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

14. Wessex

Chapter 14: Wessex

A/N: The time period is just after Uhtred has been liberated from the slave ship with Ragnar looking for him and Hild nursing him (midway Series 2/end of Lords of the North) and then goes to raid Dunholm and kill Kjartan and Sven. So he's not in Winchester when Osthryth arrives.

So, we are just at the time when the second half of Series 2 begins and the start of Sword Song. I hope this helps with tracking where Osthryth is in context with the books/series.

Thank you everyone who has read this fic so far and your messages of support.

And I am so pleased at the news that after Series 5 there is going to be a film - it starts shooting in 2022. So glad Aethelstan's accession, coronation and Brunanburh is (I'm hoping) going to be in a movie, rather than condensed 45 minute episode, which it could only have been if they had to get from the Empty Throne to the end of War Lord.

Music that is in my head when I'm writing: "Walk Me Home" by Pink, for Osthryth and Finan; "With or Without You" by U2 for Osthryth and Constantine; "Wicked Game" the Karliene version (youtube) for Edward and Osthryth, in fact anything to do with Alba and Constantine and her soulmates Domnall and Finnolai and her lost love Taghd is Karliene (except - and, don't hate me on this, no bloody Outlander!)

Nothing yet for Osthryth and Uhtred. What music do you hear when you read this? I'd love to know!

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Days and nights on the fishing boat as it worked its way south down the east coast were comfortingly monotonous for Osthryth and more than once she had been grateful for the splash of the waves or the flap of the oiled cloth sail which soothed her senses. Journeying with fishermen had been a clever plan, Osthryth told herself, for the retreat to a functional world of nets, piles of fish corpses, trading between ships meant she was no longer tied to the land and, consequently to a lord, and her paying for passage was enough to get her left alone as Gert and Ulf, the Frisian fishermen, went about their trade.

Though they were passing through Danish sea lanes, the fisher boat was barely challenged at any port in which they landed down the east coast. It did not stop at Bebbanburg, much to Osthryth's relief.

Gert had tried to explain, as far as Osthryth understood, that their presence was unwelcome and she was relieved when they skirted past the high fortress of her former home, armed as it had been in the days of her memory when she had fled, by ranks of bowmen aiming belligerently at the boat.

Once Gyrrum was in sight Osthryth had breathed easier and had continued to unpick the fishing lines, a job which Ulf had abandoned to pull the sheet of the sail which sped it along the coast.

Gert and his brother Ulf spoke Frisian to one another, which was difficult to understand, though they got by in Anglish with Osthryth. It was clear Ulf did not much like Osthryth and would bar her way when the crates of salted herring were loaded in board, something for which Osthryth was grateful, for the stench was truly awful.

On a few mornings, Osthryth had awoken under her blanket to a low argument between the brothers which she gathered, by Ulf's sharp gesticulating in her direction he disagreed with his brother's decision for her to be aboard. Further, that Ulf had wanted to prevent her from working on the boat.

But she continued to mend their nets, clean the boat, in fact anything Osthryth was not prevented from doing by the elder brother, which kept her mind off Alba.

Of Alba and Domhnall and Constantine. Of Eirik and Siegfried, and whoever has won the battle before Dunnottar's keep-like walls. Of Domnall and Ceinid and Taghd.

Most of all Taghd, whose face would skip into her mind's eye as they skirted south around the east coast of the land, trading fish, as Gert's skilled handling of his boat reminded Osthryth of Taghd's easy proficiency, of how he had brought them round the Galloway headland to Caer Ligualid, past jagged rock formations hidden just below the surface of the sea which might otherwise have scuppered a less talented captain.

Osthryth's chest pained when she thought Taghd. She had come to love him, almost without realising it until he had said so too, and had been determined to make a life with him. For him to die in that burning church was horrific.

And yet, they had barely been in one another's company and, Osthryth had to admit, she had hardly been faithful since she had spoken the hand-wed oath that summer's day with the Morrigan present around them. Though, she had when it counted, Osthryth told herself. When she had realised that she wanted to be his wife entirely, she had done. As had Taghd. But it had been too late; the promises they had made one another before the battle were for all too brief a time.

Spray from the dipping boat splashed into her face as Gert's boat inched ever southwards, and Osthryth focused on the movement to quell her yearning for what could now not be, a life with Taghd of Doire, gone, in flames.

And now she was gone.

It was a thing of Eireann, Osthryth knew, Gaelish, or pagan, it was well documented at the Ar Macha and Doire monasteries, one of many things Anndra the novice monk had explained to her once, to be an abomination, so Osthryth guessed it must have been Druidhe: to fast against someone was a serious thing: to withdraw all sustenance as a protest was grave and serious. The longer it went on, the more pressure there was from the wrongdoer to put right the wrong that the person fasting was accusing them of.

And she was doing that, Osthryth thought, as they bobbed towards the wide estuary of Harwic, Ulf hailing the fisher boats to their bows for trading, not with food but with labour. Domhnall valued her for her worth as a peace cow, and had known - as King Aed presumably had known - that she was of Bernicia, of Bebbanburg, and had exploited that - Osthryth could see that now. So she was gone, withdrawing herself from the agreement they had made.

Yet, she had sworn to Domhnall, Osthryth knew so very deeply, as she skimmed the water with her hand once the fishing boat was once again under way, sworn loyalty. Really, that meant she should have remained.

That was one thing, Osthryth told herself, the resolution forming within her self stronger with ever passing sea-mile: she would never again bend her knee in loyalty to any king, any prince or any lord. She would fight for money, not loyalty. And she had very nearly married, too. Never would she marry.

That left just one thing: Uhtred. He was her brother, who she last knew to be in the Kingdom of Wessex. Uhtred, and also Father Beocca were both in this Kingdom, undefiled as it was by the Danes. She wanted so very badly to see him, and Beocca. Yet, she was well aware that they had both left her to her fate. Whatever she did, Osthryth knew, she must be careful not to end up as his responsibility, for then, her life would be his to direct.

Flounder was Osthryth's travelling companion when the fishing boat had passed mist-shrouded islands on England's south coast and she shifted to one side of the boat, the place she slept now half-filled with fish, and closed her eyes again. Gert shook her carefully by the shoulder and pointed a long wide finger to the coast, mouthing the word, "Wessex", before standing back, waiting for her to sit up. She yawned, and blinked at the coast again.

Yet, as Osthryth looked, there was a Danish warship tied up at a wharf. She felt to her waist, two weapons, both from Irishmen, under her hand. Taghd had passed her his seax before he perished in flame; Domnall, from whom she had won Buaidh, would be there, beside his cousins, loyally waiting out his exile in Domhnall's service. She resented the cowardly way she had run, and gripped her weapons in repentance.

"Danes?" she asked, as Gert reached towards that morning's catch. She pointed out to the harbour. The Frisian turned his sunburnt face towards the vessel, his floppy blonde hair bouncing in the early morning breeze.

"Yez, Danes," he nodded, handing Osthryth the morning's net to unfasten. She let go of her weapons and took the net. Ulf scowled at her, but the sun was arcing higher that morning and as it shine the warmth on her face made Osthryth happy and she watched the trading ships at the mouth of the river as their crews unloaded and unloaded, and one raised its square, striped sails.

It took much of the morning for it to get under way, its prow carved with a dragon head, and at its stern wooden stems in the shape of wings.

Osthryth watched it as it left the harbour, only realising its proximity as its wake washed out where the Frisian fishing boat had anchored. Only then, her heart began to beat faster, as Danes, fur clad, arm ringed, long haired, fastened their vessel to Gert's.

Several Danes hustled to the side, taking their eyes over the contents of the boat, taking in the nets and pots, the fish and line, and they jostled and pushed to begin a trade until one Dane, older than the men at the edge, heaved them out if the way, stamping a fur-strapped foot onto Gert's boat.

Neither Frisian had answered the Danes' demands for trade, and Osthryth had wondered whether the to knew to the Danish language, or the Danes Frisian. But she realised as the Dane hefted himself into the boat that neither fisherman had answered because they had been waiting for this man, who thrust his hand in into Ulf's, and clapped Gert on the back.

"Haesten! Haesten!" Ulf declared as he pointed to the lobster pots which they would use when they summered down towards Cornwalum and Devonscir, and at the wide nets they used for trail fishing.

Much of the catch that was being stored in buckets was crab, which had come from trade down the east coast and the Dane Haesten was had set about negotiating with Ulf for whiting, sole and herring as well as all their crab.

He patted Ulf on arm as he scoured the stock and found what he liked, his arm round Ulf's shoulder as Gert folded his thick arms, watching them. Osthryth cast a glance at the Danes, who were watching their leader as intently.

Then, Haesten's hand rested on something which Gert immediately betrayed to be valuable by taking a frantic step in its direction: the cloth bag in which Osthryth had given Gert the silver as payment for her passage.

Haesten laughed, running grubby fingers through his braided hair, as he clutched the bag, then turned up Ulf. Who looked straight at Osthryth.

The conversation was too quick to for Osthryth to follow, and where was the going to hi if she understood it anyway? Instead, she stared back at Ulf, shifting her fingers under her blanket to Taghd's seax, the swell of the waves moving backwards and forwards, making Osthryth's mind link back directly to the Foyle estuary and her near drowning. She moved her hand down Buaidh, too, picturing Domnall, Prince of the Uí Néill as Haesten's eyes examined her body.

Then, Osthryth gripped Taghd's seax handle as Ulf pulled her up from the bench at the stern of the boat by the shoulder, shaking her free of the covering and holding onto her arm tightly as Haesten looked her up and down, then back to the silver.

The rest was secreted within her clothes, Osthryth told herself: there was more for him to find if Ulf was about to betray her, for he had already thrown the coin bag to a Dane standing behind Gert.

Fast dialogue between the two men made Gert stride to them and Osthryth listened to try to pick up any phrases. But it was unlike the Norse Eirik Thurgilson had taught her that Osthryth could discern nothing, and instead, readied herself to pull Taghd's seax as soon as Ulf had let go as panic rose in her throat She had to get to Winchester - she must. She must find her brother.

Yet she didn't have to use the blade: Gert stepped between the Dane and his brother, pushing Osthryth away, appearing to chide his brother and snap angrily at Haesten at turns while pointing to Osthryth past Ulf's chest. But the Danish leader still stared at Osthryth, looking at her body as she stood there, warrior clad. Then, glancing back to Gert, he stepped away,stepping past Ulf as his men boarded the fishing boat, taking the catch, and throwing the empty wooden buckets back to the boat. No money had changed hands: the Frisian brothers had been looted.

Gert watched the Danish boat sail away as the bright, warm spring day opened around them like a yellow daisy before turning to his brother, who was tidying the buckets and the nets. He said nothing for a while, his frame blocking the view of the Wessex coast before turning back and surveying the loss. Ulf, meanwhile, took the fishing net that Osthryth was about to untangle and hid it away from at the prow. It was then that his brother turned and bore down on him, fist high.

Gert punched his brother in the face, causing him to topple over the edge of the fishing boat. Osthryth gasped and made to hurry over as huge, frantic splashes came from the port side, but Gert stood in her way.

He took Osthryth's shoulders, one in each hand, said something quickly but looking into her eyes trying to convey reassurance. Then, he took up her blanket and the tangled net.

Ulf heaved himself out of the sea eventually, looking at Osthryth through narrow eyes as he slithered into the bottom of the boat,but saidl nothing to her, and the uncomfortable silence persisting as Gert raised the iron cross spike and then the boat's sail and headed west.

It took two more days until the Frisians got to Hamwic, Wessex's large fishing port. Ulf refused even to look at Osthryth now, his face sporting a lump which would eventually bruise from his brother's thump. And Osthryth just waited for them tie up along with the many other craft, large and small. Yet none of them appeared Danish; no animal figureheads adorned warship prows.

It was the last Kingdom of Englaland to be truly free, different in character to Northumbria or Alba or Eireann, a warmth, richness to the land, prosperous, rich. No wonder the Danes wanted it so badly.

And Osthryth suddenly felt a mantle fall from her mind, as if she could now see more brightly and clearer than before: she wasn't running from Alba, but striding with confidence to her kin, to the brother she had once glimpsed through a broken wooden palisade come to taunt their uncle with his mere existence.

Yet Taghd still had her heart, even in death. Though he was deeply Christian, Osthryth suspected that his core was pagan. A little like herself. He was a man who, in his heart, knew as if fact, that the Sidhe were real.

Osthryth had done as the Morrigan had demanded of her: their oath to one another, in the land, on their way to Tara, and she, the Queen of the Sidhe, had been there, as she was present, always.

But the great chaos-queen of the Irish didn't live here, in Wessex, none of the Sidhe did. There was a surprising emptiness of spirit here in this southern Kingdom that Osthryth knew, now, to be their presence. Had they ever? Osthryth wondered. The Druidhe, the bards had lived here once. But Osthryth could no longer feel any presence of otherworldly spirits who lived beside the Irish Christianity in the north.

That thought remained with Osthryth as she watched Gert unload at the busy port what Haesten the Dane had allowed them to keep, what he hadn't discovered in the panels at the boat's sides and the Frisian passed baskets of eels bought from Gipeswic to Ulf on the quay. Skate, ray and Osthryth's sleeping companion flounder soon followed.

Gathering her blanket and rolling it up in a leather cord, she peered out at the port, with its cobbled dragways where bundles of what looked like cloth were being pushed up it by three men in a wooden crate. Its vessel was large with pale wooden planks. Osthryth had never seen a craft so large, and it looked as if the crew had a tough job ahead of them as more cargo of the same size and shape was also aboard.

Gert, meanwhile, had begun a brisk trade in his stock from people gathering around him and Ulf, and he briskly pocketed copper coins and a few silver ones, clearing out his stock in less than an hour.

Just her to leave now, Osthryth thought, and she made to climb overboard, into the shallow, muddy water and she waited for her feet to wet as she anticipated working out the way to Winchester. There were plenty of people to ask, she figured.

But the splash did not come, and all of a sudden, Gert filled her vision as he carried her out to the wharf cobbles, lowering her down until her feet met them. A guilty flush came to her cheeks: he had prevented her being abducted by the Danes, and they had taken the Frisians' silver she had given to them. They had brought her the length of the island of Britain, and had nothing to show for their protection of her.

Behind her, Osthryth noticed, Ulf ignored them, and she wondered about his hostility to her.

Gert said nothing, and Osthryth tried Anglish to thank him, which he clearly didn't understand. Osthryth knew no Frisian, so she tried Norse and then succeeded with Cymric where she had failed with Gaelish.

"My thanks," Osthryth began, hesitating as she sought for the words - the right words, that conveyed weight enough for her gratitude. Then, she felt words in her throat that her mind did not intend her to utter.

"What did you say to them? The Danes? Haesten?"

Gert's ice blue eyes sparkled, then his thick lips turned up at the corners to match but still said nothing.

"They did not take me with them because of what you said," Osthryth pressed.

"You are possessed by the sea witch giantess Wachilt and you bring us the good catches and prosperity." He pointed a thick finger to her chest, then back to his boat. "I said if they should take you, Wachilt would drag the warship to the sea bed and drown them all with her giant tail."

Osthryth did not mean to laugh. But that the straightforward Gert had concocted the story made her think he believed it. Perhaps he did.

"Thank you," she said again. Mean words against his generosity. Gert said nothing, but watched her. And a thought occurred to Osthryth: he had no silver. She must pay her way.

Scrambling around in her clothing, Osthryth produced a handful of silver from her jerkin. It was about half she had left over from the original bag which she had found in the rowing boat when she had fled Bebbanburg. But Gert pushed her hand away.

"You go, Wachilt, where you will." And the Frisian boy, now young man, successful fish trader around the British coast turned and began his work again, collecting his empty baskets from the quay and striding back towards his boat.

And they would leave, and here she was, Osthryth of the Gaels, of Alba, Eireann and, of course, of Bebbanburg. Now, as the mid-springtime sun bathed her face, Osthryth smiled, and began on her journey to where she last knew her brother to be: Winchester.

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"What in Helheim is that supposed to be?" Uhtred was drunk. Very drunk, and had just taken a piss at the back of the Two Cranes inn, the passing of which had been disturbed by his loyal friend breaking into a drunken song. Looking over, Finan grinned, and hummed the refrain once more.

They were back. Having forced a retreat on Eirik and and Siegfried Thurgilson, demanding Guthred's Cumbraland army to do so, allowed Ragnar revenge on Kjartan and Sven, liberating Thyra and keeping Dunholm, it had been difficult for Uhtred to leave Northumbria without first avenging his uncle and reclaiming Bebbanburg.

Finan knew this, and that returning to Wessex was a wrench, so annoying Uhtred meant that he kept his friend focused.

"Oran Eirinn," he called back, as if that explained everything: Finan was more than a little drunk himself. "Or - an Eir - inn," he pronounced the syllables slowly, which should make Uhtred understand them instantly. "Ireland's song, yer eejit," he added, clapping the now re-trousered Uhtred on the shoulder.

"You're in a good mood," Uhtred replied, as they stumbled back towards the pub doorway.

"And why would I not be? I'm at liberty - at liberty - " he emphasised, " - to fight next to you, Uhtred; I have food, shelter - " he pushed on the oak door, stepping slightly unsteadily towards Clapa and Sihtric, "- ale!". He cheered as Uhtred's men matched Finan's toast to the watered-down drink in the mostly-inn.

"And to Uhtred!". Finan turned to him, grabbing up his tankard. "Health, wealth, and to your continued favour with Alfred!".

"If it lasts," Uhtred replied, raising up his tankard anyway. "Gisela likes Cookham; my children are safe; we are prosperous. Aethelflaed is due to marry; Edward is growing strong. The king is as happy to have me as his warrior as I am to have his patronage."

"Yeahhh!" agreed his men, all four of them raising up their tankards.

"If it lasts," Uhtred added, quietly, to Finan.

"Why wouldn't it? Silver from your Danish father Ragnar fell into his hand by the conduit of the most Blessed Hildagyth. He won twice: silver, and you. And he risked little in all of that by sending your brother Ragnar. Do you not consider it?" Uhtred stared at Finan.

"I consider it daily. It is to my benefit too. Gisela is safe." Finan nodded. An agreement that suited them both. "And Eireann?". He looked at Finan meaningfully.

"My own eejit head," Finan shot back, "remembering a better time."

"Yes?

"There weren't many." Uhtred was about to press his friend more, but Finan put his tankard to his lips pointedly, sipping deeply. When he put it onto the board, the warrior, lately slave, clarified nothing.

Behind them, a young man in a monk's habit looked on, and further on, making to get up,his mind fixing on his uncle's words about the mighty warrior he called "Aerseling". But his nerve faltered, in the end. Behind him, a girl working her trade - the oldest one in the world - twinkled at Sihtric before being hustled back away into an adjoining room, a curtain falling across the doorway by the irate landlord, who glowered in their direction.

"And her name's.. ?" Finan promote. Sihtric flashed his eyes towards him, and blinked, as if being awoken from thinking faraway thoughts. "The girl...?" Finan prompted.

"Leave him be, she's just a tavern whore," dismissed Uhtred, as Clapa replenished their ale.

"Aelfburh," Sihtric looked back at Finan. Uhtred banged his pot onto the boards of their table as Clapa topped up its contents from the jug he had bought, and tutted.

"Come on, Uhtred," Finan chided mildly, "You said yourself, you cannot choose who God...the gods...gives you to love. Look at Father Beocca and Thyra - "

"Thyra is no whore!" Uhtred shot back, starting forward. Finan said nothing, waiting for his friend to work out that he hadn't said that at all. Uhtred looked at Sihtric, and shook his head, but said nothing. Then Clapa began to speak, holding out his ale pot.

"The raven flies into a tree, and bravely though the warrior be - "

"He looks at that grave omen come," joined in Sihtric, to the tune that Clapa was struggling to find, "and forces legs still which would run - " added Finan, until they were all singing the pre-Christian Saxon folksong.

"And away across the battlefield, flies sword and axe and spear and shield..."

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The good spirits Osthryth felt a week before, knowing her brother was near and she had but to reach him had all but evaporated as poor fortune followed after poor fortune.

It was a mere ten miles north to Wintancaester by the Roman road, she had been assured by a dock trader who she had seen buying from Gert at the quay, but when she had inquired into means of transport, nothing seemed forthcoming.

It didn't help that her speech was different compared to the Anglish Osthryth spoke and, after proffering a small sum to one textile merchant, who drove off with the silver but not Osthryth, she set to walk to Wessex's capital.

Silver was fast falling through her fingers as Osthryth moved from tavern to tavern, living on the food for sale in the insalubrious institutions - she could not see another way to live in the city, until she was down to her last two coins. She had also hoped, in a vague way, that the taverns would be places where she may hear of her brother. But no-one spoke of him, and when she went to church, to listen for a priest called Beocca, she heard nothing either.

One night, a month after being in Winchester, Osthryth decided that her means were outstripping her ambition of finding Uhtred. She had enough for food for the next few days, but not enough for board. The nights were mild enough to sleep outside, wrapped in her woollen cloak, and she found a lea not far from the river, which would do while she contemplated what to do. Because what she had been doing at the moment was a waste of time and money.

Closing her eyes that night Osthryth contemplated her options. Returning to Alba and to King Domhnall was out of the question, for it was acceding to his will, and his will was a marriage to benefit his crown.

Even now, knowing that, Osthryth still could not hate him. Oh, she had tried to hate Domhnall mac Caustin Uì Àlpin but, Osthryth found, she could not. He was a king in the true sense, gaining power to lead his people.

He had brought the idea of kingship to Alba through the Irish high kings - literally - with the red sandstone block that he had placed at the meeting of the three kingdoms of Pictland, Strathclyde and Dal Riada, extending the idea of king and God from Dunadd to the whole of the northern lands and, like ColmCille had conferred Godliness on the kingship of his ancestors, the Bishop of Iona had continued this at Scone. And to do this, like kings before him, he had to make harsh choices.

No, Osthryth could not hate a man she admired. Had he not, Finnolai would not have been awaiting the slaver, and Osthryth might not have had a chance to help him escape had he, in turn, not helped her.

But there was another reason, one deeper in her heart, and one she knew she must get over quickly: Taghd. Even now, in the black of the night, Osthryth could see his face, determined and bold, crusting a soft, creativity. Everyone listened when Taghd of Doire began to sing, or to tell a tale: it drew you in - you became part of that song or that story as long as the storyteller did not stop. And, on long, winter nights, the storyteller might have been telling stories for most of the night.

But it was behind her - she had to pack up those feelings and never think of Alba, harden her heart, as she had done against Bebbanburg, her uncle, her once-home. Just -

A "click" in the blackness flicked Osthryth's mind to her place in amongst the sheltered trees. Was there something there? Someone? She waited, watching.

When nothing more came, she settled back down. Uhtred may not be there,in Winchester. But he had been - thank heaven for monk's sharing every scrap of information between monasteries that she had found that out in Caer Ligualid. Someone would be there who knew of him. And she must find some sort of employment, for two pieces of silver would not last her long.

But employment as what? She only knew fighting, being a warrior. It was what made her bold enough to sleep out of doors, even though there was still a great risk of being attacked if she remained on the tramp, because sleeping alone was dangerous.

The most rewarding would to be accepted as a palace guard - she liked to fight because she was good at it. And, being at the palace meant more chance of hearing about her brother.

Sunlight shone near the lea of trees in which she was sleeping and Osthryth opened her eyes. The thought was now fixed in her mind: follow the river back down to Winchester and make enquiries about how she could work at the palace.

A twig cracked beside her. Osthryth got to her feet, feeling for Buaidh. No-one seemed to be there.

That meant nothing, of course - an attacker could hide in any number of places, as she had done herself many times. A Dane, perhaps. They probably roamed around here, sizing up the city. It would be a matter of time until they attempted a re-invasion, as they had done when Alfred had fled

And then, rain began. Not just a few drops of springtime mizzle, but a great deluginal waterfall, washing past the lea of trees and down towards the river Itchen. Osthryth pulled her cloak around her, Buaidh in her hands, vertically in front of her. It would be slippery underfoot, so time would be an advantage...

...and lunged. Around the tree, wherever her attacker would be, he would be at the very least, surprised by the assault. At the very most, dead.

But it was Osthryth who was taken by surprise: as she stepped out of the shelter of the tree, a scrambling and whining met her. A she-wolf, small, and young, scrabbled back from her. Osthryth lowered Buaidh. It was clear the animal was not going to harm her, and she wondered whether she had been sleeping in the wolf's sleeping place. Moreso, the she-wolf was clearly pregnant.

Osthryth turned back, pulling her cloak around her. No more sleeping out of doors if she could help it, she told herself, and strode off towards the capital of Wessex.

The silver was to be gone by midday, Osthryth knew, when she got to a slightly less sodden Winchester. She had clearly not been looking after her blade as she should have, and the edge was blunt.

Ahead of her, thankfully, was the beginning of the commercial row, where trade and gossip flowed freely. People were crowded along it, as they were every day that Osthryth had been there. The Two Cranes inn was nearer the other end. Turning off half way along it and she would reach the palace. But she had to have Buaidh made good, or she would have no blade at all within a month.

A blacksmith's stood not far from the inn, and its thatched roof provided welcome relief from the incessant downpour and its forge warmth. Osthryth unsheathed Buaidh as the blacksmith looked at her through deep-set, eyes set within his large, red-burnished face.

"My sword," Osthryth said. "Sword, " she repeated, taking out the blade. "It's rough, here."

The man flicked his eyes to Osthryth - he could not understand her properly, she could tell but he did not flinch as the point of Buaidh moved in his direction. He looked at it, and then at Osthryth, then lowered the point.

"I have silver." Osthryth offered the two coins to the man in her other hand. He understood that, and took Osthryth's last two coins - carried with care from Alba and, before that, Seobhridht, who had bundled it into a boat, which Osthryth, as Aedre, had stolen to flee Bebbanburg - and put them beside the forge.

"I can recast her," he said, looking over the blade, "I can put an edge back onto her."

"An-duigh?" Osthryth asked, then in Anglish, "To-day?"

"Today," nodded the blacksmith. So Osthryth yielded Buaidh to the craftsman's fingers and watched as a link to her life in her immediate past was manipulated and mauled, bent and burnished, fire heating and water dousing the heat, as the fire also began to dry out her clothes. And, at length, the blacksmith paused.

"Here," he said, pointing to the join of metal near the top of Buaidh's blade. And Osthryth could see what the man meant: the blade had been badly cast.

"I have no more silver," she said, then added, "no silver.". The blacksmith frowned, as being him steam from the dousing sink mingled with the roar of the pouring rain outside.

"A Briton?" He asked, frowning. Osthryth paused, wondering about the answer. She could never say she was of Northumbria, and her accent betrayed she was no Saxon. Were Britons well received in Wessex?

"Gaelish," Osthryth replied, the safest thing she could think of. Too far away to really be a threat, if the blacksmith had ever heard of Gaelish people at all. But he must have heard something, for he broke into a smile.

"My mother," the blacksmith confided, "was of Waeleas. The Gaels are of the same people are they not?" He smiled encouragingly at Osthryth, and she nodded.

The blacksmith then looked back to Buaidh, taking her up again. When she tried to protest, for she had no more silver, he placed two bronze coins into her hand.

"Done," he said, a few minutes later. In the same way Osthryth had proffered her sword, the blacksmith offered it to her, blade first, so she could receive the handle. Buaidh looked incredible. Her blade was straighter than when she had acquired her, in Tara, at the fighting contest, her shaft was no longer dull but shined like the moon. And, when she swung her before the blacksmith, she moved cleaner, and quicker.

"I see you at the alehouse," the blacksmith told her. Osthryth strained to understand.

"At the inn - you," the man reshaped his sentence. Osthryth nodded.

"And you fight?"

"I wish to be at the palace. Palace guard?" she asked. But the blacksmith shook his head.

"They have all the men they need. But, King Alfred's army always needs a few men." He glanced at Osthryth's scabbard as Osthryth thought, army? That was always a possibility. And, I hope it pays well. "Here," the blacksmith said, offering Osthryth a piece of fleece. "To keep the blade oiled," he added. Osthryth nodded. She had lost the last piece she had had back at the palace, at Dunnottar, which Osthryth still caught herself thinking of as "home", and Buaidh, not only not being the best kept sword when she first acquired her, had only got worse.

"My thanks," Osthryth said, looking out at the now only spitting rain. It turned out that the palace was indeed looking for warriors for their army, for she had spoken to one of the sentries on guard at the hugely impressive stone building which was the capital city of the last independent kingdom of Englaland. But the captain of the king's guard would not be seeing anyone until the next day.

The palace of Wessex. It was more impressive than she could have thought. Dunnottar was not much than half its size, and was more enclosed, guarding itself with its own walls, whereas KIng Alfred's palace was contained within its own citadel, like Caer Liguaid, with a boundary wall, guarded in all four directions by household guards. They had both been Roman cities, Osthryth knew, so perhaps that was why they were similar, and similar to the Roman wall that divided Englaland from Alba, which Domhnall had expressed was his grandfather's desire to use as his own boundary, taking all of the land up to it as a part of his lands. And that suited Osthryth for, displacing her uncle would be exactly what he deserved.

And then, the reason she was in Wessex crystallised in Osthryth's mind: she was here to find her brother, who was similarly treated by Aelfric. Was that the only reason she was here? But then, as she approached the "Two Cranes", she thought: he is family; she was Uhtred's sister; he was her brother. That had to count for something.

With a refurbished sword but only two pennies Osthryth picked her way through the inn. She could now buy food - and she stood near the bar waiting to be served - but would not a room. Perhaps the she-wolf would not mind company until she could report to the palace in the morning to seek employment.

For a damp afternoon, the inn was bereft of its usual number of customers. As she stood waiting in the moist straw covering earth, a boy of about eight came in through the back door of the inn, grinning at her.

"Food?" He asked. "I'll get mama." He had gone before Osthryth could protest, because "mama" was a young woman who worked at the inn in many capacities, and had encouraged Osthryth to use her silver to pay for a room.

And the rain had begun again, so when the boy's mother Aelfburh appeared with meat and bread, she twinkled at Osthryth.

"Won't be too much trouble to make up a bed," she encouraged. But Osthryth shook her head.

"I have enough money only for food," she said, definitely, remembering the young woman's insistence she spend some of her silver with her, horizontally. Like Haf, Aelfburh assumed she was a man. Osthryth glanced at the rain, its rate accelerating, and she did wish she could, rather than fight the she-wolf for shelter.

The girl left her alone with one backwards glance, Osthryth noticed, and gripped Buaidh's handle, before eyeing the meal.

She couldn't blame her. Whatever had led Aelfburh to prostitution could so easily have been her fate, with Sven Kjartansson, if her uncle Aelfric had has his wish. She had just been chattel - but Osthryth knew she could fight, and that had saved her from the Danes, at least. And, were she to find her brother, she would not give her life over to him, for him to decide. She must make decisions carefully. She must, if and when she found him,

More men trickled into the inn as Osthryth but into the meat and bread, Aelfburh keeping an eye on her, she noticed. Even if she was a man and did want to hump her, Osthryth couldn't have paid her in any case, and when the girl brought some ale through to her, Osthryth beckoned to her.

"I cannot pay for this; I cannot pay for a bed," she said. The girl nodded, lowering her head to Osthryth.

"Have it anyway, you have been overcharged by my stepfather too many nights, and a bed for the night." But Osthryth shook her head. It was too easy to fall into debt and have people chase her - she had seen a man being beaten until he couldn't stand a week ago in one of the back streets near Winchester's main commercial thoroughfare. She would find a sheltered spot for the night and try the next morning to gain a position at the palace.

"Come back later?" Aelfburh asked, dipping her head close to Osthryth's ear. She didn't turn, it was clear Aelfburh was trying to garner custom.

"Later I will still have no money," Osthryth pointed out. But she didn't move her head and when Osthryth turned, the girl's lips met her cheek.

"No," Osthryth said firmly, pulling away and placing the copper coins into her hand. "My thanks for the good food, and your honesty."

An hour later, opening the door onto a damp street smelling of animals, Osthryth headed towards the woods again, beyond the city's walls, but found that the west gate, and the south had been barred.

"No-one in or out tonight," a guard called down to her. "King's orders."

Did that mean the king thought the city was going to be attacked?

She really did not have anywhere to go now, Osthryth thought. She had turned down a possible genuine offer of a bed, and could not sleep out doors in shelter beyond the city. Guards were on duty by day and night, so most people were moved on, or arrested, and while she did want to get into the palace, being on the wrong side was not what she meant.

It was getting dark now, the spring day bringing a chilly night to it. Osthryth did not know Winchester well - was there a bridge where arches could offer shelter? She knew where the Britons lived, in the north, at Crepelgate, but they always wanted paying for anything, and generously.

East. She hadn't tried east, towards the downlands - maybe something was there and her luck would turn.

The stars were well risen by the time Osthryth reached the east gate. Again, as with the west and south gates, it too was barred, and nothing but houses and hovels, guarded by blade or dog.

Osthryth turned. Maybe she had been too proud to have turned down the offer of the bed at the "Two Cranes" - maybe Aelfburh's offer was genuine. If she returned, maybe she could sleep there after all?

An unmistakable sound of a sword swooshing from a lined scabbard made Osthryth turn. In the darkness there was little to see but a crunch to her left drew her right. She held Buaidh close to her face, waiting.

Then there was nothing. Osthryth felt her heart thumping behind her bindings. And still she waited, just in case.

So, as the moon began to rise, Osthryth trod carefully along the road that took her back to the tradespeople in the centre of Winchester. The moon, at least, was casting a shadow along the dirt path. Many candles were lit now and she could navigate back to the kneeling cross.

And then it came,an attack from behind her. As Osthryth had turned to walk up the hill towards the "Two Cranes", the lunge came. It was the man's step she heard first, the heavy thump to the left that suggested there was going to be a jab to the right. Hand on Buaidh, Osthryth thrust out, the blade feeling foreign in her hand as its renewal by the blacksmith's hand had shifted its centre of balance.

She stumbled, and would have been beaten had not the assailant been aiming his blow towards another figure, now crumpled in a heap by his feet.

Osthryth gripped Buaidh again, forcing the attacker away from the stricken form who, by the look of it, was a man, waving his arms about, trying to fend off the blow. She struck, stabbing the assailant in the arm. He dropped his own blade and ran.

Before offering the victim her arm, Osthryth looked around her. Were there more attackers? And why this man?

It took mere minutes to discover, as she helped the man to his feet, that he was Lord Odda, of Devonscir, who rewarded Osthryth with a position in his guard.

"You'll grow," the lord said the next day, when Merewalh, the head of his household guard and been summoned to his large house within reach of the palace and had looked scornfully up and down Osthryth's frame. "And, I am most grateful for saving this old man's life." He laughed at that, his guards laughing too.

"For he has not yet given up fighting beside Alfred," Merewalh the Mercian guard muttered after Lord Odda had left.

"Take pity - he has no son now," Aelffrith, Odda's best swordsman lamented.

"And now we are off to Exancaestre," a third guard complained. "Just when I have been enjoying the palace maids."

So, that was how Osthryth entered the service of Odda and found herself, a week later at his country estate guarding a woman, his god-daughter, by the name of Mildrith, and that he had no son because of Odda the Younger's treachery to Alfred.

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"He was drunk, I tell you," Merewalh muttered to Aelffrith one morning as the guards mucked out the stable. Osthryth looked up, and was greeted with a sneer from the head guard.

"And, what are you staring at, bastard Briton?" He shouted at Osthryth, then threw the handle of a reaping hook in her direction. Osthryth turned and it bounced, hard, off her back.

Osthryth's understanding of Saxon was improving, and she could have ignored hIm, but instead, she replied, "I am a Gael, not a Briton." Merewalh sneered at her.

"You're a weedy piece of shit, you are," he shot back, pulling out his own sword. "Can barely understand your gruntings.". He narrowed his eyes. "Where is Gael-land anyway?"

"North," Osthryth replied. "Eireann. Dal Riada Alba. Where even the lowliest warrior is a million times better than you are, you piece of hog turd."

"All-aba." Merewalh rolled the word on his lips. "Full of Norse, I heard." He bore down on Osthryth as she felt for Buaidh. "Sure you're not Norse with that pale hair of yours?"

"I fought Norse," Osthryth shot back. "I killed Norse." She felt her hand go instinctively to her blade. But, it would not do to unsheathe Buaidh. Yet, Merewalh was not in the mood to listen. He bore down on her.

A glimpse above indicated there was someone watching them from the upper storey, and he flicked his eyes upwards, sheathed his sword reluctantly.

"Go to that snivelling dowager then," he growled. "You fell on your feet with Lord Odda there."

And, so it turned out, Osthryth had been lucky. It was barely a job accompanying Mildrith around the estate. Tall, brown-haired Mildrith, who never smiled, whose eyes might have once been merry with life, but were full and downcast, who took things slowly, and cared for Odda as if he were her father.

It also turned out that Osthryth had displaced Merewalh from the easy job, for it was he who had meant to have been guarding Odda in Winchester and had become separated from his lord. Aelffrith told her, confidentially, that Odda suspected Merewalh of sneaking off for a drink himself, which is why he had been given night watch duties, not befitting the head of the guard.

He was of Mercia, Aelffrith - a native of Devonscir and born gossip - told Osthryth one day, and resented being traded by Lord Ceowulf with a guard in Odda's service. His one desire in the world was to return to Mercia.

But Odda did seem old, and perhaps, Osthryth suspected, his age and his deep head injury at Ethandun, was confusing him. Plus, with no son now, the had fewer life events to hook him to the present. Some days, he did not rise, and others, Aelffrith had told her, he thought his wife and son were somewhere in the estate and frantically sent men to find them. No wonder Mildrith cared for him in an almost startled way, fretting over his meals, his rest.

Four months, and Osthryth lived quietly, and lived well, healing and growing stronger in the country estate of Lord Odda with only the quarrelsome Merewalh to challenge her. She could dress privately, and she still had a good quantity of lily root which, Osthryth had discovered, when steeped in milk, reduced her monthly bleeding to almost nothing. Not that she was in any mood to be in the situation that is stopped pregnancy: her mind was fixed on work and passing human relationships, her unhappiness at her immediate past in Alba buried deep within her.

It was just past the lean month and harvest was almost upon them. Around them, the poor worked the land, and they were to help: no grain meant both poor and rich starved at equal measure.

It had been no problem for her to keep up her disguise, and she made sure she fought left-handed to not appear as good as the twenty or so guards who trained with one another.

The land of Devonscir was bounteous - it was no wonder the Danes wanted it so badly, and why the people of Wessex defended it with such might. And, Osthryth could hear the Sidhe there, in the tall mountains and valleys, who she could not hear in Winchester, talking amongst themselves as they did in Alba and Dalriada and Eireann.

There were few incursions, despite being harvest: the hit and run tactics of the Danes not extending, yet, to Exancaestre, although, Aelffrith told Osthryth, that had not always been the case: a Dane called Skorpa and another called Ubba had been the scourge of that part of Wessex.

"Until they were defeated, by Alfred's men," Aelffrith said, happily, nudging Osthryth to look at Merewalh's expression, of derision. Scornful of what, Osthryth didn't know. "Young Odda took the news."

"Young Odda!" scorned Merewalh. But refused to say more. And news had come that Lord Odda was leaving for Winchester, which meant the majority of the guard were to be leaving too.

"King Alfred's daughter. We go to the betrothal." Aelffrith explained.

Merewalh had only cynicism to offer yet again. Osthryth wondered whether she would be going too, or if she was to continue to guard the lady Mildrith. She found her answer the next morning, a bright autumn morning pouring its rays onto the corridor on which Osthryth slept, outside Mildrith's room.

As a maid brought up a tray of bread and weak ale to the lady, the usually silent Mildrith called her over.

"You are going with Odda then." Osthryth said nothing, for she knew nothing. Mildrith's words were no question, and Osthryth studied her delicate features.

"I see you care for him, my lady." Osthryth bowed her head, then looked at the young woman, perhaps only five years older than herself, already endowed with a lifetime of grief.

"You speak in a strange tongue," she said, looking at Osthryth as if trying to work something else. "Yet, your words seem familiar." Then, the puzzle seemingly over, worked out, or out aside, Mildrith drifted towards the window. Below, two of the younger guards, younger even than Osthryth, Herefrith and Godwin, were readying horses.

"Are you accompanying us, Lady Mildrith?". The young woman turned, and she shook her head.

"I go to the grave of my son the day after tomorrow. Then I will wait for my godfather to return so he has a purpose in telling me all that is to be told."

"You are unfailingly kind, my lady." Osthryth stepped away.

"I am going to a monastery, to a nunnery. I am going to dedicate my life to God."

"To find peace, Lady Mildrith?"

"Yes." She looked at Osthryth, and a smile flickered at the corners of her mouth.

"You are kind, boy."

I am not, Osthryth thought, then looked at the young woman. "I am glad to have met you, Lady Mildrith, you can only go on in your journey of your life, not back. The Lord sees you are safe here."

"And you?" she said, suddenly. "You are carrying a huge sadness, I can see that." Mildrith looked on Osthryth as if she were a flower, crumpled and dishevelled. Osthryth inhaled a huge lungful of air.

"The Lord saw that I was safe too and caused me to fall into circumstances where I was taught me to fight." The words tumbled out, dangerous words, and Mildrith trod the wooden planks of her room with her silken shoes looking into her eyes.

"You are a girl?"

"I am a warrior," she corrected Mildrith. "Not her, not him, for that defines us too narrowly. I can fight, and I have, selfishly. I would say that my blade is God's, but not yet. One day, I hope to say that."

At that moment, Osthryth meant it. What she did not know at that moment was just how hard it would be to keep it. Mildrith leaned across and took up Osthryth's hand. It was soft and light as a feather, and then it was over, as the young woman turned.

"May I pray for your son?"

Mildrith did not turn turn as she uttered the name and the word drifted off into the warm, crisp morning, mingling with the autumn mists rising from the fields, as if it were a spell, and was holding her arms to herself as her thoughts were far away, perhaps in the place in the distant horizon where her eyes had settled, perhaps where her son rested.

Mildrith had spoken her son's name. But it had been so soft, Osthryth hadn't caught it properly. Instead, she went down to the courtyard, a twinge of sorrow for the young woman's sadness in her chest, before helping Aelffrith wrestle the saddles into place on the horses' backs and drag put the wagons in which Lord Odda's voluminous belongings would travel.

As they walked behind the wagon carts, Aelffrith looked across to Osthryth, who was thinking about the Wessex capital and once again. "She is never happy, Mildrith." Osthryth looked back to him. "It was her you were thinking of were you not?" His dark blue eyes twinkled, as if he had found her weakness. Osthryth nodded.

"Her father in debt caused her to be made to marry a man to repay that debt. He was a pagan."

"The husband?" Osthryth could hear the shock in her own voice. Aelffrith nodded, lowering his, as Merewalh nodded them through the narrow gorge through which the party travelled.

"And King Alfred approved?!" she hissed, in disbelief. "A Dane?"

"The lord pretended to be Christian; said he had been baptised - twice! That was the lie, right there. Within a year of their marriage went off raiding to Cornwalum, returned with a Cornish Briton claiming to be a witch queen who he took up with, repudiating the lady Mildrith. And, her baby boy died. Some say it was her witchcraft that did it. The shame to the poor lady was most terrible."

"Repudiated?"

"Cast aside." Aelffrith rephrased, hissing the word across to her as Merewalh held up a hand to halt them. He had once had a church education, but, like Mildrith, his father owed debts, and had paid them with his son's service to Odda. And a distant memory, painful, for it resided in the part of her brain that remembered Culdees, and who had sent her there, reminded Osthryth that she already knew he had been married, because of a letter from the Bushop of Exeter, incluiding enquirties about a silver piece of holy work which he seemed to have, of late, in his possession.

And so, Osthryrh did think about Mildrith now, as they headed east, towards Wessex's capital, thoughts of her brother pushed to the back of her mind.

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It took three days of marching to get to the hills to the west of Wessex's capital. They had travelled slowly east, through stone structures and across the ancient, raised pathway. They had stopped at Ethandun and one of Odda's priests had given thankful prayers for Alfred's victory.

They passed, slowly, the lea in which Osthryth had slept for several nights, and she wondered whether the she-wolf still made her home in that sheltered overgrowth. Presumably, her cubs would be long gone.

At the west gate, a few words from Merewalh got it open for them and Odda and his entourage proceeded along the main street until they came to the kneeling cross at the very centre of the city. A left turn got them to the palace.

But, he wouldn't be there long. That very day, Alfred was leaving to ride north, to a burh on the north bank of the Temes and Odda was going with them. The reason for the glgaste was that the arrival of the leader - not king - of Mercia was imminent. Betrothal of Alfred's daughter to an earldoman of Mercia was to follow, so Alfred must return for this happy event.

Osthryth, meanwhile, with Aelffrith, were to remain with the household guard under Steapa's command; Merewalh was to lead some of the king's men on this expedition and wouldn't be back for several days.

"He says Cookham," Aelffrith confided, genially, to Osthryth, but he wishes to view the land beyond Cookham, near where Waetling Street begins. It is where the border of Daneland is."

Daneland. It was the first time that Osthryth had heard the name, and her mind conjured up a land north onwards filled only with Danes. Yet, her head knew, that it wasn't true: Bebbanburg was still held by her uncle as far as she knew, and there was, of course, Alba.

"Don't be disheartened," Aelffrith said, passing her the beginnings of the unloading of the wagon. "The household guards here are good fellows; we are alright here - little to guard compared to on the road." Osthryth smiled, and picked up the baggage-handling process.

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It turned out that the excursion to Cookham by the king was taking longer than the fortnight that was originally planned. The progress from Aylesbury had not arrived yet either.

As Odda's guards, Aelffrith and Osthryth were placed under the command of Steapa in the absence of Merewalh, and that meant early rising from the guardroom and parrying, lunging and blocking practise as the autumnal sun showed its rays.

Both Hereward and Godwin, young boys of about fourteen, were given to Osthryth and Aelffrith to train with. Neither of them were much good, but both had enthusiasm which, with drilling - and Steapa, the huge head of Alfred's guard gave them drilling - both had improved within a fortnight.

In that fortnight, Osthryth had learned the customs of Wessex, not only in the palace, such as mealtimes, which seemed to be different to - longer than - the Dunnottar palace day palace, but also because the life within it revolved around the Roman church. Not that the Irish church was not Roman, she once had it explained to her by a novice, Aelfgar, who she had struck up a conversation with in the stables one day, rather the Irish church refused to adhere to the new doctrine that the pope issued with Augustine's mission.

"ColmCille even died in the same year as Augustine arrived," Aelfgar said, in a jolly manner as he talked to Osthryth through the stable window and watched her clean the harnesses. "You might have thought those Pelagians might have seen that as a divine sign, yes?". Osthryth had been about to argue, but remembered that it was her own ancestors, King Oswy, who had decreed that it was to be the Roman church, not the Irish for the Northumbrians. Aelfgar, thinking her ignorant from her silence, left her to her tasks, and Osthryth reflected with satisfaction on the anonymity that being a lord's guard was giving her.

But if Osthryth thought the mundane nature of her tasks was enough, she did not reckon on, a week before week before All Saints' Day, that the head guard would begin training for the shield wall.

"Because you will have to know how to fight properly, no matter whose lord you are," Steapa told them. He then called to his guards, asking all of them to step forward who had fought in a shield wall. Apart from a few younger ones, most stepped forward. And then Osthryth stepped forward, too.

It was clear Steapa was not expecting this, and he eyed Osthryth with suspicion, trying to work out the joke being played. When he could not, and with all eyes on that morning's drill practise on him, he beckoned her forward.

"Stand," he commanded, as the guards watched on. In fact, several people watched on, including some of the kitchen servants, eyeing up Godwin and Hereward, their eyes drifting over to her. "Now, go. Attack me as if you are part of the shield wall, you piece of Scots scum!"

Ignoring the fact that she would be sardined with other men at her left and right, shields before her, seaxes drawn, and that Steapa's own guards were examining the situation with fascinated amusement, Osthryth fixed her eyes on the head guard.

A look passed between the warriors ash she stood there. A susurrus of whispers circulated around her. But Osthryth didn't look round, not even when Hereward, who had appeared at Aelffrith's shoulder, and shouted, "Gaelish filthy scum!"

"Gaelish scum!" screamed back Steapa, unimaginitively, in her face. But still Osthryth did not move. And then she moved, her anger, bitterness, at being betrayed by her lord, her estrangement, loss of place, all consolidating into one bright, hard crystal of will, sharp and piercing, grabbing the spear out of Aelfgar's hand.

"Why should I, useless cù shite! You only have a hundred men, and they fight like - an - bèanaichen - " Osthryth punctuated the most important part of her trash talk, in Gaelish - his men were like women - so an opposing enemy might think them a curse, and mis-step. It was what Domhnall had done to Ivarr, the classic "yer mum", and he had managed to thrust his sword into the Danish hero's chest as the man made a mistake. She pointed the spear at his throat, the banked up anger and fury and sadness on the very edge of bursting its reservoir.

"Do Taigh!" She screamed, rage primal in her mind, building her up to the point where there would be just her, and Steapa and nothing else. "Do ColmCille! Do Alpin! Do Ui Neill!"

"And you - " Steapa joined in, but broke off as Osthryth opened her mouth to curdle a scream in her throat, as the Gaels did. Her attack caught Steapa by surprise and he stepped back, a fatal move has he really been in a shield wall, as the crush of his own side would have driven him on and his opposition - Osthryth in this case - would have had crucial seconds to land a fatal blow.

Instead, the head guard parried his sword, expecting Osthryth to stop. But, the adrenaline from her insults and her yelling drove her on and she dodge the sword. Osthryth charged at Steapa, rage draining any fear she may have from her very being. Controlled anger, fixed and precient was the thing, and Osthryth was there, knowing her opponent was screaming back at her for the same reason. He was big, Osthryth could be in no doubt about that, and while that gave him strength and might, the head of King Alfred's guard was likely to be less sprightly than a smaller man.

But he was cunning, cunning and wise, for though he was so ordinarily stupid that he did not realise his nickname was a cruel joke at his expense, Steapa Snotnor knew his enemy too, and had had many years to gauge how Osthryth might fight. She went for his legs, which he moved away at the last minute, aiming a kick to her torso, which caught her off-guard. Most of the energy did not transfer to her body, however, and Osthryth managed to turn, jabbing her spear-haft between his legs. It did not matter how big a man was, going for his legs would always unsteady him, and Steapa, though he did not fall, had been unsteadied, and this gave Osthryth enough time to take Taghd's seax and jab it towards his calf.

She missed, and Steapa wheeled around, knocking Osthryth to the floor with the flat of his now exposed blade, and she skidded into the mud and dirt. She hung her head, breathing heavily, aware that her comrades and her students were watching her, buaidh bending back almost to the hilt, which showed the blacksmith had done his job very well. Steapa was coming for her again, and she moved aside quickly, laboured breathing indicating she had been exhausted by the fight.

But Steapa was no fool, and knew she was feigning, which indeed Osthryrth had been, for when he made to put an arm down to his defeated enemy, Osthryth drew out Buaidh, raking her across the man's stomach, goring a line across his weathered leather. He pushed her down, and stepped back, as Osthryth panted. She could have gone on - would have gone on if this were a battle, and it was only Steapa's retreating feet that caused her to climb back to her own feet, though the decision was knife-edge; Osthryth could easily have feigned concession, then leaped on his legs again.

Ultimately, though, Osthryth knew it - Steapa knew it - that she had almost beaten him, and she stood boldly so he realised that she had indeed stopped in her demonstrative attack.

"Sn, good," Steapa snorted, as Osthryth strode over to Aelffrith. "You, there, boys." Steapa pointed across to them. "What did that warrior do well?"

"Didn't give up? Kept going?" Hereward bubbled in - his face had been the most animated in the battle, Osthryth knew - he was keen to learn, but he needed to listen, or he would end up being keen to die.

"Yes, yes," Steapa agreed. "Anything else?"

"Charged at you, went for where you were vulnerable," Godwin put in.

"Yes. He also pretended to be defeated - the Danes know this as well; but in battle, it is hard to judge the pretenders."

"And there was that unholy screaming!" This exclamation came from behind the group. Steapa looked over the heads of the warriors, easy when he was so tall, and dipped his head.

"My lady," he acknowledged. They turned. This was the first time Osthryth would remember, in the years to come, that she had seen Aethelflaed. She stood tall, and was only around a year younger than herself, Osthryth knew. And beside her stood her father. King Alfred watched them, catching Osthryth's eye for a moment before Osthryth looked away. The king and his daughter had watched her fight?

"Could you explain to the warriors how this helps, my lady?" It was a lot of deferential words in one sentence, Osthryth realised, and as she looked in their direction again, she noticed her father nod his head briefly.

"Your man here," Aethelflaed continued, catching Osthryth's look with her own gaze - poised, practised speaker that she was. And battle-wise. It was clear Aethelflaed took an interest in warfare. "That scream - it sent a chill down my spine. The chanting beforehand, a recitation...?" Osthryth realised that Aethelflaed was addressing her.

"No, my lady. My saint, my king, my kin."

"Your king?" Osthryth could feel the colour drain from her face, as she watched Aethelflaed glance over at her father. Clearly any king to be mentioned in Winchester was Alfred, the only king that mattered.

"Flann Sinna, High King of Eireann," Osthryth lied. It was as good a king as any. "Irland," she clarified.

"And your people make that...yelling?" This time Osthryth said nothing. Why was this unusual? It was what the Dal Riatans, the people of Alba did in battle - she had always done it; the Ui Neills did it. Even the Danes did it. Did not the West Saxons embolden themselves with a battle cry?

"It was how I was trained, my lady," Osthryth said, simply.

"And it was used to good effect." This time, the king spoke. Osthryth looked across to Alfred, then bowed her head. "Steapa was startled, just for a moment." This time, she realised, the king was addressing all of the warriors. "Just for a moment," Alfred clarified, looking at Steapa, "for Steapa has been a fighter for many years. Less experienced or prepared enemy would be fleeing the field, or at least be making fatal mistakes. And that's sometimes all you need: a loose stitch in a garment to make the whole of the enemy's army unravel. Do go on," Alfred added.

The training continued, under the watchful eye of the king of Wessex and his daughter. Osthryth was paired with Aelfgar, and Steapa with Aelffrith, to demonstrate the basic sword skills that they needed to master, until the king left, followed by Aethelflaed and, Osthryth noticed, a young boy, presumably the king's son, who had been shown the warriors in order to begin his warrior preparation

It was a good few hours, until just after the highest point of the sun, when Steapa called a halt. He had been called to the king, and the warriors had been told to go to the kitchens.

"Lord Odda's men," one of the pages called through, and they were given meat and ale. They would practise that afternoon too, and the days when Odda and the king were togther at Winchester.

Something caught her eye as she followed Aelfgar across the palace grounds. Where she had been fighting Steapa, a jewel was in the dirt. It was the pearlised metal pin that she wore in her hair, given to her what seemed like a lifetime ago, but in fact, had been only a few months ago, by the Norseman Eirik Thurgilson. Osthryth stooped down for it, only to find her hand crushed by the boot of someone. Merewalh. He was back, then, from his excursion with the king.

"Do not repeat that display of savagery again, -Gaelish-scum-!" Merewalh spat the words at her as Osthryth tried to move her hand, but his boot was crushing her bones. He bent to say more, but did not reckon on Osthryrh pulling out Taigh's seax with her left hand and thrusting it in the direction of his groin. Then, she shoulderd at his legs, unsteadying Merewalh enough for him to move.

"Gaelish savage!" he growled in her direction, but did not attack her back. "You have brought yourself to the attention of King Alfred," he glowered, before stalking off towards the ramparts. Oh, she could follow him, Osthryth thought, as pride glowed in her stomach at her vindication of her skill in the face of Merewalh's insults at her underdeveloped stature. Instead of following, to voice her gloating, Osthryth grabbed at the pearl, and a handful of dirt with it, and followed the other warriors to the kitchens.

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"I tell you, the lady Aethelflaed is to be betrothed tomorrow!" Godwin insisted as Hereward looked through the kitchens, where the warriors stood, eating the off cuts of sheep-meat and bread. Osthryth looked past the kitchen's door and out into the courtyard, where the royal family had stood not an hour before.

"Tell him, Aelffrith," Godwin finished, as Hereward continued to grin, stupidly.

"You can lust after her - all warriors lust after pretty women, but yes, the Mercians will be arriving shortly and their shit of a Lord Aethelred is going to be betrothed to her, then will wed her, and she will leave to the Mercian lands - "

"Those not over-run by the Danes, in any case." Aelfgar shifted, and drained more ale. "Merewalh will want to return to Mercia, if he can."

"Then I want to go, too!" Hereward declared. "And see the fragrant lady of the Mercians ever daily."

"You are a bard, Hereward!" Godwin accused. "Are you sure you are not a Briton?"

"What did happen to Merewahl?" Osthryth drifted closer and asked the question of Aelfgar, who had himself come from the Mercian guard.

"Unpaid wergild...debt...he had a choice: loss of lands, or exile. Lord Odda intervened and is now the land-lord, and Merewalh works in his service." Osthryth said no more, thinking how the loss of land or the indentured service to a lord changed a man.

"And you, Osthryth? Drawing the attention of a king?" Aelffrith tried to imitate her accent. "My saint, my lord, my king..."

"Who was your king?" Aelfgar, asked.

"Irland," Osthryth said. "The High King of Irland."

"And you serve him no longer?" Osthryth looked away, feigning shame.

"Like Merewahl, I fell into disfavour, and as such, I have been passed from lord to lord, until I nearly fell into the hands of the Danes. I seek my kin, here," she added, hating herself for the attention she had drawn to herself. Because now, anyone Irish might be seen as her kin; Lord Odda may make enquiries into her time before. And now she had angered Merewalh by fighting so well, he may make her life very difficult. Then, Osthryth relaxed. "It is the way, is it not? That warriors are merely better class slaves?"

"Lord Uhtred may agree with you," Aelfgar, the older novice nodded. Osthryth felt her heart hammer in her chest. As coolly as she could, the looked over to him.

"Who?"

"A pagan; the pagan who was married to the Lady Mildrith."

"A pagan lord?" Married to Mildrith? Aelffrith had mentioned a pagan husband, and a pagan queen from Cornwalum. That had been her brother?

"He is in the service of Alfred; has lands, supposedly, up in the north, which he is desperate to reclaim. Was on a mission for the king, when he fell into dispute with a Danish king - "

"A Danish king?" Hereward asked, looking over to the older warrior.

"No, I mean a king, in the north of Britain, who has been made so, and was Danish. Alfred approved it. And he sent him tribute, to keep him in his place."

"Guthred," Osthryth whispered, thoughts invading her mind.

"What?" Aelfgar looked across to her.

"Nothing," Osthryth said. "This "Uhtred", why has he displeased the king, so?"

"Not displeased him," Aelfgar replied, as the doors of the kitchens were opened from the courtyard so a dead pig could be brought through for cooking. He lowered his voice. "Yet, he will not renounce his paganism; ended up as a slave to Danes, so I hear, then they liked him and brought him up as their own."

He looked around at the warriors who were listening, food and ale suspended as they listened. "He can speak like one of them and worships their gods, even though he was baptised." Twice, Osthryth added, silently.

"So," he Aelfgar added, relishing the story, "ends up down here, fights for the king; marries the lady Mildrith, leaves her, and travels north on Alfred's behalf to ensure fellowship."

"So Alfred can show who's Bretwalda!" Aelffrith scoffed. "He has ambition for there to be only one king in the whole of the British Isles."

"Ireland too?" Osthryth asked.

"Why not?" Aelfgar scoffed. "But the bastard Danes, and the Norse are keeping him from conquering the traditional kingdoms. Danelaw has helped; Mercia are none too happy, I can tell you. Merewalh is resentful."

"Why?" asked Godwin, biting into his bread.

"Because his lands are now in Daneland, of course. East Anglia. Oh, the king is called Aethelstan - Guthred: I am sure you have heard of him?" Indeed, thought Osthryth. The Battle of Ethandun. Oblivion to all of the Anglish and Saxon kingdoms if Alfred had lost.

"And even if they weren't, Merewalh owes his living to the lord Odda, for the debt. And you seem to have upset him, Osthryth!" Aelfgar added, "By fighting like a bloody Beserker!" Osthryth said nothing, but nodded, modestly.

"So, why would this pagan lord feel he is enslaved?" pressed Godwin.

"Because he was one, of course. This northern, Danish king sold him into slavery for, well, I dunno. Something about a woman. His sister, I think." Aelfgar turned to Hereward. "So, keep your eyes, and your mind off the lady Aethelflaed, will you, if you want to just be a mere warrior servant. And God knows we need as many men as we can for the next battle, whenever - "

"But why!" A voice penetrated the kitchens, breaking Aelfgar's conversation, as two women followed the first as she went with speed about the courtyard. "You made the arrangements, did you not?"

"The lady Aelswith," Aelfgar nodded, sheepishly as he grinned into his tankard. "Now there's a Mercian noblewoman for you."

"And I thought you said to keep our minds and eyes off?" Aelffrith jibed as the assembled warriors cheered in approval of the warrior's pursuits of the noble female variety.

"This is why I am in the service of the lord Odda," Aelfgar conceded. "Why do you think I am a mere novice, at the age of twenty six? Men ten years younger than me have been generals. No," he added, "I was a slave at Aylesbury, Mercia's capital. Unlike Merewalh, I no land to lose when I fell into disfavour," he added, "so but I was passed from Ceowulf's household. Her uncle." Aelfgar looked abashed. "I spoke to her more often than the lord thought proper, shall we say? Odda saw my potential as a warrior, rather than cleaning piss pots." He turned to Osthryth. "So yes, Osthryth, I can see your point about slavery. But, at least we get to fight, do we not? Be glorious?"

And that was her brother, then, Osthryth thought. She did know some of the pieces, but for them to be put together before her eyes was a shock.

"And this Uhtred, what is he like?" she asked, thinking about Mildrith and her sadness for her son - their son, Osthryth reasoned, her nephew, then.

"A bastard!" Aelffrith said. "But can fight like no-one I've ever seen. Odda trusted him when no-one else would, and he fired Guthrum's whole fleet, killed Ubba with one move, right in the face," he added.

"Ubba?"

"Kin of Ivarr," Aelffrith added. "They all came over, from Denmark, for land. Not to rule, which is why Alfred is on top. Men need governing, and the Danes have no interest in that." He leaned closer to the men. "I saw Uhtred the pagan clear a shield wall at Ethandun," he added. "He is good. That's why the king tolerates him."

"And he has land here?" Osthryth asked.

"Why the interest?" Aelfgar asked, suddenly.

"Just..." she screwed up her face. "A pagan," she declared, with put-on distaste. "How does the king tolerate that?"

"He gives him short enough leash, and keeps him beholden," Aelfgar finished. "So, while he is a lord, he is a lord in bondage to Alfred, who uses his sword in exchange for tolerating his paganism." He leaned closer to Osthryth. "If not with such cunning and overlooking of even his own rules, how else will Alfred become Bretwalda?"

88888888

A boy ran past Osthryth as she was put on guard outside the household rooms that afternoon. Usually, the guards were outside the palace, and usually on the ramparts, which Osthryrth liked, for the views made the duty worthwhile. But, with the increased activity for the betrothal celebrations the guards had been withdrawn to the inner perimeter of the main palace: the throne room, the kitchens, stables, scriptorium, chapel, to ensure the safety of the guests when they arrived.

Uhtred, Osthryth thought, and thought over all that Aelfgar had told them. So he was here, then, he was there, in Winchester, and held in esteem by the king. But the news, while softening the ache of worry in her stomach in some ways, had begun concerns of a different kind: Uhtred had come, that day, when she had seen him from the high tower at Bebbanburg, with the head of one of Aelfric's men, not to reclaim the fortress, though maybe he had, but as the adopted son of a Danish warrior. The picture she had in her mind of her brother she was slowly being taken apart and rebuilt. If the king valued him...

She looked out to the courtyard, hand on Buaidh as a man approached. It was Aelffrith.

"Merewalh says you are relieved for the night," Aelffrith said, as Aelfgar strode behind him. "Aelfgar," he added, as the Mercian man stood beside Osthryth, "Do try to keep your hands off the lady Aelswith, will you?"

"Bloody never will tell you lot anything again," Aelfgar replied, grudgingly, taking Osthryth's place at the end of the household corridor.

"C'mon," Aelffrith called, beckoning Osthryth out. She turned towards the stables, but Aelffrith took her shoulder.

"I need a drink," he said, "and I think you do too, nearly killing Steapa today. Do you know how many people have nearly killed Steapa?"

"A lot, I imagine," Osthryth replied, relaxing. A weak ale, then, for the next day was bound to be busy, with the Mercians arriving and the ceremony going ahead.

"So," Aelffrith asked, as they sat near the door, away from the prostitutes. "Tell me."

"What?" Osthryth asked, as a door banging upstairs indicated another customer.

"Your story?"

"I'm from Alba," Osthryth said, noncommittally. "You can't understand me very well because you come from the lands of comfort and good food and I come from a Dane- and Norse-ravished land." She sipped at the drink, thinking how much weaker it was compared to the ones Aelfburh used to give her. She would be up there now, Osthryth supposed, reaping the rewards of more wealth. "You speak Saxon, I speak Anglish, Gaelish, Cymric, Norse..."

"And why did you leave? A woman?"

"The king," Osthryth said. "A difficult matter."

"With a woman?" Aelffrith pressed. "I've never seen you with a woman." Osthryth lowered her tankard, as Aelfburh trod slowly down the stairs at the side of the bar, making sure her uncle could see her taking the money from the relieved man. "Never seen you, never heard you flirt with one, never seen you talk to one."

"Why would I?" Osthryth said, putting down her tankard. Another group of warriors were entering the inn now, shifting disparate people so they could sit together.

"A man then?" Aelffrith lowered his voice. "Like Hereward and Godwin?"

"A man," Osthryth nodded, looking away. "And not all men loving men treat one another as Hereward and Godwin do. Sometimes, they are betrayed."

"Were you betrayed?" asked Aelffrith. But Osthryth shook her head.

"I left that behind me. I no more want a man, or a woman for that matter, than do I want a raincloud." Osthryth put her tankard back onto the table, then leaned back and folded her arms. Hereward and Godwin are almost inseparable. It's touching, in a sweet way."

"You're in for a treat then, when the Lord of Mercia arrives, then" Aelffrith added, passing his tankard back to the bar. "Place will be thronging. Loves women, loves warriors even more. Everyone will be over him, and I mean everyone."

"Lord Ceowulf?" Behind Aelffrith the inn door opened. Through the darkness, Osthryt

"No, not him. He's so mad he let Alfred mint coins in his name, and the cunning old King Wessex had coins made showing them both. So much for Mercian indepenendece." Aelffrith stopped, and looked where Osthryth was looking.

"You're interesrted in Lord Uhtred?" Aelffrith nodded his head in the direction of the group.

Osthryth started. Uhtred?

"He's over there. Why the interest?"

"The lady Mildrith, I suppose. I felt so sorry for her, and obvously, he has battle reputation," Osthryth added, trying to sound nonchalant. She was glad it was dark, for she felt her face flush in the dimness of the inn.

"Good looking, isn't he?" Aelffrith continued. Osthryth glared at her comrade. "Look, be careful."

"What?" Osthryth demanded. "I desire nobody!" Aelffrith laughed.

"The closed heart," he mused. "No, not the lord Uhtred, though I would stop staring if I were you if you do not want him to come over - look: you brought yourself to the attention of the King of Wessex - " Osthryth glared at him.

" - in a good way," he conceded, "And he knows you are of Irland. That is unusual in Wessex, and you are fair headed, which again, unusual."

"Look, Aelffrith," Osthryth slammed down her tankard and pulled him nearer the corner of the inn. "I was married, once, alright? I was in favour to my king, and the Norse attacked. My king's supposed ally - "

"Betrayed him?" Aelffrith finished. Osthryth nodded. "It happens, of course it happens."

"And I was...people like me are...those are the people who pay. So I got out to find my family." She glared over at the raucous drinking from the half-dozen warriors, amongst whom was, by Aelffrith's account, her brother.

"You think they are here? " Osthryth stared at Uhtred, who was laughing with his men, looked at their faces, at their camaraderie.

"Yes, I am certain they are."

88888888

Mercia arrived the next day and if Osthryrth thought the activity within the palace had been frenetic before, it was nothing to the upheavals that the queen, that is the lady of Wessex, Aelswith, had implemented. Beds had to be found for her kin, only the best, and the church had to be prepared.

Osthryth was on guard duty on the ramparts, which she liked, for nothing much happened, and she could think. He had been there, her brother, within spitting distance the night before. Had she not dreamed of it? And yet, all she knew of him...Osthryth knew she could not just turn up in front of him and tell him she was his sister - who knew what he would do? No, the best thing to do, at the momenty was to watch and wait.

It was the mddle of the mornign when, having been relieved by Aelfgar, she had made her way to the kitchens and the sobs of a child could be heard in the family quarters of the palace. Stepping past Hereward, who had been placed on guard by Merewalh, she saw a boy standing in the passageway, crying. When he saw Osthryth he turned away, but did not move, and he was taking great pains to stop.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Osthryth asked, gently. "Anyone you wish me to kill?" she added, hoping that he might laugh at her silly offer.

"No," he conceded, but wouldn't turn round. Osthryth wondered who he was - perhaps he was one of the Mercians and was lost, or tired, or missing. Yet, when he turned to her, he looked at Osthryth, staring at her, with a kind of daring hopefulness in his eyes. He was about ten or eleven, and Osthryth thought he reminded her of someone.

"You - " he began, then stopped, as a girl sauntered past him, looking at the boy mockingly, ignoring Osthryth completely.

"Stopped snivelling, yet?" she provoked, pushing his shoulder. The boy said nothing, but that he would not look away seemed to enrage her. Osthryth looked at her and realised, with some sort of fascinated horror, the girl - young woman - was the very lady who had questioned Osthryth about her fight with Steapa the day before and who this very day was all in aid of. Aethelflaed.

"He is here, Edward!" Aethelflaed stormed. "Here, with his warriors! He is a hero!"

"But you can't marry him!" the boy insisted - the boy, who now Osthryth realised, was the king's firstborn, and the aethling of Alfted's line. "Besides, he is married already, and you," he added, with what seemed to Osthryth, an equal amount of provocation as his sister had given to him, "You are going to marry Aethelred of Mercia ." Osthryth made to step forward as Aethelflaed got angry. She made a noise through her teeth and raised her hand to him. But then she stepped back, folding her arms.

"Where is your army now, Edward?" she asked, notes of triumph in her lovely voice. She pushed him to the open door of one of the rooms. Osthryth followed and saw the princess point to the large fireplace, which was blackened from the previous night's burning. Shock crossed the boy's face and he continued to stare at the hearth as his sister slipped past Osthryth and out into the passageway. Osthryth too was horrified: his elder sister had burned his toys?"

"It doesn't matter," Edward said, when he realised she was still standing beside him, though Osthryth could see he was very much upset by it. "Aethelflaed is to be betrothed and she does not want to be." His big blue eyes turned to Osthryth. "She teases me sometimes and I can't help crying because she's so mean."

Osthryth was taken aback for a moment at the boy's honesty, and she dipped to his height.

"But you will have a real army one day," Osthryth said, smiling kindly. "Just make sure your sister doesn't burn them in the hearth, eh?" Edward looked at her, and frowned a little as he stared at Osthryth, and a feeling crept over her that she might like to back away, such was the boy's intensity of gaze.

"You talk very strangely," he said at length, and seemed to brighten. "I will not let Aethelflaed burn my armies. My armies will rule over the whole of the seven kingdoms and hammer the Danes into the earth!" And with that, the aethling of Wessex hurried past her, and down the passageway towards the hall.

88888888

Osthryth watched nobles and guards come and go that day. Back on the ramparts, which she considered Merewalh thought to be a punishment, but to her was far from, she watched noble after noble pass through the palace gates like she watched for discrepancies in their manner, which could indicate danger, an invasion, an attack.

And finally, after watching, came the lord Uhtred. Osthryth did not spot him immediately, but his black horse led the procession of two others, his warriors in close ranks around him. Who Osthryth saw immediately was the woman with him. Beauty shone from her face, not because her features were necessarily beautiful, but because it was clear she loved the warrior who held her closely behind, and she him. Osthryth watched them pass by watching a space just above their heads, which was in line with the wooden buildings towards the east, an easy place for potential enemies, and merely glancing down to them every so often.

So, he was a pagan, yet a welcomed warrior, and he inspired loyalty from the two, three four, five, six men who were with him. How should she, Osthryth, approach her brother, then? On what basis?

"You may go down to the celebrations." A voice behind Osthryth broke her thoughts and Aelfgar grinned.

"The gates are shut and the feast is to begin," he added. "We are all welcome, and Godwin and Hereward are replacing you."

88888888

And food she got, as the tables were cleared away from the hall. The boards stretched out in a "U" shape where, at the top, sat the king, the lady Aelswith, Aethelflaed and young Edward. To his right hand were the Mercians, Ceowulf to Alfred's side, followed by nobles, and servants behind. At the end of the table sat a tall, well-built man, clearly a man, not an older boy like Aethelflaed was an older girl, who was chipping into the conversation with the lord of Mercia and the king. Osthryth glanced back to Edward and had to suppress a laugh as she noticed the boy pick his nose then wipe it on Aethelflaed's bread.

Down one side sat the Wessex nobles, closest of whom was her lord Odda, then the nobles from Wiltunscir, and Somaersaetescir, bordering the lands of Mercia. Kentish nobles sat on the opposite side alongside Uhtred, who was indeed enjoying the feast. A frown, however, was on the face of one of the Wessex nobles, who was slunk into one corner, a tankard to his lips. He resembled Alfred, and also Edward, but could not place him in the list of nobles to whom she had been introduced.

"Still staring at the lord Uhtred?" Aelffrith asked, leaning past Osthryrth with a plate of bread and meat. "Here," he added. "We are to celebrate the union of Wessex and Mercia."

"I bet Merewalh and Aelfgar are celebrating," she said, sarcastically.

"So is he," Aelffrith added, cheerfully. "No, really. He thinks he is gaining Wessex, yet he is losing Mercia. The lord Aethelred, her betrothed. Oh, he doesn't want to," Aelffrith added. "He still believes Mercia is independent, but of course it is not, hacked to pieces by Alfred - a kingdom that is not his own, half-given to the Danes? How can he have done that if he did not rule Mercia. So, Uhtred the Daneslayer?" Osthryth felt herself blush.

"I dare say he is not into buggery," Aelffrith added, biting into a chicken leg. "Or boys."

"I wasn't, I - " Osthryth protested, though a voice in her head was telling her how useful this may be. "I was wondering, that's all."

"Wondering," Aelffrith managed. "You, a married man, too, leaving your wife in Alba."

"Dead!" Osthryth snapped back forcefully, heart beating in indignation. "Burned to death in a church trying to rescue innocent people, set fire to by my king's supposed ally." Aelffrith stared at her for a few seconds.

"I'm sorry," he managed. "Me and my big mouth." Osthryth looked away. "But, why is he of interest to you?" Osthryth swallowed.

"My king, Flann Sinna, he hosted exiled princes of Alba. As King Alfred dreams of uniting the Saxon and Angle kingdoms, the kings of Alba have a long-held dream of taking the land in Northumbria, Bernicia, as their own." She leaned closer to Aelffrith conspiratorially. "But the problem is, Bebbanburg." She looked across to Uhtred. "It is his land, is it not?"

"His uncle rules there," Aelffrith confirmed. "Yet the lord Uhtred desires it."

"I was to have gone, to fight with the princes," Osthryth lied, "with that aim. We were told Uhtred was a savage Dane, and a pagan."

"He is a pagan, to be sure," Aelffrith agreed. Osthryth looked across to her brother again.

"Yet, he does not look like a man in a hurry to return to his homeland," she added, wistfully. Was he comfortable here? Had he given up on that dream?

Osthryth served the lord Odda for the rest of that evening and, at length, helped Merewalh, Aelffrith and Aelfgar get their inebriated lord into his bed.

"You go," Merewalh said to Aelffrith and Osthryth. "I will stay as will Aelfgar." Aelfgar, who had promised himself to go out with Aelffrith that night to the Two Cranes, and had, Aelffrith later told Osthryth, an eye on Aelfburh, looked crestfallen.

"Come with me, Osthryth," Aelffrith asked.

"Milk for me then," she nodded, as the feasting had changed to drinking and singing - not as raucous as the evenings with the Gaels, Osthryth thought, as they past the feasting hall. It was little wonder, for the king, Alfred, had stomach problems which meant he could only bear to eat plain food, and so he and Aelswith were sitting together, drinking milk with a little barley, watching the guests enjoy themselves.

"Who is that?" Osthryth asked, as they passed by.

"Aethelwold," Aelffrith said, grimly, holding onto his sword. "Aethelwold the untrustworthy. Why Alfred keeps him at the palace I will never know."

"Why?"

"Son of his elder brother. Desperate to be king himself." Osthryth glanced back at the man, who was slowly surveying the room, while drinking from a flagon of, presumably, ale. His eyes met with the serving maids', who instantly moved out of his way, or turned their heads, and when he moved over to speak to a Mercian noble, the whole discourse lasted barely more than two minutes. Not trusted, Osthryth concluded. But then she turned to Aelffrith.

"But, was it not decided by the Witan?" she asked, thinking about the Gaelish succession. The best of a group of potential successors was chosen.

"Well, yes," Aelffrith replied. "But, you know, Alfred's father, Aethelwulf...did you know he took Alfred to Rome?"

"Really?"

"The youngest of six siblings, and the king chose his youngest son to make the pilgrimage."

"Had high hopes for his son," Osthryth commented.

"Or, was the most expendable," Aelffrith added. "Well," he continued, pulling Osthryth a little closer. "On the way back, they stopped at the court of King Charlemagne, well, not Charlemagne himself, but the Carolingians." Aelffrith's voice took on a conspiratorial tone, and Osthryth thought to herself that the Devonscir warrior really was a gossip. "He caught the eye of a noble lady, Judith, and married her in Rheims. So, Alfred got a stepmother, and Aethelwulf got a lesson in succession from Charles the Bald, which was, only the first born son would do. So that's what king Aethelwulf did: intend to appoint Aethelbald. Only," Aelffrith smirked, "his eldest son had taken matters into his own hands and attemoted to usurp his father."

"That's awful!" Osthryth exclaimed.

"Or necessary: the king left the country for a whole year, with Danish incursions still gong on. My guess is that the Witan had appointed Aethelbald temporarily so as to make decisions which only the king could." He nodded to Aethelwold. "So now, with that precedent, he thinks he should have gained his father's throne, and has made it his life's ambition to let everyone know."

"And do something about it? He's cunning," Osthryth added.

"Nah, too lazy for that, which is why Wessex would be Dane-feed if Aethelwold was king. All of the lords know it."

And Alfred keeps him close, so he can keep two eyes on him and ale available. At a distance, might plot far more effectively.

"Come on, Osthryth!" Aelffrith insisted, knocking her out of her thoughts. "There will be no ale left, and no whores."

"You want a whore?" Osthryth asked. She knew men did go to them, but was shocked that she was so close to the action, as it were.

"Don't you?"

"No!" Aelffrith looked at her, slyly.

"Not that tall, red-haired beauty?" Osthryth drew to a halt just outside the gates.

"No, Aelffrith," Osthryth said. "I do not want a whore, I do not want a wife or a husband. I want only to be a warrior," she looked away, "because I have been given a second chance, and I want to serve. Anyway," she added, as they trod the dirt path to the south of Winchester, "It was that or the church, and given all I've done in my life, I doubt God would appreciate my turning up at a monastery." Given what I've done in monasteries, Osthryth added to herself.

"Suit yourself," Aelffrith said, "But don't mind if I do."

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"You have been given leave to visit the inn too then, Steapa?" Aelffrith's jolly greeting made the head of Alfred's household guard turn round.

"It has been known, Aelffrith, my friend," he replied, ale in hand. He looked past Aelffrith and fixed his eye on Osthryth.

"Gael, you fought well the other day," Steapa said, then turned back to his drink.

"Well, that was something," Aelffrith said, grinning at Osthryth. "He rarely says anything - you must have impressed him, with the "aaah-aaah-aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!" he added. Osthryth looked surprised.

"I did not even know I did that," she admitted.

Milk in tankard, and they sat near the stairs. Aelffrith regaled Osthryth with stories of Devonscir, and his family, how his brother had taken over the family farm on the lord Odda's estate, and how kind he always was to the family.

"So, what happened to his son?" Osthryth asked, as she watched a steady stream of girls appear on the balcony above the bar, make their way down the steps and circulate amongst the "Two Cranes'" customers. "Die in battle?"

"Died at Odda's hand," Aelffrith replied.

"He murdered his son?" Osthryrth could hear the shock in her voice."

"Murdered a traitor," Aelffrith clarified, grimly, before taking a swig of ale. "Alfred called men to Ethandun, and Young Odda was to have answered the call to him on behalf of his father. When he did not arrive with the Devonscir fyrd, Alfred came to Odda's estate to find out why."

"And why?" Osthryth, tankard half to her lips, enthralled.

"Because he had made a bargain with Danes in the area and was giving them shelter, that's why. Claimed he never received the letter." Aelffrith shook his head, "When he knew full well that was Alfred wanted because the messenger said so. The messenger ended up leaving Odda's estate, but never made it back to Alfred. Danes," Aelffrith added, as if Osthryth couldn't guess. "So Odda took a knife to his own son, for his treachery."

Osthryth thought back to her lord's hall, and where this must have taken place. Mildrith would have been present; Uhtred had abandoned her by then.

"We heard of Ethandun in Alba," Osthryth said, "and knew it was a special victory. My king sent help to the king of Alba against the Norse," she added, twisting the truth, "but the kingdoms that are not Dal Riata are still a threat, and do not willingly accept his rule."

"Like Wessex, and the kingdoms it is trying to rule," nodded Aelffrith, "Cent is a particularly troublesome province. They remember only too well they received Augustine. And - well, hello...!" Osthryth looked past her comrade, and felt her heart sink.

"Good evening, Aelfburh," she greeted the woman.

"Good evening, Osthryth," Aelfburh replied, taking her glass. "Goat's milk, I see? Do you suffer with the king's ailment?"

"I suffer from not being able to do my job properly if I drink ale each evening," Osthryth clarified. Aelfburh took her cup and left.

"So that's why you wouldn't say!" Aelffrith looked at Osthryrth as if he had worked out her secret. "You wouldn't name a whore because you already had a whore!"

"No," Osthryth protested. "I used to buy food here - she would never leave me alone. I never had money for a bed - " Aelffrith took her shoulders in his left arm.

"Well, you do now."

"Eh?" Osthryth squeaked, thinking of the silver of Seobhridht's that she had managed to get out of Alba and was, now, insecurely residing between two floorboards in the upper stables, where the guards slept.

"From Odda. Wages! Go on..."

Osthryth made to get to her feet, but as she did so, she noticed Aelfburh carrying over another jar of milk, which Osthryth insisted in paying for. She noticed the girl's downcast eyes as she left their table.

"Hey, Aelfgar!" Aelffrith shouted, suddenly, and waved a hand. "Got away, did you?"

"Just about," Aelfgar complained. "Merewalh only left me to look after the lord Odda. He was alright after he had been sick twice, and they sent in one of Steapa's guards when he passed out." Osthryth nodded to the bar where Steapa was.

"That's unusual. Steapa rarely leaves the palace, and - look, there he goes." Aelfgar thumbed in the guard's direction. "Back to his post."

"Committed," Osthryth replied, a vague sadness creeping over her, for he was not the only head guard so committed to his lord.

"Should be," Aelfgar laughed. Aelffrith slapped his arm.

"He's not that dense," he chided his friend. "Eh," Aelffrith added, nodded towards the door. "Back again, the Lord of Cookham. Your king's enemy?" he added. Osthryth turned to look. The men followed behind her brother, and sat at a large table near the entrance. Osthryth examined Uhtred's face.

She remembered him. A blunt pain dragged at her chest. She remembered that day, the day he had arrived back to Bebbanburg. Osthryth had wanted him to take her away with him, thought that had been the reason. And had kept on hoping. He had long hair, like the Danes - perhaps she should have known then. But his features were the same, same eyes, same nose, upturned a little, same mouth that turned up at the corners even when he wasn't saying anything humorous. And, of course, he commanded loyal men, fighting as he did for Alfred.

"See!" Aelfgar nodded. "High hopes, this one. Not content with the lord Odda's service." Osthryth snapped her head back round.

"No!" She began, then faltered. Aelffrith gave her a wide grin, but not for Uhtred: Aelfburh was bringing over her tankard.

"No charge," she said, as Osthryth withdrew a coin. Osthryth dragged herself to her feet, wanting to hit Aelffrith for his not so coy encouragement of her manner towards the woman.

"Yes," Osthryth insisted, pressing a bronze coin into her hand. "I pay my way."

"No," Aelfburh replied, slowly, looking doe-eyed at Osthryth. "A gift. And it would be rude not to accept." Aelfburh made to put a hand on Osthryth's arm, but she shook it away, furiously, knocking the milk over as she did so. Aelfburh gave her a hurt look for a moment, before reaching over to the bar for a rough cloth to soak up the milk.

"If not milk," she said, touching Osthryth on the arm, "Perhaps beer? Or else..." She flicked her eyes heavenwards.

"Look, Aelfburh," Osthryth said, staring at the woman, trying to get her to listen as she shook her arm from Aelfburh's grasp, memories of Haf stirring in her mind, "I did want the milk, I don't want anything else - wait!" Her words upset Aelfburh, who took up the tankards from Osthryth's table, sweeping out of her way. "Wait!"

She made to go after her, but a warrior stood in his way. Tall and slim, the man was staring down at her.

"You upset her!" He accused, holding out a hand as Osthryth made to move past the woman, and stepped in front of Osthryth. Instinct, and her hand was on buaidh, and she glared back at the dark-eyed challenge.

"Sihtric!" A voice called from behind the man. "Leave him!" Osthryth looked past the man called Sihtric and into the face with her brother. Uhtred. He was amused at his man's challenge of her, and clearly did not take it seriously.

"I did not welcome her offer," Osthryth said simply, her voice weighty as she considered her options. The man looked easy to fight, but fight and win? His comrades would back him, but would Aelffrith and Aelfgar back her? No, it would not do to fight. And yet, this boy Sihtric had challenged her motives. He had begun to drawe his sword.

Osthryth drew quicker as shouts and shrieks filled the Two Cranes. A man behind the bar, next to a quivering Aelfburh was already reaching under it. Buaidh - Victory. The blade was in front of the warrior who, through age, inexperience, alcohol - who knew - had barely time to unsheathe his, hand now still on the scabbard. Osthryth changed her stance, not looking away from the dark eyes of this volatile warrior.

A few words from her left, and Osthryth froze. A blade was near her throat.

"If you wish to live, boy, you will put-the-sword-down..."

And, Osthryth did lower Buaidh, and took a step back, to the obvious relief of Aelffrith, who had exhaled with some force behind her. She was also aware that Steapa, the king's guard, was watching her, carefully as she put Buaidh to bed.

Osthryth turned to look at her challenger, as a smirk crossed the face of the warrior called Sihtric. She would remember his face, this man, so many times in her future thoughts. Not much taller than she was, Finan the Agile had a quickness of thought in his eye, though his face was much leaner than when she would know him better, and the haunting of his enslavement had begun to decline. His hands were on Soul Stealer - she knew that later. Now, though, she lowered her head, as if in deference.

Then sprang. Osthryth did not know if she yelled her battle cry when she leaped at the man Sihtric's legs, low and strong, pulling them together with all her might, but she was when she had scooped up the man and threw him into the dirt on the inn's floor before sinking her teeth into what turned out to be Sihtric's sword arm down, and Osthryth threw herself at Finan, careering into one of the tables.

"Tuchdeen!" Osthryth shouted at him, as adrenaline drove her next move.

"What did you call me, you little turd?!" Finan screamed back, struggling to get to his feet, while at Uhtred's table the men were beside themselves with laughter.

"Come on!" urged Aelffrith, who was by her side. "We were with you - it'll be us next!"

"Some help you are!" Osthryth shouted back as they thrust through the inn's door while behind them the scream of, "Get them!" roared after them.

After a while, once Aelffrith and Aelfgar had thrown themselves past her and had raced back towards the palace, Osthryth watched as her brother's men wound their way through the streets of Winchester. The fight had soon gone out of the two warriors she had challenged, and they were now, arm in arm with other warriors in her brother's company, making their way unsteadily away from the inn and north, away from the palace too. Osthryth knew this because she was now making her own way in pursuit of them as they sang, merrily, as they traversed. Osthryth wondered how long it would be until Aelfgar and Aelffrith realised she was not with them. Not yet, or else they had decided to not to look for her.

Osthryth watched her brother's men again, as a pang of sadness entered her heart. After all she had gone through to get there, all she wanted was to get to him, to tell him, her brother, Uhtred, that she was alive. Hadn't she told Aelffrith she wanted to be a warrior? Not Odda's warrior, but a warrior nonetheless - with Uhtred. That had been her fantasy, as she had headed nearer and nearer to Wessex, to tell him, to ask him for her to be with him, despite all she knew, that he was a pagan, that he had pushed aside his wife, that he was known as "Daneslayer" and "Uhtred the Wicked."

"Come on," laughed a huge man, bald, with huge arms, one of which he draped round the shoulders of the warrior Sihtric as they meandered down the street

"I'm going back, one more drink," said her brother. The smaller, black-haired man, her challenger stopped suddenly.

"No more, my friend!"

"I'm going!" Uhtred tried to wrest himself from the man's embrace.

"Uhtred, we have drunk that bar dry, we have boarded that good ship, long math ainm an rionnag madainn." Whoops of delight from those who also knew the song of the good ship Venus, and began to sing it in clumsy verse. Osthryrh slipped over to another thatch to keep up with them.

Over the rooftops she traversed, nimbly and stealthily, watching the inebriated men hit one anothers' shoulders, laughing, or imitating someone or something for the comedy of the thing. They were heading south, near to the Itchen, and Osthryth watched them walk the river path towards a well-appointed, spacious house, which they entered. It took her minutes to climb over the adjacent roofs and heave herself silently, carefully, into the thatch.

Below, a mezzanine and stairs. Osthryth had a view through some of the thatch into the house, though she couldn't see much; people were moving about; tankards were being thrust onto a table. Someone was "shhhh-shhhh-shhhh-ing" them. So, presumably Uhtred's wife and children were home.

Home. But what could she do? Uhtred had a life here, one of a warrior, husband, father. He had men loyal to him. Osthryth looked at the sky. The seasons were moving on; mornings were getting light sooner. Even the constellation of the Hunter was too low to be seen now. She leaned over the roof and stared down into the darkness of the yard. Uhtred may well welcome her, Osthryth knew, but there would be little chance of retaining her position in Odda's guard. If he was a good brother, he would see her married where she consented, or simply married for advantage, if not. It was the way of things. If she had wanted that, Osthryth might simply have stayed with King Domhnall in Alba. Under no circumstances would he allow her to be a warrior. Which is why she could not reveal herself yet. Osthryth knew she must gain wealth or status, or both. Then she could have more of a say. Besides, she liked the life of a warrior, she liked fighting.

Rolling back into the thatch she stared at the stars again. Owls hooted. On nights like these it felt like just her and the ether of space, and that she could do anything. A scratching below and a creak made her start and she gripped the thatch.

If not Uhtred then, Father Beocca. If he was not in Winchester, he should be easy to locate, through the meticulous records of the church. But the same still stood: he would feel obliged to marry her off, and remove her from Odda's guard.

With care, she looked downwards. Someone had come out from her brother's house and was just below, in the darkness. Someone who was trying to be as silent as possible, but his boots creaked a little in the earth.

When Osthryth pulled herself up, she lay with the flat of her back to the straw, and studied the stars again. What was funny was that some of them were slightly different, some of them were a pale red colour; some were a yellow-white and some a pale blue. Some were more intense than others; some weren't even stars at all, but pale smudges against the black of the night.

Below her, someone was walking. Osthryth closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the face of the man she now knew to be her brother. What was he like - really like? Was he funny? Did he like to hunt? How did he like poetry? Was he devout? No, he was not devout, not a Christian, anyway. Her heart beat in her chest as she considered how easy it would be for her to find out, to go down and seek him out. He had fought, and defeated great Danes...he had been a slave - oh...he had taken a Danish bride, and...

Staring up to the sky, the adrenaline at the success of actually finding her brother coursed through her.

She could be one of his men; beg for a place by his side! Fight with him! Only...

Only, the inevitable would happen, when it was discovered she couldn't piss in front of the men, and that under her shirt were bindings. Had she been a boy, she could have come to Uhtred with ease. But if she had been his brother, Osthryth considered, she would be his enemy, come to oppose him at Bebbanburh. She would not have been Constantine's, nor travel to Eireann. She would not have been in Wessex and -

Just the faint clearing of a throat, and Osthryth peered over again. The man who had challenged her, standing up to her because of his friend, was fingering he hilt of his sword. He looked nervous. Or bored. Or perhaps neither of those things, because that's what Osthryth would have wanted any attacker to think of her as being, to make them drop their guard. She peered as closely as she could to the man. What had he done that he had penanced his hair? Osthryth reached up for her own. It was growing back. A long tome ago in a land far away, Flann Sinna said it must. Flames, remembered at the Tara fair, appeared in her mind. Was she such a traitor to her sex that she didn't care?

Lilting music permeated the air. The man was singing. What was all the more strange was that Osthryth knew every word. It was one sung at Dunnottar most feast nights, about a girl never to be seen again, lost to a man as he fought for his lord. The sound of it made Osthryth think about Haf, the British servasnt girl working for Guthred at Caer Ligualid. She -

Osthryth stopped suddenly, reaching her hand round to her face. In her desire not to fall from her brother's two-storey house, Osthryth had buried both hands deep inside the straw. It was just that, when she brought them out, her left one was generously crossed with a great deal of silver. She pushed her hand inside her shirt, inside her bindings, for a handful of silver nestling tightly around her breasts would see her nicely for a good while. Osthryth had no qualms about taking it - it had probably been stolen countless times before Uhtred had stolen it and hidden it in his roof.

And withdrew her hand, steadily. The singing had stopped. Osthryth stopped too.

"A nice night, lord, for harvest." The man spoke with an accent, presumably not too dissimilar to how Osthryth must sound. He was intriguing: where in the Gaeltach did he come from, and why was he in the company of her brother? Hereward, the big youth training to be a warrior sang songs like this, in Welsh.

"A good song." A second man trod carefully next to the first. This man was taller, larger than the first, by the tread of his boot.

"I like it. Sing it again."

"No, not that one," the first man said, in the tone of voice that sounded as if he had been caught baring his soul and was trying to cover the wound up. And his voice carried up to Osthryth, an upbeat, confident sound, about a laddie who loved a lassie, and wished to make a match, but was concerned about her father. Osthryth knew this one: Domnall had sung it, notably on the way back after her hellish riding lesson at Glen Orchy.

The song came to a sudden end and Osthryth sat up in alarm.

"What?" The second voice asked, as the owner of the first began to hurry on moist earth.

"Another singer!" Osthryth slammed her hand over her mouth. To her horror she realised she had been singing along.

And away. Over the roof anf the stable, across the barn and down to the ground. It wasn't long until she would get to the start of Winchester's buildings and she would be able to traverse them directly to the palace. But, before that there was a two hundred yard defecit, where she had to run on open ground. Stones littered it, and she stumbled a little while all the time the first pair of feet, of the Gaelish speaker, gained on her.

She felt the hand even thought the out buildings of the city's first dwellings - where she had saved Odda - were mere feet away.

"Who are you?" A hand crushed her shoulder. Osthryth stopped and turned back, where the face of the man whom she had tricked in the "Two Cranes" leered at her.

"Co thusa!" She spat back, with emphasis.

"You from inn!" He exclaimed, his eyes narrowing. But he was too late, and she had slipped from her jerkin and was up the nearest building in the time it took him to realise he had nothing except a piece of clothing.

"I'll get you and cut your balls off!" The man screamed up at Osthryth. Already, she was three buildings away.

"You can try!" She retorted, and ran.

She had escaped, with a bosom full of silver, back to the palace.

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"I saw you climbing into the roof this morning," Aelffrith said, as they assembled before Steapa. "Half clothed, you dirty thing!"

One thing Osthryth did have with her carried from Dunnottar without Ceinid's permission, was another change of clothes. She looked across at her comrade as Steapa looked with resignation at the condition of Aelfgar's blade.

"You don't have to tell me, you were with the whore." Osthryth shot him a narrow-eyed glance as two young trainees hurried before them, late. The opposite, in fact, she thought, wryly. I came home with silver, not spent it. I came home pox-free. No-one is pregnant. Let that warrior Sihtric woo her, for that was what he wanted, and jealousy had sprung up from what he thought Osthryth's intentions were. She had found her brother, and spent most of the night wondering about him, after finding a temporary hiding place for two years' warrior's wages in a gap in the stonework at the back of the stables with the money she had left from that which had travelled with her from Bebbanburg to Dunnottar to Wessex, again stolen. She exhaled.

"Ok, ok, you just might have told me that's where you'd gone, rather than me worrying half the night."

"Sorry." She withdrew Buaidh, as Steapa inspected it. No corrosion - of course not. Buiadh was an extension of Osthryth's arm, and losing it meant losing part of herself. As such, she would never neglect it. Merewalh stood to one side, frowning at them. He watched Godwin and Hereward gain a dressing down from the head of the Mercian guard for tardiness. But this did not last, and he was directing the young warriors in practising their sword skill - up, across, back swing, weave, dodge, thrust.

"You need to be careful," Aelffrith hissed.

"Careful where he puts his cock?" Aelfgar asked, slyly. Osthryth gave him a narrow-eyed sneer too, but it was a handy excuse that they thought she was with Aelfburh for, of course, she had been nowhere near her.

"You need to be careful about Danes. Norse and Danes have been invading into the land of the East Saxons," Aelffrith hissed, as Merewalh paced over to Odda's two trainees. "Alfred wants to retain peace, but many, including the Lord Odda, are agitating to war."

"The peace holds, Aelffrith," Aelfgar said. "If there had been a breach of the peace - if King Aethelstan of East Anglia - Guthrum as was - had failed to keep his side of the pact, then that makes Daneland null and void.

Daneland, Osthryth thought, grimly. Danelaw. She remembered with a shudder that Dane Haesten and his men, and Gert giving silver over to them so she could remain. Peace, yes, but at a price. And, Osthryth thought, those people living in the eastern lands of Mercia, they will not think it a good bargain with Danes ruling over them. Maybe because Englaland was too big, or bigger, at least, than Alba, that Alfred could not hold all of the kingdoms. Ha, even King Domhnall had had difficulty, and he only had to unify three kingdoms. Alfred had the heptarcy - seven kingdoms, if he wanted a unified country, not counting Cornwalum, or Waeleas, where petty kings ruled petty kingdoms, and kept themselves to themselves.

As a pair of swallows swooped down into the palace's square gardens, Osthryth's eyes caught the form of someone else. Really! He was much too young. Though, she had held and used a sword - Faedersword - to good effect against the Norse at twelve. Do not pair him with me, Osthryth thought, desperately. I've had enough of young kings-in-waiting. Aelffrith looked where Osthryth was looking, and nudged Aelfgar.

"Come on, young Aethling." Steapa's voice was steadt, but no different to when he was instructing any of them. The blonde-haired, well-set young man was looking around, observing the sword practise. "You are to watch the men."

Osthryth refused to look further. It was bad enough she had been chosen to fight Steapa and the whole of the royal household had come out to watch. If she caught Steapa's eye, or Merewalh's for that matter, then Prince Edward would be positioned against her. Even now, Steapa's dogged training was picking out her sword thrusts, as she defended, then parried, with Aelffrith, making the young man understand why she was getting the upper hand in the fight, which she was.

Osthryth had gained at least six feet of ground, and had worked her comrade to the back of the practise-ground. He was trying to match her, but Osthryth had realised that the area had a slight slope to it, and she was forcing him downhill slightly, and Aelffrith was having to work hard to at least maintain his position. If he was to win, he would have to do more than defend his position. Beside them, she could hear Steapa point out her leg position, which was side on, just a little, which again gave her the edge. That was the thing, just a little edge here, and a little edge there, which meant that those unprepared, or not as canny, would be a loser before they had really got started.

She raised Buaidh, and charged at Aelffrith as he neared the stable wall, her lungs filling with air. Aelffrith looked terrified. Then a smile came across his face as she suddenly stopped, miming an action which, on the battlefield, would have taken his throat.

"I yield! I yield!" He yelled, before stepping towards Osthryth. And the ineviable happened.

"You will fight the aethling, now." Steapa had taken Osthryth by the shoulders. Edward was beaming at her.

You won't be smiling for long, Osthryth thought back, but couldn't help smiling a little back at him, the most likely candidate for future king of Wessex. His ability in battle would tell much, for the Witan needed to choose someone with wisdom as well as battle-ken. She had been rewarded for her ability to overcome Aelffrith by having to teach the aethling of Wessex.

The boy had obviously been coddled. A short sword in hand, he stood fiercely opposite Osthryth, holding it out to her, a mask of ferocity over his face, but a wrinkle of terror at his eyes. He had determined himself to be brave, but he felt frightened. Give him a moment, Osthryth thought, for it was learning to control fear that was the key. The next battle fought was just routine, just the next thing to do, an automatic action. If you thought about the blood, and the reek and the actual human devastation you could never stand on a battlefield, and the enemy had won without any steel having been daylit at all.

Osthyth drew Buaidh, holding her out in front of her. Edward was trying to fix her with a determined stare. At this point, Osthryth would have borne down on a youngster, for they would not have been ready for her ferocity. But she needed to be a little yielding, so he could find his feet and -

"Go at him, Osthryth!" yelled Steapa. "He will learn nothing if you dance around like that!"

And drove on. Surprisingly, Edward stood firm, and surprised her by ducking under her arm. Behind her, she felt a little prick to her jerkin. A little prick from a little prick, she thought, unkindly, and circled back, raising her sword under his own blade. But Edward held on, though his feet were unsteady and parried forward.

Blades are not meant to be chipped at, Osthryth thought grimly, wondering when she could see the blacksmith again to put an edge back on Buaidh, taking knock after knock. Osthryth felt the yell tumble in her throat, as Edward smiled at her, which was unnerving, and truly a good tactic which might put off a less skilled warrior.

And bore on, as if his blade was not there. As expected, he moved his sword away, and used it upright to defend her blows. Osthryth drove him towards Steapa, but the aethling did not give up, and though he seemed too boyish to defend himself, was being missed by all of her blows, and her charge towards him had not given Osthryth momentum. She stepped aside, ready to try a new tack.

But did not get a chance, as she was bowled over. A man, taller and stockier than Osthryth had pushed her clean out of the way, and was now holding a sword towards Edward. Who, for his part, would not yield. The man was laughing and, she noticed, there was unrest from the warriors, and any spectators who generally gathered to watch sword practise.

A second was all it took to realise the man was trying to defeat Edward - really trying. And that was when she sprang between them, the attacker's sword scoring a deep mark down her jerkin.

"Get back!" she insisted, pushing Edward's shoulder, and rushed at the attacker, gaining a torn ear as she wrestled him to the damp earth. Around her, the hiss of her defence of the aethling grew to protests and shouting. Osthryth didn't hear, however. She was busy paying out the man who had chosen to attack Edward. The shock was enough for him to breathe out, heavily, winded from her blow, and he lay out his sword arm as Osthryth headbutted him. When he came round, she pounded his face, breaking his nose at least, and probably loosened some teeth. Blood covered her fingers and ran down her wrist.

"Come on, Osthryth!" she heard Merewalh shout to her, as she went for her sgian dubh, her little short black knife in her boot. Hands on her shoulders caused her to ebb her attack, and she rolled off the man, frowning.

"He attacked the aethling...!" she began, panting, as the man on the floor sat up, blood to his temple, laughing a mocking laugh at her as he dabbed at his head. She made to tear from Merewalh's and Aelfgar's hands, but her captain shook her away.

"It's only his cousin, Aethelwold," said Aelffrith, scornfully, as they led her back to Odda'a men. The man was looking at Osthryth and imitating her as she attacked him. "He believes he should be king, as his father Aethelred was king before Alfred. He often attacks Edward - he thinks it's funny."

They stopped for lunch when the sun was high, and were directed to the kitchens. Meat and bread filled stomachs as the men talked and laughed and joked.

"You OK, Osthryth?" She had been lost in thought and had been unusually quiet. She had been thinking about the man who had attacked Edward - his cousin, preumably - and his mocking of them. Didn't he know that the peace the king had won was a fragile thing? Wouldn't he be better off helping rather than hindering? She said all this to Aelffrith, who shook his head at her, sadly.

"Aethelwold was not chosen to be king - Alfred was. Poor man, he was the youngest of five brothers, and who could have guessed that all four of them would end up on the wrong end of a Danish blade?"

Who indeed? Osthryth knew all this, of course, from Culdees's records. But to be here, and watch the tenacity and persistent patience of the king in all things, chosen to be the throne worthiest, did he need a hindrance like Aethelwold who, Aelffrith continued, had made it his life's aim to get anyone who would listen to hear him repeat that he has had his crown stolen by his uncle.

The banter of the men around them hid their discussion, which came to an abrupt halt when Steapa stood by her.

"Get up," he instructed. "Not you, Aelffrith." He leered at Osthryth. "This is a matter for him," he jerked his big head in her direction, "and the king."

"The king?" Osthryth asked, looking at Aelffrith, as if he could help her, but his face was blank. "What does the king want with me?"

"Get up - " Steapa shook her from the bench under his mighty hands, " - and you'll see."

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Osthryth refused to look back at her comrades. Instead she walked behind Steapa. She had met kings before, knew royalty. She knew how to behave in a throne room. Osthryth told herself all of this, to no avail, for her heart was hammering in her chest and pounding into her neck and head. I just thought he was being attacked, Osthryth's inner dialogue repeated. I did not know the attacker was royalty.

Beside the king - and the queen to his right, and his son standing on his left, was Odda. His old, crinkled face was unreadable, which was not a good sign. Within an hour of her attack of a person of royal blood she had been summoned to give account to King Alfred - clearly something was serious enough for her to be brought to him, and any hearing, and punishment, would, obviously, be weighty. The king did not beat about the bush, but to Osthryth's satisfaction, his eyes wrinkled at the corners in the same way that Edward's had done when she had been about to attack him - in Alfred's case, it was acknowledgement of his approval when, as Steapa let go of her arm, she sank to her knees, head bowed, before him.

"I wantched you fight my nephew," Alfred began. "Please, explain."

"I do humbly apologise, your grace," Osthryth spoke out, clearly, trying to ensure her words were understandable for, thought the same language, Anglish was pronounced differently to Saxon. "I thought your son was in danger."

"And you fought my son." Osthryth, head still bowed, watched the king's arm gesticulate in Edward's direction. Then, he inclined forward.

"Look at me." Osthryth looked. The king of Wessex. She had only seen him for a moment, when she had arrived, and at a council Witan, when Odda was in attendance. Now, the whole room was fixed on the interaction between him and Osthryth.

His face was pale. A circlet of bronze sat about his raven hair. Pale blue eyes bore into her face. But Osthryth would not look away - he had asked her to look at him, and look at him she would.

"You did not give my son quarter. You made him fight to the fullest extent. As such, you are to be removed from the service of my lord Odda." He looked across to his lord.

"Lord King." Odda inclined his head. This was too much, Osthryth thought. How was she supposed to know that Aelthelwold was kin to the aethling? Now she was going to be thrust from Odda's service in shame. So, she would have to beg to her brother after all.

"What would you say?" Alfred's voice did not change, nor did his expression. She darted her eyes to Odda, and then back to your king.

"Lord King," Osthryth repeated. Kings were fair, in her experience, fair but decisive, and ultimately, representatives of their own right to rule and right to absolute decision-making. She chose words in her head as carefully as she could. "I have knelt to Lord Odda and promised to serve him faithfully." She bowed her head.

"You do not come from our fair lands," the king proposed. "Whence come you?"

Care was needed. Were she to mention Alba, or King Domhnall, or Ireland, even, Alfred's spies would soon discern her origin.

"I was once a slave as our most holy Saint Patrick was once a slave, in Eireann. A thrall, for I fought. Yet, I am not of Eirann."

"You are Saxon?"

Osthryth hesistated. "Yes, your grace."

"You have come to Wessex to find kin?" Osthryth nodded, then looked across at the granite-like features of Lord Odda, and spoke truly what was in her heart, for if she were dismissed, she would be, in effect, a slave again, to the whims of Uhtred, or to leave Wessex and seek a mercenary life. She refused to look away, but beseeched Alfred, "Would that the Lord God know that my actions would cause offense to you. I sought only to protect the aethling who, in all things, is the future of your realm against the Danes who would destroy your peace."

A mere flicker of acknowledgement - or was it amusement? - played at the king's lips. The words of flattery held together with honour and confession of an honest mistake had hit home, Osthryth knew. She bowed her head again and waited what seemed to be an age before the king spoke.

"Rise, warrior," the king said, and extended a hand to her shoulder. "For your kin, you may make enquiries. As for my nephew, it is a mere trifle - you did as Steapa asked of you and which I asked of Steapa, which was for him to be tested." Osthryth felt her leadened heart lighten. Yet, he had spoken of removing her from Odda's service. Was she to be sent away, after all?

"I have made an agreement with the Lord Odda. I wish now for you to guard and protect my son."

"Lord." Osthryth bowed her head as the king withdrew his hand. Then, her mind went to the man who had taken her in as his guard, saving her from starvation. "But the Lord Odda - " She looked at him. But Odda was smiling.

"I am sure Odda appreciates your loyalty. I have made an arrangement that is sutable for him. You are to remain in my service for that of the aethling." Alfred drew Edward towards her. "There," he said to his son. "The warrior - "

"Osthryth."

"Osthryth," he repeated. "Now Steapa, in charge of all of Winchester's guard, will tell you what is expected of you." Osthryth turned to look at the head of the royal household's security, who held his usual expression, which was none at all. He did glance at Osthryth, though. She was under Steapa now, Osthryth thought, not Merewalh. And she would see less of her friend Aelffrith, which made her heart twinge with a little sadness.

"Osthryth?" The king called her name. She looked at him. "You defended my son with your life today when you thought he was in danger. My thanks." And then Alfred smiled, one of only three times he ever did to her. "Welcome to my service."

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Osthryth followed Steapa as he strode the corridor outside the throne room, past the kitchens which the warriors had long since left, and to the guard room. He marched past the older guard, Wilfred, who was in charge of weapons and grabbed at the tunics.

"Yours." He pushed the dark blue jerkin in her direction, pulling up straight, then bending to Osthryth. "You - will walk next to the aethling. You will go where he goes. Yiu will eat when he eats, shits when he shits, sleep when he sleeps. Understood?" Osthryth nodded.

"And, you are in charge of his sword training. Osthryth felt her heart sink. But then brightened a little: Edward seemed a skilful child, and there was something in that smile, that curl to the lips that showed himself to be his title: kingworthy.

She was left in the kitchen by Steapa, who went out to inspect the stables. Aelfgar's turn, so at least now, with the young prince to mind, little of the unsavoury jobs would come her way.

The cook was taking the meat from the spit as a kitchen maid had closed the partition door. Then opened it again, as an old woman stood there. She heard the maid talk British to her, but soon stopped as the cook marched over to the door, taking it away from the maid, whom she shooed away.

The cook bolted the door, but Osthryth slipped the bolt open again as the cook turned, and she trod the uneven stones until she had caught up with her. What she needed was more lily root and she called to the woman. To her astonishment, the woman, who Osthryth learned in time was called Ula, answered in Cymric and, for three pieces of silver, promised to bring it next time she called. Osthryth could see that the maid had indeed provided food: her basket was filled with the meat and bread that the warriors had indulged in that lunchtime.

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It was about a week later when she overheard Odda tell Alfred that Uhtred had left Winchester, a week which couldn't have gone better. Rather than resenting being with Edward, it turned out he was a delightful, sunny boy, who took all things with hope and optimism, the buoyancy of youth that some children carry with them.

His mother still fussed over him, which the child indulged, but once out of her sight became the young boy growing to be a man again, interested in learning sword skill and playing, and sometimes slipping out of the palace to walk amongst the grounds.

"You don't need to slip out," Osthryth told him one evening when she heard him get up. She slept, cloak under her head, outside his door. "If you wish to explore Winchester, you could do it at any time - I'd be with you."

"Mother would not approve." A little grey cloud settled over his head, but Osthryth had smiled and said, "I expect your father would not. You need to know your own kingdom."

"You need to know your own kingdom!" A voice whined in the darkness, making a good imitation of Osthryth's own voice. For a betrothed young woman, Aethelflaed could be petulant. She is jealous of him, Osthryth told herself. If she had been born a prince not a princess, it would be Aethelflaed who would be the aethling, not Edward. It was clear she was cruel to him, though Edward bore it well. She would be moving to Mercia when she was married, Edward told Osthryth, a shard of happiness in his statement. But Osthryth could also see how much he adored his older sister, because he would follow her, admire her own sword skill, and on occasions when she sat with him while he was learning Latin, the aethling positively beamed at her attention.

So, after petitioning his father, Edward was allowed to go beyond the palace, as long as Osthryth was with him. She had been given a list of places by Steapa that under no circumstances the young prince was allowed to go: the alehouses, any merchants, Crepelgate, where the Britons and other poor lived...it would have been quicker to say where he was allowed, and in the end, Osthryth strode next to the boy, and they walked by the fast flowing Itchen river, tumbling from the Ridgeway chalk and heading for Hamptun.

Daily, Edward would sword-train with her, but always away from the guards, which was a pity, Osthryth thought, as he would gain more from a range of challengers. But she suspected that Alfred thought more of the faux attack by Aethelwold, who was generally inebriated in the palace gardens most mornings, than the king's nephew had claimed.

Why was it, though, that Aelthelwold had not tried for revenge on her? After all, she had attacked him severely, and Osthryth had noticed that it had taken several weeks for his nose to reset and the swelling in his face to go down.

She heard her former Lord's declaration about her brother one bright, summer's morning and, on listening, Osthryth gleaned that Aelffrith and Aelfgar had been given the task of watching the house, guarding it, so that Gisela did not to leave Winchester.

When she knew the aethling was asleep that night, she followed them over to Uhtred's house, slipping up to the roof to better see the small courtyard between her brother's two-storey house, the stables and two outbuildings. They were her family, after all, and she wondered about the horses stabled in the square, who were patiently exercising their legs, waiting patiently for - something.

Was her brother's wife going to slip away? Aelfgar and Aelffrith were standing opposite the gatehouse, she noticed - would that be enough? They had two young children, Osthryth had learned - three horses and no carriages would not be enough to take infants. So, who were these horses for?

Osthryth didn't have long to wait to find out. Twilight illuminated three men, warclad, stepping out and untying the horses. As she watched, she could see her brother, the man who had chased her - the Irishman who she knew was called Finan, and another. Aethelwold. All three found it easy to force their animals past the two palace guards, for they were expecting to only guard a woman and children.

North was where Odda had told the king they had already gone, which made sense, for Aelthelwold had not kept quiet and had let slip about offers of kingship made by a dead Dane and, if she had heard it, others would have too. Clearly it interested Aethelwold as he was desperate for Wessex's crown. Why was her brother interested? She would find out. But, not now. Dearly Osthryth would have loved to slip onto a horse and go after them. But she was the guard of the aethling, she had agreed a responsibility.

Osthryth lay back onto the thatch as twilight gave way to night. The moon rose, as did the summer stars. No trace of the hunter now, but the great bear rose, as did the plough and others she recognised but knew not any names.

She slowly walked back to the palace, hoping she would not be missed. Slowly, because she had spent time picking through the thatch of her brother's house to extricate every piece of plunder he had hidden. She needed it more than him, Osthryth realised, and was just nodding at the guards, when she saw a small figure in the palace gardens, so her hand went directly to Buaidh's hilt.

"Edward!" She exclaimed, then clamped her hand over her mouth. Should anyone realise he was out here alone, Osthryth would, quite rightly, get the blame.

"Where did you go? Why are you out of bed?" she pressed, as they walked hastily down the corridor to the bedchamber, Osthryth's hands on his shoulders.

"I followed you!" His reply was mirthful, as if it was all a grand adventure.

"You never did!" Osthryth's heart was in her mouth, and she hustled the aethling into his room, and closed the door, standing with her back to it.

"But...you went, and I waited." He looked earnest, and a pained expression crossed his features.

"I thought you were asleep - look," Osthryth said, "I was wrong to leave you, and - "

"You have it?" Edward asked, eagerly. "What you went for?" Osthryth nodded.

"I needed to claim my money, money I was owed."

"A treasure hunt!" Edward exclaimed, his eyes lively. She felt her heart sink. It must be well past midnight now, and if he didn't get to bed soon, he'd be tired in the morning and she would get the blame.

"Come on," he urged, "Let's see, then we can hide it." Then he turned away, giving out a big sniff. Osthryth was astonished. She was so caught up in how pleased she was, she hadn't noticed his usual optimistic bounce was camouflaging a sadness.

"Yes," Osthryth agreed. "If you know a good place to hide my silver, then show me." She held out a hand to his shoulder. "But first, can you tell me who has upset you? I can kill them for you, if you like." The last sentence was meant by Osthryth as a joke, but she was astonished when Edward turned his cornflower-blue eyes to her in anticipation.

"You can!" he declared.

"I can't, really," Osthryth replied, but it seemed as if Edward had not heard her.

"Aethelflaed - " at this, he let out a sob, looking down, hand to his face. Osthryth put two hands on his shoulders and bent a little.

"Aelthelflaed?" she prompted.

"Aethelflaed - " Edward broke off, and sniffed again, "Told me again about the man who gave his own baby's life for me to live!" He exclaimed. "Sometimes, she says, she wishes the baby was alive and not me!" Edward wrenched himself from her grasp and turned, hunching over. He gave another sniff.

"I think, it's God's plan," Osthryth said, picking bits of silver out of her bindings. "Perhaps this baby was going to die anyway; perhaps you were well enough to live. I'm sorry that Aethelflaed said those things to you - I can understand why you're upset."

There was an awkward silence. It was somehow worse than Edward's sobs.

"I have some wealthm but no safe place to keep it without being stolen again." Slowly, the aethling turned, and looked at the Osthryth, then to her hands, full as they now were with Uhtred's silver.

"I know a place!" Edward said suddenly, his sadness leaving him as quickly as it had come, replaced with child-like pride at feeling needed.

"I have this - look." From under his bed, Edward pulled out a leather bag. In it, he showed her his wooden soldiers, clearly a dear set of toys from when he was much younger. Did children play with toys still, when they were twelve? Osthryth had none, so she did not know. She let Edward fill up his bag with her brother's silver, then drew the leather thong around the top. Opening the door, Edward peered out, then beckoned to Osthryth.

Along the corridor of bedchambers they crept, until Edward finally stopped at a little indent in the wall. Stooping, he heaved with all his might, at a flagstone in the corner, which eventually lifted. Underneath there was a gap, a crevice between floor slab and earth, a cavity just big enough for Edward's soldiers and Osthryth's silver.

"I've hidden them for years here," Edward told her, as he trod on the slab to make it level with the others. "Aethelflaed kept taking them and trying to burn them. But she doesn't know about this place."

"Thank you for being my guard, Osthryth," Edward said. He stepped into his room, but held the door open. Osthryth peered inside. The candles were guttering a little, but otherwise she could see nothing which needed her attention.

"Would you sleep this side of my door tonight, Osthryth?" Edward asked.

"Steapa has instructed me - " she began. But Edward shook his head.

"I will tell him I insisted you stay with me by the door." He took a blanket and cushion from his bed. "It must be cold only with your cloak."

"My thanks, aethling," Osthryth nodded. "Do you feel better now?"

"Much better!" the boy replied, before bounding over to his bed and getting into it, before turning over. He was asleep within seconds. Osthryth, with a generous cushion and thick blanket, smiled in the darkness to the young prince, before settling down to sleep herself.

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Osthryth's new sleeping arrangements meant for a better rest, and she had risen in time for what the Irish church called "matins" and had been there for the service most mornings, after asking for her duty to be covered by one of the palace guards. She said the Lord's Prayer in Irish at the appropriate time, and felt more at peace than she had in a long time.

It was a week after the summer solstice which, Osthryth noticed, was observed by several people coming from Crepelgate in sporadic groups just before dawn: the Britons had appeared and made their way beyond the city wall to witness the rising of the sun on the longest day.

On this occasion, it was a face she knew which welcomed the devout to the palace's chapel. Osthryth knew that Father Beocca was in Winchester: it was quite another situation entirely, to be face to face with him as he bustled in people to observe the sun of a different kind, that being the son, God's son, as the eucharist was said. How could it not be, Osthryth told herself, as he went about the service.

At the front, wrapped in a fine cloak, was a woman whom Beocca could not take his eyes off, and she him, from what Osthryth could tell. Her heart beat faster at the thought of a man, the closest thing she had to a father, standing there, not knowing.

Should she tell him? Osthryth debated the question, and decided to stay at the end of the service, retreating back towards a many-coloured glass window. She watched how Beocca took the hand of the woman he adored, and Osthryth observed this woman, red hair peeking through at the edges of her shawl, staring back at him lovingly, though a haunted look still stalked her features.

Well, how wonderful! He had a life here, in Winchester, as the king's priest, and married, too. Across from them, he was greeted by several warriors, one of whom caught Osthryth's eye. Her heart quickened: did he recognise her? She recognised him, her combatant, the one who had begun singing the lament she knew, who had chased her. But he took no heed of her, following her brother out of the chapel, striding after Uhtred, who was talking intently to Beocca's woman. Clearly, they were back from whatever had drawn them north.

But Osthryth remained. She wished to see Beocca again and, under the guise of confession, waited. She didn't have to wait long, as Beocca returned, tidying away the Bible and blowing out all candles bar one, the larger one above the altar. He noticed Osthryth then, and beckoned her forward.

"What would you confess, my child?" Beocca asked, brightly, and led her to seats at the righr hand of the altar. Osthryth looked at him, every fibre of her being wanting to grab him around the neck and kiss him in joy! To have found Beocca, after all these years of being hunted. She swallowed.

"I seek penance, your holiness," Osthryth began. A smile spread across Beocca's face as she looked nto his eyes. If he recognised her, Beocca did not admit it, either in words or on his features. He waited patiently for her to continue.

Osthryrh looked at his face, ugly, twisted in earthly measure, but beautiful for his adoration of God. How many times had she dreamed of this moment? Not many more than she had dreamed of a time she would meet her brother.

"Do I know you, child?" Beocca asked, at last.

The word, "Yes", was on her lips, but then she looked into her lap. Instead, she began a prayer:

"Ar n-Athair a tha air nèamh," Osthryth began, as Beocca clasped his hands around hers, closing his own, and she did not take a breath until she had got to, "Agus a' glòir, gu sìorraidh. Amen." Osthryth opened her eyes, then withdrew back, watching the man she had known better than anyone when she was a child. She sighed. Beocca smiled.

"I know you seek your kin," he said, quietly. "I was there when the king took you to be his son's guard: it is a great honour."

"Yes," Osthryth nodded. "I wonder if I do a good job?"

"Is the aethling dead?" He smiled at Osthryth's shocked expression.

"I do hope not!"

"Then you do a good job." He got to his feet, and began to escort Osthryth towards the doors of the chapel. "I imagine here is much different from Eireann." She nodded, hoping it looked sad enough, while all the time using all of her willpower to prevent her from jumping on him and telling him everything.

She felt a hand on her shoulder as she got to Edward's room, however, and turned. Had Beocca worked it out, and had now come to challenge her? However it was not Beocca. When she turned, Osthryth looked right into the face she had damaged, a little over a fortnight ago.

Aethelwold.

Smelling of drink, good looking nonetheless now his injuries were healing, he held onto Osthryth's shoulder. He had a bored, careless look about him, and Osthryrh froze. She could quite easily attack him again, but she hung back. He hadn't actually done anything apart from stop her going into the aethling's room.

"Creeping around, again?" he asked, and leered at her. Osthryth made her features freeze. Subconsciously, she reached to her him, for Taghd's seax.

"Foolish of you to leave him to attend chapel," he drawled. "What if Edward had been - taken? Murdered?"

"There was a guard..." Osthryth began. Good point, she told herself. Where was the guard she had asked to cover for her. With a smooth sound like, "Shmm", her seax was in front of her. Aethelwold backed away.

"You're mine, boy!" he shouted up the corridor, as her retreated. "You will die!"

And was gone. But not before she saw the repudiated aethling grip a leather bag, which looked suspiciously like the one she had allowed Edward to bury, with his keepsake toys in it, and her silver.

It was about an hour after Osthryth had accompanied Edward to breakfast and before he was about to step out for sword practise into the glorious morning sunshine that Steapa was beside her. The king wished to see her.

This time, the throne room was a lot fuller. As well as Odda, his children and his wife, many of the lords who were arriving for Aethelflaed's wedding were in attendance. She glanced to one side. Tall, brown-haired, muscular, her brother stood, also. Perhaps Aethelwold was cleverer than he looked, and had worked out that the silver was Uhtred's? She gave a little shudder. This was not how she wanted to meet him.

"The punishment for theft is hanging, boy." Alfred was leading the proceedings, not an advocate, or prosecuting lord. Osthryth's stomach sank to her knees as he held up the bag.

"Did you steal silver?"

"I earned it." Admittedly, not that silver, Osthryth thought. That silver was easily traced back to Uhtred. She pressed on, the best she could do. "I have been a soldier before; I was my lord's thrall; it was an arrangement with my Lord which involved my guarding a child, in the manner you have entrusted me with your son's protection..."

There. Make of that what you will. Now will be the time to press your advantage to Beocca or Uhtred, or both. Idiot. Why did you take it?

"Have you had fortune in locating your family, Osthryth the Gael?" Alfred pressed.

"Not as yet." Alfred held up the leather bag. Osthryth refused to look at Edward, for she was convinced he would say something to try to help her, which would only incriminate her without meanng to.

"And you earned this?" Beside her mother, Edward's sister, Aethelflaed stood, watching in silence at the proceedings, a strange expression on her face.

"With my sword." Her hand dropped to Buaidh.

"May I see it?" Alfred held out a hand. Osthryth withdrew it fully, turned so she held the blade, then offered it to Alfred. He examined Buaidh.

"A good sword," he murmured, casting his eye over the layered patterns on the blade.

"Which I earned, Lord King," Osthryth replied, obediently. "I fought the Norse to keep a family I was once employed by safe."

"It has a name?"

"Buadh, your grace. It means "Victory.""

"A good name. For you have been victorious in many ways, and it has been clear to me you can use it." He offered Buaidh back to Osthryth.

"Tell me, did you kill these Norse?"

"Yes, but they did not need a lot of killing; many were weak with starvation." Alfred seemmed to consider this. Then, he turned to address at his priest.

"Beocca, you say there is a matter of silver?"

"In the bag, Lord King. "Aethelwold accuses Osthryth of theft of silver coins."

"All of which I earned," Osthryrth insisted.

"Then you must yield a silver to the crown, of course," Alfred concluded. He looked across to Aethelwold.

"Lord Aethelwold, pray tell us the meaning of this?" Aethelwold smirked as Osthryth threw him a dirty look. Clearly, Edward's hiding place was not so secret after all. Aethelwold was going to get her hanged.

"And so, uncle," Aethelwold continued, swaggering before the king. "I had word that a quantity of silver had been hidden. Whose it had been before it was hidden, I do not know." He turned, and stopped walking, fixing a look of hatred on Osthryth, who noticed that Aethelflaed looked grave, as if she were considering something. "What could a young guard be doing with silver? He could never have earned it, so it stands to reason he must have stolen it. And - " But Alfred held up a hand.

"And - " Aethelwold pressed, but broke off again when Alfred stepped towards him.

"And who, pray, informed you?" Now it was Aethelwold's turn to look grave. But he looked across to his cousin. Alfred knew, then, as did everyone else in the throne room.

"Let us see this quantity of silver," King Alfred suggested, and turned to Steapa, asking for a table. One made of oak was brought and placed in front of him by Aelfgar, who looked sympathetically at Osthryth. A collective intake of breath filled the throne room as the king pulled the leather lace binding the top of the leather bag. Osthryth's heart hammered in her chest. By Saint ColmCille, she begged, please! Help me!

And, even so far south that Osthryth could never hear the Morrigan calling her, ColmCille himself of the Ui Neill answered. For, out of the bag, amongst a dozen wooden soldiers of Edward's army rolled the coins. Two of them. Coins of Mercia, displaying both the head of Alfred and Ceowulf, who had reigned in Mercia as king, though really, as their lord with Alfred overseeing the Danelaw.

Osthryth kept still, silent, noticing however, from the corner of her eye Edward's face break into a wide smile, half-turned to his sister in triumph. Aelthelflaed scowled, and glared at her brother. Osthryth said nothing, though she was sure her face must have betrayed her shock.

Alfred said nothing for a moment, though his neck flared pink. Was it embarrassment at calling the court to hear of theft, when the truth was somewhat different? He picked up the two pieces of money, held them out in his own hand.

"I wll not deprive you of these," the king of Wessex concluded. "A guard is more in need of two silver pieces than the church, to whom all of this "quantity"" - he glared across to Aethelwold who was still standing beside the king, arms folded, and snorted in derision at the king doubting him, despite the evidence. "Where this silver was destined. Come." He gestured for Osthryth to hold out a hand and let both of the coins fall into them. Beside his father, Edward reached out for his wooden army. But the king was still looking at Osthryth, who had folded her hands around the two silver pieces.

"You will make confession to Father Beocca. I know you attend matins when you feel ypu can leave my son, and I know thay you cover your duty, vety conscientious. May I pass on my gratitude, Osthryth the Gael."

Aethelwold was angry, clearly and he glowered at her for making him look stupid in front of the court, as she followed Beocca to the chapel.

Though, how she actually had managed that, for there was a hundred times more silver in that bag than was there, was not clear at all until she was walking with Edward that afrernoon, following his sword practise. It was clear he must have something to do with it, and she bent closer to the aethling, as a warm, summer breeze blew languidly around them.

"I heard Aethelflaed, my sister, tell Aethelwold you had money hidden here, so I put in more of soldiers, to fool them, and hid your silver for you. It worked!" Osthryth stopped walking, and crouched down a little, so she was face to face with Edward. She beamed. "It did work, lord Prince! I am so grateful to you. May you tell me where?" But Edward shook his head.

"It is hidden, Osthryth!" Edward hissed back. "And, if you don't know where no-one can make you tell them!" And Osthryth could not fault his logic, as well as his bravery and kindness.

88888888

"So, this silver?" Aelffrith had persuaded her to the "Two Cranes." Thankfully, Aelfburh seemed not to be working at the bar that evening, which left her gossipy friend to do just that.

"I hid what I brought wth me when I was first in Winchester. When I eventually leave, I will take it with me."

"You're leaving?" A slim, long-limbed girl was bringing ale. Osthryth shook her head, while Aelffrith waved her on to fill up his tankard, pressing a coin into her hand, lingering his own, and waiting for her reaction, which he duly received, as she simpered at him. Osthryth rolled her eyes. And to think, he challenged me over Aelfburh!

"And it's yours?" Aelffrith asked, doubtfully.

"I rescued it from a boat that would have otherwise sunk." Seobhrighd's, when she escaped from Bebbanburh. "I have no doubt it had been stolen before." Aelffrith leaned forward.

"The armoury," he hissed. "Wherever your silver is hidden, move it to the hiding place I'll show you, tomorrow. I use it when I'm hiding my extra pay from my wife. You are free to use it."

"Thank you. But, thanks to Prince Edward's sleight of hand, my silver is already hidden, I just don't know where!" It was mostly true. But didn't account for the meagre amount she had left over from her journey with Ulf and Gert, or the money she had managed to get out of the thatch from her brother's house the first time round.

"You have a wife?" Osthryrh asked, in astonishment. Aelffrith laughed, then sipped his ale.

"I owe money, so I tutor a bit on the side. My wife is one of the queen's ladies in waiting; but we cannot be together properly until I am out of debt and out of Odda'a servide, which I am now, thanks to you."

"To me?" Osthryth repeated, as her heart sank. Uhtred, followed by his closest man Finan, and others who served him. Not after today, Osthryth complained, in her head. He was bound to come over and challenge her over Aelfburh again, wasn't he? Sihtric? Or Finan might finally recognise her as the person he had pursued from Uhtred's house. She dragged her eyes back to Aelffrith.

"Odda and Alfred rearranged their staff. I am one step closer to Eadgyth now, being in Winchester. So?" He leaned towards her. Good, thought Osthryth, it kept her out of view of Uhtred. "So, what happened?"

"Aethelwold," Osthryth replied, in disgust. "He keeps jumping on me, or pretending to attack Edward, so of course, I have to fight him I but he - " But Aelffrith interrupted her.

"He's a lazy good-for-nothing, always wanting to proclaim he is the real king of Wessex - I mean, the Danes would be over the kingdom like a shot, if he were in charge. That's why he is being kept by Alfred, to make sure he stays drunk and niggardly, so he doesn't get ideas about teaming up with them."

"I could slit his throat in the night, and do everyone a favour!" Osthryrth growled, sullenly, sipping at her own ale.

"He could slit your balls off in the day," Aelffrith replied. "Don't make an enemy of Aethelwold, you will lose." But Osthryth did not reply. Instead she got to her feet.

"Is there another alehouse we can do to?" she asked, suddenly. Sihtric was getting up and, after the day she had had, Osthryth did not want an altercation with anyone.

"Alehouse?"

"Alehouse, or chapel." Her destination was irrelevant now, for she was already striding across the "Two Cranes" dirt floor, hand on Buaidh as she fixed her eyes on the door.

"There's the "Swan with Two Necks," Aelffrith called after her, waylaid a little by the whore who had served him the ale. He stumbled past two other guards, catching up with her just outside.

"The Swan?" he asked again.

"Chapel," Osthryth replied, pacing away from Aelffrith. "Thank you for the evening, my friend," she added. "I did not wish to remain to have yet another reason for the king to summon me before him."

"What?" Osthryth jerked her head behind them. They were being followed.

"I'll come with you," Aelffrith chipped in, and they nodded their way through the palace gates.

Not that I do not like church, Osthryth told herself, but three times in one day? Uhtred, or Sihtric, or Finan, or the new guard who looks like a baby monk, but carries an axe, none of them could attack her in the chapel.

Aelffrith left her kneeling at the altar as one of the novices recited the gospel. The moon had risen and the sun had finally sunk when they had got there, and when Aelffrith had decided to go, he was aware that it was well on the way to being morning. He was also aware that Osthryth was speaking quietly to herself in Gaelish.

However, Aelffrith was wrong. She was not merely speaking, but praying. At the back of the chapel, someone who understood the words listened.

"Ar n-Athair a tha air nèamh...gu naomhaichear d'ainm..."

When she had finished, Osthryth made her way towards the outer corridor which flanked the inner garden courtyard. It was at this point a hand reached for her shoulder. They were no longer inside the chapel. Osthryrh reached for Taghd's seax. The tall warrior of her brother, close-cropped black hair and curiously vulnerable demeanour looked at her face. Finan. Osthryrh stepped away.

"Ciamar atha sibh?" But Osthryth glared at him.

"Gabh mo leisgeul!" She shouted back, then stalked furiously back to Edward's room, to sleep outside it until dawn.

8888888

A week before the party from Aelsburh, capital of Mercia, were due, Aethelflaed's betrothed, soon to be husband Aethelred amongst them, the firstborn child of Alfred was holding high above her head a wooden sword whch she had taken off him. Edward was not tall enough to retrieve it and was jumping up in uncharacterisic rage at his sister, who was laughing cruelly at him. Osthryth was just coming back from the kitchens and her dinner when she found them, demanding that the princess show kindness to her brother.

"You can't tell me what to do; I am to be the Lady of the Mercians!" Aethelflaed was almost her age, perhaps a year younger. So, why did it give her so much pleasure to annoy her younger brother?

"Of course," Osthryrh agreed. "A lady should see that is no way to behave to someone in a weakee position to herslf." Edward grinned, and stepped back from his sister. .

"He took my necklace!" Aethelflaed complained, still holding Edward's sword out of reach. Wheeling round, Osthryrh bore down on the boy.

"Is this true?" She was astonished when he nodded.

"I was going to put it back," he said, meekly, holding the gold and emerald necklace out towards Osthryth. "See how pretty it looks in the sun." But Osthryth did not smile, or look. Instead, she folded her arms.

"Give it back to your sister, Edward," Osthryth said, sternly. A look of misplaced martyrdom settled on Aethelflaed's features. "You had no right to take it." Edward looked downcast and Osthryrh had to do all she could not to comfort him, for it was he who was in the wrong, not Aelthelflaed, who siezed the necklace with glee, and walked gleefully away, a bounce in her step.

"You can't just take your sister's things, no matter if you were going to return them," Osthryth told him later. "What does the Bible say about theft?" Edward looked at her, blankly. "So, I have no choice but to tell your father."

"No, don't do that!" Edward exclaimed, horrified. "He will beat me!"

"Yes," agreed Osthryth, sternly and got up to go. But Edward hung his head.

"What is it?" she said, sitting beside him. "The punishment will hurt," Osthryth conceded, "But it will be over quickly."

"I do not fear a beating," Edward said, into his lap, hands covering his face. "I am just sorry about the necklace. I wanted to give it to someone."

Osthryth's mind flicked to the kitchen maid who he smiked at when he went to his tutor. She was tiny and pretty, with a mass of dark, curly hair whose pale face pinked when she caught his eye. A Briton, perhaps, like Haf, and wholly unsuitable a future king. He had to make a dynastic match, not follow his heart.

"Osburh would be in a deal of trouble accepting Lady Aethelflaed's necklace," Osthryth counselled. He turned his head, eyes shining. Then, he placed his hand over hers.

"And you? Would you be in a deal of trouble?" Osthryth felt her heart sink.

"You stole this for me?" Osthryth asked, in amazement. Edward hung his head lower, withdrawing his hand as quickly as he had touched her own.

"You said you need your silver to stay alive. So you can't buy yourself a necklace."

"Oh, Edward!" Osthryth exclaimed, pulling him to her, "That is so very thoughtful of you." But then a thoughr struck her and she got to her feet, quickly. "How did yoy know I was not a man?"

"The night I followed you," Edward recounted, "you went for piss."

I would have been crouching, Osthryth thought.

"I have not kept it a secret. But it is not good for me for this to be well known."

"So I thought, the necklace..." Edward's voice trailed off.

"But it is wrong to take your sister's things!" Osthryth chided him.

"I wish you were my sister!" he said, suddenly, getting to his feet. "I wish Aethelflaed were - "

"Enough!" Osthryth took a step backwards, and then knelt before him. "I am your warrior, aethling Edward, and, I hope, your friend. Besides, what would I do with a pretty necklace?"

"Wear a pretty dress; comb out your hair - " Edward began, but she shushed him, touched at his kindness.

"I appreciate that you want rich things for me; it shows you value my friendship." And then she strode to the door, holding it open. "I will not tell your father why you stole the necklace when you admit it to him," Osthryrh concluded, "But do not take from your sister again."

An hour later, Osthryth was made to watch as Steapa landed five blows across the aethling's back. The lady Aelswith looked as if she was going to murder the head of her husband's guard as her son whimpered on the final stroke. From the corner of the courtyard, Aelthelwold watched, with interest.

Edward had not grown up as street children did, running day and night, learming dirty tricks and even dirtier defenses. Steapa hardly touched him, but it was enough. And it was as if that moment chamged him; Edward was more focused in his fighting lessons, more focused on his learning.

"That him the little bastard!" Sihtric shouted, for he had been spurned by Aelfburh again. It was a sunny, late July morning, and she was being heckled by Uhtred's men, who clearly had nothing better to do. Osthryth kept silent, but drew Edward's lesson to a close. They had had word the Mercians were coming that day and preparations were being made.

"Lord Uhtred," Osthryrh acknowldged, but did not bow her head. Standing next to him just for that moment, Osthryth used all her willpower not to turn back to him.

It was the first time she had spoken directly to her brother in the three months she had landed in Winchester, and it unnerved her how deeply the words she had nurtured in her heart were making her feel. She swallowed hard, swallowing her weak emotion away as she marched with Edward towards his father's scriptorium.

Aethelwold leaned against a Romn poillar of the palace, biting down into an apple. He already had a flagon of ale in hus hand. Uhtred rolled his eyes.

"I still say he wants my Aelfburh!" fumed Sihtric, falling silent under Uhtred's glare. But Aethelwold was laughing.

"What?" Uhtred demanded.

"What?" repeated Aethelwold, ambling lazily towards him.

"What's so funny?" clarified Finan, his eye following Osthryth's wake.

"He," Aethelwold replied, poking a finger at Sihtric, who frowned. "You - said - he!"

"Yeah? So?" Sihtric could feel himself getting angry.

"That woman you love, Sihtric Kjartansson, "My cousin's guard, cannot be after the woman you pursue, Sihtric, he cannot be!" Aethelwold was enjoying himself. Uhtred stamped two steps over to him. Aethelwold was chastened enough to stop grinning.

"And why is this?"

"That boy," Aethelwold laughed, "Is no boy!"

"No boy?" Uhtred repeated.

"He is a girl!" Aethelwold threw the core of his apple in the direction of the scriptorium, laughing at their disbelieving features.

"Do you believe it, Clapa?" Uhtred demanded of his largest warrior, who shook his head.

"How can you tell?" Osferth ventured, as the doors of the palace were flung open for the emmisaries from Mercia.

"I have a lot of experience in that department, Osferth, my bastard cousin," Aethelwold replied, draining his ale. "And she is going into the palace, where I live," he concluded, "And sleeps, on guard, outside Edward's room." He smirked. "This information has only recently come to me, so I will now be able to conduct an intimate study...probe into the matter deeply..." He rearranged his genitals, and inhaled sharply.

"You should leave her be," Uhtred warned, "If that guard really is a girl, which I doubt. He may have reasons for a disguise."

"Or," Finan taunted, "He could be a boy-lover; those are always very strange. But, if you find out, be sure to come and tell us, Aethelwold!" he laughed.

"Alfred, by his church, would not like it," Uhtred mock-warned. "And I tell you, that guard of Edward's is no girl. I have seen him fight. Are you being atteacted to young boys, Aelthelwold, like Osric, that Mercian warrior of Aethelred's?"

Aethelwold snorted, at the implied insult. He strode past them, heading along the path to the scriptorium, then, just as the Mercian party turned the corner of the palace's garden, turned, mimed two breasts with his hands over his own chest, then thrust his crotch in its direction.

88888888

That night as he lay in the darkness, his hand down his breeches, Aethelwold thought of his cousin Edward's new guard. His hand went readily to his cock as he thought of undressing her, willingly or unwillingly, as long as she was naked he didn't care.

He ran his tight-cupped hand up his cock, rounding it over the hot tip as he thought of his hands on her firm thighs, on her waist, her breasts, his mouth on her teats, sucking at the small, shy nubs he supposed she had, coaxing into big, red points. Unwilling had a certain edge to it, and he rubbed himself more at the thought of her writhing, wrists and ankles chafed sore as she fought her bonds. What could he done to blackmail her? To make her come to his room, defiant but choiceless, as he plunged into her as deep as he could, his balls straining at the pressure of the fluid build-up?

No, not a boy, he thought, as he heard footsteps. Osthryth was passing by on her usual guard of Edward...he would have to find something, something with which he could blackmail her with...it would have to be significant or she would fight him and protest...she was clever...

...he did like it when they struggled, helplessly beneath him...the novice nun he had had only last week had been determined to escape him...oh, how he had enjoyed gagging her and tying her down, arms wide displaying her large, rounded, vulnerable breasts, her legs wide apart, cunt on display, helpless...how he had enjoyed the expresession of horror on her face as he did the inevitable...she had been very tight and it hadn't taken him long...

...what else did she expect when he chanced on her somewhere she shouldn't have beem, looking at the novice monks in the scriptorium, hand between her legs? He'd thanked her, afterwards, when he finally let her go... she should have been grateful...

...and this warrior girl would he the same, all fight, all chase, all fury as he found her cunt and manoeuvred her into a good position to ram himself satisfyingly into her tight little opening...

...wank-wank-wank...Aethelwold's hand moved, building up his rhythm with a delightful amount of friction as his pre-cum squelched between his fingers...

...he had tried blackmail the same novice before, too, taking apples from the monastery garden for herself...but she had had too many alibis then: she was laundrring at the time, and if he had gone to the abbess his lies would have been exposed...she had smirked at him...but this time...

...wank...wank...wank...

...poor thing...yet if she had gone to him under blackmail, there would have been no need to tie her down...it would be as if she had accepted him willingly, curled her legs around his back that he coukd thrust more deeply into her, throwing her head back so she got her pleasure too...

...to have tits wobbling before him, nipples all taught from his attention to her outstretched body...all the while her body making it increasingly easy to enter her...there was as much power in skilful management of a woman's body as in forcing an unwilling lover...

...more, perhaps...

Aethelwold sighed as his pleasure built, thinking of a woman attending him willingly...it had been so long he couldn't even remember...

...but Aethelwold coud not think for long as his body took over, the rush of orgasm overcoming him as his thick semen oozed down his cock, around his balls and over his curly ginger mound, as he moved his hand firmly on his cock still, through his viscous cum, to finish off his wank and feel the waning pulses of pleasure.

No. Of course Edward's guard was no boy. How good it would feel when she was under him...

Aethelwold lay back as he fantasised as to how he could blackmail her. How many people thought she was a boy? What was her secret that made her lie? Where was that silver that he had seen her and Edward hide?

And Aethelwold's mind twisted around a plan, in the darkness, post ejaculation. It needed to be well planned and set up. And, by manipulating two or three peoplw he knew just how he would do it.

Who knows, Aethelwold told himself as Osthryth's feet passed outside his door again. She might be under him within a month.

88888888

Midsummer 907

The man was riding within view of his home. It was due to be attacked by a cousin of his. But he did not care, for his fortress was impenetrable. He was not the lord of the land, however. He soon would be, however. His father, Aelfric, trusted him completely.

He had even given him the same name as his would-be attacker, his elder, long-dead cousin's name, a family name passed down since Ida. He hated the name, had grown to hate the name through his father's bitterness.

Uhtred.

He called himself Whitgar now, and Whitgar of Bebbanburg was visiting his own land, being visible to his own tenants, training his own men, as well as those of the palace.

However, it was the same figure, there on the horizon. Was it a coincidence he was at the same point on the landscape? Was his appearance at Restharrow each time designed? It was the same man who had been appearing in his sight for the last four months. Each time, he had watched the figure, then rode away.

But, not this time.

Wheeling his horse round, Whitgar of Bebbanburg bore down on the figure, which did not make any attempt to flee.

Osthryth's journey to that very spot had been uneventful. Leaving behind her Guthred of Haligwerfolkland, having extricated a repudiation of their so-recorded marriage, she had followed the line of forts along the Roman wall, stopping first at Birdoswald and praying to her ancestor, then crossing to Vindolanda and Heavenfield, Oswald's great victory against the Welsh, then at Denisesburn, where Oswald's father, Aelthelfrith had lost the crown to Edwin, she had diverted north from the Roman road to Yeavering.

Gefryn was what the British called this settlement, at a place where two rivers flowed. She had then crossed them, stopping at Roughtin Linn for rest, shelter, drink and contemplation, sheltering in a cave as the monks of Lindisfarne had sheltered, with Cuthbert, home, as Osthryth had soon discovered, to a she-bear and her cubs.

And now, here he was, her brother Uhtred. Not the pagan sworn to Alfted, no. Her other brother, Uhtred, born to her uncle and her mother, her mother's last act in the world, so it turned out.

It was not young Uhtred's charge towards her, sword out which unnerved her, though it was a challenge on the edge of her mind, one which she would have to deal with very soon.

No, Osthryth's nervousness came from her desire for this meeting to go well. Whitgar was her brother, too, her last place to visit before returning to Alba - if at all. Constantine knew her well enough: Ceinid had accompanied her to the Tuide river border at Candlemas, she had crossed to Caer Ligualid overland, watching the lie of the land - her land; Northumbria, and she had a letter for Constantine from Guthred.

The land was peaceful now. When Danes came, they sailed further south; Lunden and the east; but they got no rest from Edward: the West Saxons were securing land season after season, under the bilateral arrangement with Aethelred. Osthryth smiled when she thought about the lord of Mercia, Aethelflaed's husband. He could have been the next Offa, had not Alfred's reputation diminished his skill and defense of his realm. Defense was more necessary to the west, at the Maerse and beyond Chester, where the Norse were sailing for refuge, and the chance of land because of Flann Sinna's ruthless policy of burning and starvation. And when they got to Mercia and southern Cumbraland, Alfred's burh defence policy was achieving the same effect.

No, here in Notrhumbria, the Picts, under their devolved lawholders, the Mormaers, created under Constantine's government reforms, were the main borderlands raiders. Her uncle Aelfric constantly complained of attritive raids which wore down his people who, once recovered from one season's thefts found themselves under raid again.

She was pursuing this for Constantine. She did not want to get too close. While Osthryth had no doubt she would be able to defeat Aelfric, she still felt uneasy and renewed her promise to never return to Bebbanurg while Aelfric lived, no matter what Whitgar had said.

And now a horse, carrying her younger brother, was bearing down on her. Uhtred. Not that he called himself by that name any longer. He had travelled to may exotic places and his warriors came from many lands and Osthryth had watched him ride about Bebbanburg and the wider Northumbria, caring for the land.

Now, Osthryth watched him charge at her, his sword raised. And Osthryth stood her ground, her horse clearly used to battle, and stood passively in his path. Only when it seemed that the only course of action was that he would hammer straight into her did he turn his huge black beast from her path. It whinnied, its front hooves kicking up the peat earth under its feet. Osthryth stood firm, her face impassive.

"Who are you?" Whitgar's demand filled the whole air and land and sea. Osthryth did not answer at first, his face stern, lord-like. When she was sure Whitgar was entirely sure he knew, she turned to him.

"Can you not suspect?"

He was so unlike her elder brother - her younger brother got off his horse, and took her rein. Whitgar was darker haired and more slight, broader chested. He inclined his head like he had never had to fight for authority.

"You are my sister," he said, his voice softer, then laughed with realisation, with joy. "Can it truly be you?" He slid from his saddle, taking his rein in one hand with hers, then extending one of his own towards her.

Osthryth was overcome. She remembered her sneaking into Wessex like a thief, and her slowly deteriorating relationship with Uhtred which had sunk to undisguised hatred. She took Whitgar's hand, her boots sinking slightly into Northumbrian soil.

"You have returned to Bebbanburg!" he declared, as Osthryth took a step back. She was no fool, and Osthryth drew Buaidh, holding her towards Wihtgar.

"Not while your father lives!" she declared. But Whitgar did not turn away, or put up any protest at her words. Instead, he stood watching her. Could it be true that she had met a member of her family who was being decent to her? Never. But Osthryth was prepared to listen.

"I hate my father; you have good reason to hate him, it seems," Whitgar replied, neither protesting at being held under sword point, nor retaliating. It seemed that he was merely waiting for her to back down, which Osthryth did, Buaidh's hilt not inches from her palm. Then, Whitgar offered Osthryth her horse's rein.

"We shall walk. Where do you sleep?"

"Where I can," Osthryth replied. She flicked her eyes to the sea. "And your fortress is under threat - do you know?"

"My cousin?" he asked, resignedly as they paced the earth eastwards.

"Yes. My brother - my other brother."

"When?"

"Imminently." Osthryth looked at her younger brother. But Whitgar shook his head.

"H has already been. As have the Picts."

"Tell me."

And the tale came, of the Picts attacking Bebbanburg with no hope of gaining entry as four or five of Uhtred's men had broken in through the sea gate.

"But I killed him."

"You killed Uhtred?" Osthryth's heart beat faster. This was news. But Whitgar shook his head again.

"Aelfric."

Osthryth stopped walking, and looked at her brother's face.

"Truly? Aelfric dead?"

It couldn't be possible. Osthryth was some years after forty and, for the entire of her life on God's earth Aelfric had been her scourge.

"I escaped your father." Her words came, unbidden, unasked for. Whitgar listened, silently as she spoke. "I ended up in Alba. I owe the king my life."

"Hence your voice," Whitgar smiled.

"My voice?"

"You sound like someone who has had their neck rolled up th their chin, let go and then told to speak Anglish."

Osthryth turned to her younger brother in astonishment. Then, she laughed, releasing all her emotion, anger, frustration built up in her for so long, released by her brother's acerbic sense of humour.

"We share a mother," Osthryth said, at length, as they continued to walk towards Bebbanburg. "She was of Rheged - our line goes right back to the Hen Ogledd, to King Urien."

"Yet, your adopted homeland, the Scots of Alba, will tend to attack Bebbanburg again," Whitgar pointed out, inconveniently.

"Constantine has a long held a tradition passed on in his family that he wants the land back to the wall."

"The land back? It was never part of Pictland to begin with!" Whitgar looked astonished at King Constantine's outrageous ambition.

"I know," Osthryth nodded, quietly.

"You know a lot." Osthryth broke off her walk beside him, and turned to him, blocking his way.

"Which makes you the rightful ruler of all of Northumbria," Osthryth pointed out. "You have the lineal claim, through Gytha."

Whitgar said nothing, to begin with. Then, he looked past Osthryth, and to the fortress, once named for one of their ancestors of Ida. Bebbanburg now looked inviting rather than forbidding now, to Osthryth.

"Then, I just have to marry again," he mused. And then Whitgar told Osthryrh that, though he had repelled Uhtred, he had taken Ingulfrid and their son. "What hope do I have now?" he asked, more to himself and God, than requiring an answer of Osthryth. "What purpose my life now?" He looked sharply at Osthryth. "She will be a whore now; my son will be dead."

"To deny Uhtred?" Osthryth proposed, gently. "He will never give up, never. To deny me?" Why she added that last question, she didn't know. But, it made her younger brother stare at her for a moment.

"You wish to challenge me to Bebbanburg?" Whitgar asked, shifting between feet.

"Maybe it is I to whom it belongs," Osthryth ventured.

"I do not know you well enough to know if you joke," Whitgar sighed.

"What do you wish, little brother?" Osthryth asked, kindly as they began to move towards Bebbanburg again.

"What do you wish?"

"I wish to have you hear Constantine's proposal," she replied.

"Why?"

"Because today, it was a ship of his men, to assess the fortress, to seize your family. Another day it will be Uhtred, with maybe a larger army. Make no mistake, Edward and Aethelflaed have taken on the mantle of their father, tunite the kingdoms of the Angles and the Saxons under a West Saxon crown. Constantine merely wishes a treaty."

"Under the name of Saint Oswald, with whom theur ancestors sheltered at Iona and Eireann."

"You know that?" Osthryrh was startled. She imagined her brother as oppressed as she had been at Bebbanburg, cut off from all. Yet, it made sense he had been educated by the Lindisfarne monks: what good was Aelfric's ambition for Bebbanburg if he had not prepared his son to rule after him? It gave Osthryth grim satisfaction that Whitgar's rule was far sooner than her uncle had ever expected.

"Of course I know our family story, Osthryth," Whitgar replied, severely. "Is it not ironic that Aethelred of Mercia seeks Oswald's body? Ironic that it was Penda who sliced him up to begin with?"

"His grandson, also Aethelred, sent his wife - "

"Osthryth," Whitgar nodded. "Yes, I know."

"And Aelfric was visited by men who wanted Oswald's heart," Whitgar explained.

"Aethelred wants to re-establish insependence," Osthryth told him. "Assuming you wish to retain independence from the West Saxons, he would make a useful ally. He is Uhtred's cousin, through his mother, and hates him as much as I do."

Whitgar did not ask Osthryth why. She would not tell him, even if he asked.

"You wish to know if I would part with it," Whitgar asked, cleverly. He nodded his head towards the sea. "Aethelred is certainly an option worth considering, however, Aethelflaed - "

"If she wasn't pursuing Alfred's dream, she and Aethelred would be separated; they live apart and keep separate households, as it is."

"Yes." Whitgar looked intently at his older sister.

"What would you do?"

"Yes," he repeated. "I would give Oswald's heart. But only if it were you recovering our beloved saint, Osthryth." He smiled. "It would be a kind of symmetry if you were to."

"This is where I go next," Osthryth admitted. "Despite Constantine expecting me to return to Alba, I am rejoining the Mercian army and marching with Aethelred to retrieve our beloved ancestor."

They walked in silence until Bebbanburg was wholly in view. Beyond it, the Farnes, where Saint Cuthbert sought God, and beyond those islands, Lindisfarne.

"Will you not return with me to our home, and - " Whitgar broke off when he saw her expression. Osthryth held up a hand. Her scar was a white patch on her left palm. It had left her permanently lamed, and she screwed it up, gripping Taghd's seax as anger surged through her.

"As I fled, as I rowed, I was not yet 11, and your father told his men to fire on me." The words, part of a story, with no real beginning or end, were shared with the wider landscape of Northumbria, accusingly, with Bebbanburg, as if the fortress could have caused it to be otherwise.

"What did you do?"

"I broke off most of the arrow shaft and rowed on, to Lindisfarne."

"Aelfric is definitely dead," Whitgar reassured her. "I buried him myself. Even if he wasn't then, he will be now." Osthryth shook her head, smiling a little at his humour. Then, she looked determinedly at her brother. "You should remarry and extend the line." But Whitgar shook his head.

"I would return to the Mediterranean," he replied, sadly.

"Then who would have the castle?"

"Can you think of no-one?" This was no empty question. Whitgar had a plan.

"Only Uhtred, but - " Osthryth broke off, as her younger brother stared at her, gravely.

"Me?" Whitgar nodded.

"It would guarantee independence, re-establish our natural alliance to Alba, with the Gaels. You have contacts, relationships there, and in Mercia." But Osthryth shook her head.

"Not me," Osthryth protested. "I have no heirs."

"Yet, you will, one way or another."

"I am more than ten years older than you, Wihtgar! I cannot have xhildren, and even at my age, a woman of my age, and my life...!"

"But you will ally with me to keep Uhtred from Bebbanburg?" he asked. That was it, Osthryth knew. He had established her alliance. Her network was now his, and gladly Osthryth would give it. Besides, she was going to Mercia.

Osthryth looked at the cliffs, which she knew so well, the sea and the sand, and the fortress. Bebbanburg. Once her home. She would give it another chance.

"On God's word, Wihtgar, I will."

88888888

Midsummer 907, Aethelflaed's country estate

The Mother of the monastery was in frantic conversation with the Abbess Hild which brought Hild into a state of emergency whereby she hurried about, finally bringing to children with her to Aethelflaed's estate at Saltwic.

Aethelstan and Stiorra had long known one another, so the journey passed pleasantly. They liked Saltwic and Aethelflaed was always generous to them, with her time, with her hospitality. However today, she was distracted and left Aethelstan and Stiorra in the company of her daughter Aelfwynn, whch was no company at all for them.

In her rooms maps were laid out. On accosting Hild, Aethelflaed drew her over to them. Hild gave them a good luck, though she could not deduce Aethelflaed's urgency with them.

"Bebbanburg," she said, simply.

"Uhtred's home?" Hild finished.

"A woman called herself of Bebbanburg," Aethelflaed clarified, pushing a piece of parchment over to her. "The title declaration of the fortress. It makes it clear that Uhtred was to inherit. It also mentions a daughter."

Folded up inside the titles was another, a piece of parchment which named the woman of Bebbanburg, detailing her marriage, long ago, to Guthred Harthacnutsson. He was clever, the old king of Alba.

Domhnall. Aethelflaed tried, the name on her lips. He knew the power of recording events and housing knowledge, just as her father had known it. So that was where the bitch had been, all that time. Very clever. She pushed the documents towards Hild, who peered at them.

Aethelflaed looked further on. The parchment buckled at one edge, and was a little damaged, but the name of the woman was indeed written there.

Aedre.

Aethelflaed knew, then. Her father had known. Guthred had married her; sbe had fled from Alba; she had fought in both the Wessex and Mercian armies and, grudgingly, Aethelflaed had to admit, had fought incredibly well.

Aedre? The abbess nodded. Osthryth had given her true name to Hild as she brought Beocca's daughter to him.

And now Uhtred's sister was, by the measure of it, setting herself to the very fortress that was Uhtred's by right. She would be there, at Bebbanburg, in alliance with her younger brother, with the Scots on her side, fighting against him, fighting now. She looked grimly back to the parchment again, gratified she had shared the bitch's identity with Hild. It would be a joy to be the one to tell Uhtred of his sister.