"Is there any chamce, Osthryth...Aedre...? I have thought of you many times of us." Osthryth had smiled, and shaken her head.

"None, Guthred. You are a kind man, a strong king. You know your own mind, you care for your people and are a good ally to both Constantine and Dyrfnwal And you allowed your sister to marry the man you had enslaved."

She had watched Guthred's eyes widen, then narrow, when he realised she knew about Uhtred. "You accepted all of that. You the king Cumbraland deserves."

And it had been that night, taking up an offer by Finnolai to reside at the monastery's scriptorium for the night before journeying back to Constantine that she had heard a strange thing. So strange that it had resulted in her mission, south east, to her former home.

Lincolnshire was threatened and, as such, King Aethelred of Mercia, who claimed the region, was seeking the bones of St. Oswald.

She had listened carefully to this. While it may have been the result of a drunken mouth-off by a traveller, Oathryth realised she knew him. Offa, he called himself, and by passing silver to him, had obtained further news of Osthryth's once former king.

She knew and venerated that saint, her long-time ancestor. Osthryth had known that, on taking her name that Osthryth had once been a princess of Bernicia who had married an Aethelred, son of Peada, son of Penda, the Mercian king who had martyred Oswald.

She had told the current Aethelred, Aethelflaed's estranged husband, when she had fled and joined the Mercian army, some of the happiest days of her life. He had laughed, and had told her that, unlike the former queen of Mercia, murdered for her divided loyalty, she was safe to fifht fir him, if that's what she wanted.

And now Aethelflaed and Aethelred had removed him from Bardsey. The Danes would want revenge.

But thus was not the only thing Oathryth learned. Further silver had her slipping into a conversation regarding Uhtred, her elder brother. He was heading north with a serious bid to overthrow Aelfric.

Osthryth would have dismissed the claim: she had heard many rumours over the years of Uhtred reclaiming their ancestral family seat. But the man said more. Much more.

There was one other person, who she had known to live and whose existence was a mystery. With this man, she shared a mother: her younger brother, also called Uhtred.

"But he hates his father, but oretends he is loyal. He is bringing a mercenary army to the fortress to kill him. I know," the spy Offa revealed, "because I sold him the ship that took him to the Mediterranean lands and the shipmaster reports back to me." He leaned conspiratorially across to Osthryth. "When he does that, his cousin will never, ever, recover Bebbanburg."

Though Osthryth didn't know her younger brother, she felt an instamt warming to him. He had not abused her as Uhtred of the Danes had. And Constantine would have her press her claim for him, or at least an alliance for then, he would be able to claim Northumbria to the wall, his long held dream. Osthryth could choose to be ambassador to her younger brother and aid Constantine's path. Or, block it.

"Edward thanked you for the book," Osthryth said, as he reached round to kiss her on the lips, something Constantine rarely did unless he was pleased with himself. He was pleased with Osthryth too: she had returned, it was spring, and news had reached the king that Uhtred the Younger had reached Bebbanburg

He reached up to her shirt and was now pushing his hand between her flesh and her bindings.

"You always were ready with a clever answer," he murmured, kissing her again.

"Would I be here otherwise?"

"You could be spying for your elder brother."

"If I were," Osthryth moaned, and sighed, loudly, as the nerve pulses from what he was doing to her teats took effect, "he'd be at our gates in a heartbeat...ahhh..." Constantine knew her body so well, and how her to incapacitate her. He stopped, though, and allowed her to talk.

"He is too consumed by Bebbanburg," Osthryth explained. "All his life he has wanted it back, he doesn't look left or right unless he is made to."

Constantine sat up, fingering her nipples as the tension feelings began, before drawing his hands away suddenly and swinging his leg over Osthryth, kneeling either side of her. His hard-on was pressing insistently against her leg.

"I think I may have to make him," she said as he kssed her neck. Constantine placed one hand on her hip while the other back under her bindings, shuffling the cloth away from her tits. Osthryth arched her back as Constantine put his lips to her nipple, grinding his teeth lightly around it.

A tight, tingly feeling began to grow around Osthryth's hips as he reached for the other, twisting it, not in anger as before but for pleasure, pinching gently then rolling it firmly beteeen his digits.

Osthryth moaned at the feelings his practised fingers brought forth. She was dampening, her body getting ready for him a second time as she hadn't been earlier that evening when a priapic Constantine sought to use her cunt for his own relief. She moaned again when Constantine's hand found her upper thigh and began to massage it. He then lunged for her mouth with his own.

"When will you be leaving?" He broke off his hungry kiss. Hunger for land, the greatest prize of all for the king of Alba. His hand ran up the inside her leg, her hair brushing his wrist.

This was a happy Comstantine, and she knew she would let him take her as often as he wished, until he was satisfied: Constantine happy was eminently better than Constantine vengeful. She had mentioned Edward amdvhe wanted to prove to Osthryth he was better than the king of Wessex. At everything.

Yet, only Osthryth would know which king was the best, and even then, they were so different in achieving the same goal, it was impossible to say who was the best lover.

Except, Osthryth did know, and it was neither of them. Osthryth's true love, if he lived, and Offa the spy's rumour was true, would be riding at Uhtred's left hand, defending his bondsman's weaker side. Finan Mòr, Finan, whom she loved above all other. Who must hate her after everything she'd done.

"Tomorrow," Osthryth breathed, as the king found her clitoris, and she splayed out her limbs on his bed at the crescendonic pleasure he was inducing by coaxing the nub into life with his tongue.

For Uhtred would not wait to take his former home and title. And her other brother Uhtred would fight as much to keep the fortress.

For the first time, Osthryth had a choice to make, one which would decide the future of Bebbanburg.