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

15. Aethelwold

A/N: To the wonderful writing of Bernard Cornwell - thank you for igniting my imagination. I hope you are enjoying! I dearly would like to know what you think of this fic - would you spare a minute to leave me a review.

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As she crossed the inner wall, guarded well by Steapa's men, nodding her way through to Crepelgate, Osthryth knew she was being followed. Not followed as stalked, or at least, she hoped not. Just the scrunch of feet on dry earth as she went.

Who would have known she was gone? Surely not the aethling, for she had told him he would tell his father he had left, if he dared to come again. Edward said he didn't care, so Osthryth told him she would tell Steapa, which had caused the twelve year old to fall to silence. Besides, when she had looked beyond his door, he was sound asleep, and she wasn't going to be long. Osthryth had left with about an hour of daylight to spare, and would be back by nightfall.

A robber then, or one of the palace guards. Or Aethelwold, though he was usually inebriated and sleeping the sleep of drunks everywhere by now. She slipped into a side passage, between two houses, her boots covered in the blood of whichever animal was slaughtered that day. Few animals were put to the blade in the month before harvest, so she was guessing this household had been caught short with last years winter stores and had to get by with a pig or sheep. She waited. Feet passed by, the scratching came again.

She was not put out about having to fight - that would be easy enough. But she was going to visit a marginalised group of people on the north west of Winchester. Every city had them; Dunnottar had Bach, who had been put to death as a witch, and Sula, her daughter, who had ended her pregnancy. Britons made a living servicing the spiritual and physical needs of a population: Christianity was only a veneer for many and Osthryth wondered how different Saxons were to the Danes and Norse, who openly worshipped their gods: many Saxons seemed to wear the veneer of Christianity, like a best set of clothes. The Saxon church was different here, different to Alba. Osthryth barely remembered services at Bebbanburg, but knew well the Irish church, its silences, its welcomes to travellers by washing their feet, its decentralised leadership and the way priests grew their tonsured hair long at the back, to their shoulders, with a bald pate.

Osthryth was here to see whichever Briton could supply her physically, could sell her the roots she needed, lily, tansy and also terabinth, that effective healer of wounds. She had brought the two silver coins that Alfred had given to her, and more besides from the stable.

There it was again, a scritching, and a figure passed on the road. Looking up, the evening sky shone on beams Osthryth could climb, and climb she did, until she reached the thatch, wondering, not for the first time, that birds must have this view every day.

How long to wait, thay was the question. Her mind drifted to Uhtred's straw thatch, and wondered whether he knew the silver had gone. How did she think she was going to feel about her brother? Different to how Osthryth knew she felt now. Maybe her dream was a child's dream, about rescue and safety.

Chancing to leave, she made her way towards the still-orange band of sky, dropping down by the outer wall. Marginalised both socially and geographically, Osthryth thought, a mile from the Itchen, and the Test was much further. Lights shone in homesteads. Yes, another veneer of Christianity here, more like the Irish church, and should any of Alfred's men come asking, they could see they were Christians, outwardly at least.

A young girl was playing with a stick by a muddy bank. Clean faced, as all Britons were, she eyed Osthryth with suspicion.

"Sut mae," she tried, "Sut wyt ti?"

The girl stared back at her, dark brown eyes wide, but didn't answer. Osthryth tried again.

"She won't answer you," a voice came from beside the girl. In the mud street a woman, older than Osthryth, but not elderly, black hair plaited down to her waist face unlined and free from the damage of disease, peered at Osthryth. "Even if she could understand you, and I wonder where you learned Cymraeg: I can barely understand you." She glared up at Osthryth.

"Alba," Osthryth admitted. "Strath Clota. Cumbraland." The woman replied to her in Welsh, and Osthryth could barely discern what she said. She did not speak it as Haf had spoken it.

"You want to know where I live?" Osthryth offered, in translation. The woman laughed. There was no humour in it.

"You Saxons think you know everything!" she scorned. "You have driven the tongue from our children by bribing them with schooling in a church and offered them food." Osthryth ignored the hostile, arm-folded woman and leaned to the child again.

"Hello, who are you? I am Osthryth, the Gael," she added, with emphasis.

"Seren," the girl replied, not taking her eyes off Osthryth.

"Seren," Osthryth pursued, "Do you know where your healer lives?" Again the girl said nothing. Then, she turned to the woman beside her. Osthryth took a step towards her.

"You are the healer for the Cymric here?" she asked.

"Who wants to know?"

"I am Osthryth, I work at the palace." The woman screwed up her face.

"I am Osthryth," she imitated in a sing song voice, "I work at the palace."

Osthryth put her hand to Buaidh, and stepped quickly to the woman.

"Let me put it another way," Osthryth spat, "In Saxon, in Anglish, in Gaelish, or in Cymric, or whatever language you like, I am a warror working in the pay of the King, though I am not fussy for whom, I work. I have killed Gaels, killed Picts, killed Danes, Norse, Saxons, Angles and, yes, Cymric. I am a warrior who has silver, and I am looking to buy herbs." Buaidh went "shmm-hmm-hmm" in her scabbard as she withdrew her a lttle.

"Will you sell me - " But the Cymric woman held up a hand.

"I am Ula, healer and wise woman here. And "here"," she looked around the roofs of the shabby, one-storey hovels sitting close to one another that made for the Cymric settlement, "Is not the place to talk."

Smiling at the girl, who carried on playing with her stick, the woman trod past Osthryth and beckoned to her.

"Diloch yn fawr iawn," Osthryth said to the girl, who smiled a little and watched her, turning her head as Osthryth passed. She knows something of the language, Osthryth thought, and it is easy to see I am at a Cymric settlement - silver transcends all culture and tongue.

Pushing aside a curtain, the woman stepped into a house shelved on three sides. A side room was also curtained. Near the back of the hovel a fire was smoking, an acrid stench coming from it.

"I wish to buy roots." Osthryth was direct and to the point. "Lily. Tansy. Terabinth. Narcissus." Ula turned from her course, towards the shelves, jars of many things on them.

"You are with child?" Osthryth shook her head. "But you know what these are for?"

"Lily root for reducing the monthly blood; tansy for the removal of a child. Terabinth for healing." Ula said nothing, but nodded her head for a moment.

"I do not have these," she began. Osthryth pushed her hand inside her shirt and withdrew a good portion of silver.

"I do not have these," Ula insisted, eyes on the silver, "but I can get them." She crossed to Osthryth, staring at the wealth. "It may take me some time to find this, I must ask others I know."

"Then keep the silver as a gesture of trust," Osthryth said, holding out the silver towards Ula. Take what you will. At first, Osthryth thought Ula was not going to take the coins, but she did, and held open the curtain.

"Diloch," Osthryth said, and the woman laughed.

"Few people speak the tongue now. Saxon is what is needed, to live, to get by, to trade. But I do what I can, as do many Britons." She stared at Osthryth quizzically. "You know Britons?"

"Several,"Osthryth agreed. "Britons who live in Cumbraland and Strathclyde. My mother was a Briton, of the line of Urien." The woman's eyes shone for a moment.

"Urien I know," she replied, her voice a little warmer, in Osthryth's discerning. "Taliesin tells us the Britons of Hen Ogledd - the Old North - had banded together to drive the Saxons into the sea. But Urien was betrayed bythe Picts before Caetraech, and the plan failed." She stepped closer to Osthryth, lowering her voice. "I hope when the Britons and the Picts try again, they will have the sense not to betray one another." Then her voice returned to how it had been. "Where is Strath Clota?"

"North of here, near Alba." Osthryth replied. "Like Mercia, the king, Eochaid, would be independent. But King Domhnall mac Caustin of the house Alpin claims the kingdom, and Dal Riata and Pictlans. It is now called Alba."

Ula showed her to the boundary of the settlement. More black-haired children played as she passed and Osthryth listened for the sound before she left, but there was nothing, and nothing as she crossed over into the northern part of the city, followed the river down to the palace and nodded her way past a sleepy Aelfgar. Whoever it was had gone, and she exhaled something of relief to be back in the palace gardens. While she could go where she wished, Osthryth had left the aethling.

But there as a noise behind her as Osthryth got to the part of the palace where the bedchambers were, a stumbling, scraping behind her as she turned onto the corridor, now lit by torches, as the summer sun had dipped and darkness had come at last to that long July day.

Osthryth turned, only to be pushed against the stone wall by two strong hands. It was Aethelwold. His breath stank of stale ale and she turned her head away from him as he pressed her shoulders back. Damn it! She had not been prepared enough, her mind on other things, Osthryth chided herself. In the semi-darkness he was leering at her.

"Come on," Aethelwold was saying, his face close to hers, his nose still at an odd angle where it was healing poorly after her fight with him. "Come on, just one little kiss, and - " he broke off to splutter, then looked back to her, his eyes unable to fix on her, his hand groping for her chest, " - and I could make you Queen..." But Osthryth shook herself away from him.

"I was promised to be made queen by another man once before," Osthryth told him as she wrenched one shoulder free. "Two other men. And do you know what happened to them?" Aethelwold said nothing, but shook his head at her, grinning for no other reason than because he was drunk. "One was killed for his treachery. The other will be killed by me the next time I meet him." She shook her other shoulder free and stalked from him. Aethelwold didn't move. Osthryth was about to leave him and return to Edward, then she turned. "Which one will you be, Aethelwold?"

"I...you will...you will do as I say!" Aethelwold slurred as she strode away from him, then slumped onto the stone floor. Osthryth glanced back. Do not kill Aethelwold," Steapa had said when he had given instructions on how to guard Edward. "But make sure he does not challenge the aethling, otherwise Alfred will be angry.

He was drunk, Osthryth said; she hadn't caused that. But even so, she turned to help the king's nephew, for he was now trying to vomit, and was choking because of the angle at which had fallen. Once he was on his side, Osthryth stepped past him and up the corner, passing the route to the guard room then right to Edward's room.

Edward was awake when she barred his door from the inside, and prepared to lie down in her blankets. His bedclothes were twitching, and though tired, Osthryth sat on the end of his bed. It was not possible that the he could have followed her and got back before her? No. Even if he had run, it would be impossible. So that narrowed it down to everyone in Winchester except for the aethling and his cousin.

"Where have you been?"

"A walk, to think," Osthryth replied. "I notified the duty guards, you were perfectly safe," she added. Edward rolled his eyes.

"I know I'm safe! I'm always safe!" he grumbled.

"Well thank the lord God that you are!" Osthryth bit back. "I was with a prince-in-waiting before, in Eireann who was not safe, who got away from his father's kingdom by the skin of his teeth, and with a lot of favours from allies called at the last moment." Constantine's cousin, Eochaid, would have run him through, in Glaschu, Osthryth was sure, like she was also sure that he and Griogair - Giric, as he had been introduced to them that night, had made a pact to aim for the throne of Alba, eliminate Aed and, if they could, the next two heirs, Constantine and Domhnall. Just like Aethelwold wanted to do with Edward.

"In Alba?" Edward bounced above his covers like a child, and sat, cross-legged by her, his blonde hair wafting in the slight breeze of his bed chamber.

"It was not Alba then," Osthryth said. "It was Pictland, Dal Riata and Strath Clota. It was the prince's cousin's wish to unite the three kingdoms." Domhnall's wish, though he hadn't quite achieved it yet. Her heart beat fast in her chest for a moment, wishing she was back there still, fighting for her king, watching him make his successes and carry out his reforms, being a part of them, rather than reading about them clandestinely, months later, at the monastery. She forced a smile onto her face. "Alba had already done better against the Norse than your father and Ceolwulf and the kings in the North have against the Danes. Of course, the Scottish king has less land to defend, and a lot of the defending was of well-known, difficult to attack territory." Osthryth stretched out her legs.

"Like my father would Englaland, and the Heptarcy," Edward replied, solemnly, his mind awake now, and there would be little to be done to make him go back to sleep until he had asked her what he wanted. Then, maybe, he would rest, and she would not have a grumpy aethling complaining about their fighting drills, or his lessons or his food the next day.

"Better, for there are fewer people amd fewer kingdoms and the Norse can't penetrate inland using the waterways and there are too many hills and valleys, which is an advantage to the Scots, for they can make little wars on the Norse and drive them back to the coastline."

Edward looked more than a little put out by her words, by her implied criticism of his father, and Alfred's ambition. Osthryth saw the look, and frowned.

"He has less land to unify than King Alfred," Osthryth pointed out. "Your father had more to do - has more to do - because his ambition is far greater - " A look of satisfaction was beginning to displace that which had been indignation - " - and the Danes are occupying half of it. The Norse settled but a little where as the Danes much more; the Norse never got a foothold as the Danes have done, only in the far, far north, and some of the islands. It's Eireann they have settled in, and colonised, not Alba," she soothed.

"And there is this land," Edward continued, coming closer to her. "A land called...Straethcleyd? You said it, just now?" Osthryth smiled back to him. "Did you know it?

"Knew it, ate in it, slept in it, fought in it, lost blood in it," she replied. Lost my heart in it, she added, silently to herself.

"Which is how you fight so well," Edward concluded for her. "Aethelflaed would fight: she wishes she were a prince. Aethelflaed was also who told Aethelwold you had left the palace. I listened."

Crept about, listening, more like, Osthryth rebuked, in silence. Aethelflaed. Had it been she who had followed her? Surely not. Not that it mattered. Osthryth could leave the aethling for some things. Besides, Aethelflaed was to be married the day after tomorrow to Lord Aethelred, who really should have been named King of Mercia, and would be gone from Winchester. The guard who had arrived with Lord Aethelred was excellent and Osthryth had met Aldhelm, who had made the perniciously choleric Merewalh break into the first smile Osthryth had seen of him. Odda's guardsman was happy to see Lord Aethelred's advisor, for this was because he was Merewalh's brother in law. Osthryth had a gratifying time as the Mercians and the West Saxons shook hands with one another, Aelfgar introducing everyone to everyone else, including Osthryth. It had made a change from a few hours earlier.

Aethelflaed was busy tormenting her younger brother by hiding his training sword, something for which Osthryth rebuked her for. Outraged that Osthryth had interfered in her cruel game, Aethelflaed reached up to her chest, taking a squeeze.

"You re a woman!" She exclaimed, dropping her hand as Osthryth pulled back, indignantly. "Everyone says so! I thought Aethelwold was lying, but the guards say so too, even Steapa!" Osthryth said nothing, standing still, jaw tense. How close she was to giving this haughty young woman the same pasting she had given her cousin a week before. But that would not go down very well if she had to put on the act of being a shy, fulsome maiden the day after next.

If I had kept the jewels your brother stole from you for me, I know I would wear them better than you, Osthryth thought back, bitchily. But Aethelflaed was busy laughing at her own discovery.

"I am a prince," Osthryth boasted. What had heen Domhnall's words? That she had behaved like a Gael? It was enough. "A Gaelish prince."

"Is that why your hair has been cut short? Because you pretend to be a man?"

"Those who have wronged their master have their hair cut." It was not Osthryth who spoke, but Edward. Damn him for speaking out. Damn herself for telling the aethling in the first place. Aethelflaed's eyes widened in unconcealed contempt.

"What did you do?" she asked, hands on hips.

"Nothing I could help." Osthryth replied, coldly. For, if she had been a man, Osthryth knew, the fight against Brin, Domnall's guard, would have been legitimate.

"What?" This time it was Edward who had asked. Like those of his sister, his eyes shone.

"I killed the man of another lord and fought a fight because of it." Edward noticed her fingers curling over Buaidh's hilt. But Aethelflaed had stood in front of her, her face severe.

She looked across now, to Edward, all lit up and alive with thoughts as he leaned towards her.

"I will fight one day," he declared, as he sat, all alight with determination, as his short sleep had given him fortitude - Osthryth hoped he wouldn't want to spend all night talking to her. "I will fight Danes and build and Englaland with Aethelflaed." Osthryth's heart sank. If he wasn't careful, she would end up downtrodden as a king, too, by his strong-willed sister.

"Must she be included?" Osyhryth asked, knowing the answer.

"Oh yes!" Edward enthused, "She fights better than me!"

"But one day, you will be king," Osthryth explained, "You will he stronger than Aethelflaed, when you are grown to a man." But Edward just smiled back at her.

"I will still need her, and she will need me!" he declared, and Osthryth looked at him for a moment, quietly confident that the nasty, spiteful girl of an elder sister who took his things and tormented and teased him would be by his side his entire life, and a sudden pain crept into Osthryth's heart. She never had that with Uhtred - would never have that; they were both grown now, the opportunity of knowing one another in childhood stolen from them. Beside her, Edward sat up, brightly.

"You will teach me!" He declared, as if he had just worked out a puzzle and was delighted with himself that he had the right answer.

"Steapa Snotnor teaches you," Osthryth replied, patiently. "He is your father's man."

"But you have fought the Scots!" Edward protested, plaintively. "I must fight the Scots, or else...or else my first born son!"

"I have fought with the Scots," Osthryth pointed out, her most beloved people coming to her mind. "And now I am not in Alba. I cannot teach you. Besides, I am your guard - I defend you, until you can defend yourself."

"Yes." Edward looked thoughtful. "But, if I fought you, you would have to defend yourself?" Osthryth smiled. He was as clever as his father.

"Yes," Osthryth agreed. "If your father consents."

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And Alfred, amused by Steapa's suggestion, who Edward had made a conduit for the idea, had agreed, and Osthryth's day was only going to get worse as the king, the royal family and assembled lords congregated in the training quad to watch Edward practise.

This was not how it should go, Osthryth thought, dully. A fight was something you acted to, you built towards, making snap decisions based on experience and guile. Edward was grinning like it was a treat, like he has organised a summer's picnic by the Itchen for them all.

Edward had left his bedchamber at first light, and Osthryth, hungry, had turned up at the kitchen to see what was on offer. Small groups of guards were nudging one another, Osthryth noticed, as she crossed the flagstones and spoke to one of the maids, and it took for Aelffrith to pull her to one side when she had in her hands new-baked bread and a stone of milk to ask her whether it was true.

"Is what true?" Osthryth asked, genuinely surprised.

"That you are going to fight the aethling?" His voice was low, and Osthryth knew whatever she said, her gossipy friend would be gleeful at the news.

"He wants me to fight with him, that's all, so he can be tested. He said he would ask Steapa." Osthryth shrugged, and bit into the bread, its warmth filling her mouth satisfyingly.

"Well, of course, he went to the king for his agreement." Osthryth stared at Aelffrith, glanced behind him at a grinning Aelfgar and at the young warriors, Godwin and Hereward amongst them, and back to his eager face.

"The king has agreed?!" she asked, amazed. The aethling was just a boy; he was learning to be a warrior. But Osthryth was no teacher; she could demonstrate what she knew, of course, if Steapa asked her. But to oppose the aethling?

Not waiting for a reply, Osthryth thrust her breakfast into Aelffrith's hands and tore off to the guardhouse. She found Steapa, head bent over a mailcoat, inspecting the rings.

"Steapa!" Osthryth exclaimed. "Please! Tell me I am not to oppose the aethling." Due to his size, it took a long time for the head of the Wessex household guard to raise his head to Osthryth's gaze, and her desperation to see that he agreed made it seem even slower. Steapa's mouth was in a half grin, and he nodded to Osthryth.

"He is a little too slightly built to wear this; I am in the process of removing some of the length, so it will not be too heavy for him." Osthryth's heart sank. Here, in Wessex? She had fought with Constantine, of course, but she had been smaller herself, then, and he had grown much stronger than her. What if she were to injure him, Edward, the king's eldest son, with such plans for his future, a Danish half-kingdom to win back for all Saxons? Kingdoms to unite?

"No! I - " Steapa held her gaze and Osthryth broke off.

"I have informed the king of the aethling's proposal, and I have advised that he may be in a good deal of danger from a warrior as formidable as yourself." Steapa stepped back from the mail, inspecting its alteration. "You are to begin today, and continue the day after tomorow, for there will be no sword practise on the day of his daughter's wedding." Steapa sounded as if he had memorised Alfred's words, and Osthryth found herself nodding, silently as he continued, "You must not go easy on the boy," he added. "This is an instruction from the king himself."

I must not go easy on the boy, Osthryth thought to herself, as the boy in question stood before her, the otherwise pleasant mid-morning summer sun illuminating the battle ground which was the courtyard of the palace, so everyone might see them.

I must not go easy on the boy, and were I to try to back out of it, Alfred may conclude that, as I do not want the boy to progress, that I am disloyal to Wessex, that Eireann, or Alba, or wherever I come from, has planted me to shelter the boy, so the boy may not learn when he takes the throne.

How fanciful that sounded, Osthryth thought grimly. But it was Aelffrith who put that idea into her mind, and she had stood before King Alfred twice since she arrived in Wessex, and that was twice too often, before his steely, uncompromising glare, expressionless face and domineering intellect.

So now she was drawing Buaidh as the mail-clad boy stood before her, as spry and agile as she remembered Constantine to be. And she would not go easy, for Alfred would know, otherwise.

Those gathered to see this spectacle faded beyond her sight - the king with his lords, Osthryth noticed, including Odda, who smiled at her, encouragingly. Beside him sat Aethelflaed, who was scowling, and scowled more when she caught Osthryth's eye.

Beaming to her right were the Mercian guard, Lord Aethelred seated to their opposite side and Merewalh's brother-in-law, Aethelred's advisor Aldhelm, watching on in interest. Others, too were gathering, but Osthryth knew that if she saw her brother, she would stand aside. This was too much: in no battle ever did spectators crowd around two opponents to watch the battle: this was not a Norse or Danish square; this was not Tara and she was not fighting Domnall's man, Brin, for possession of the sword she was now holding.

Osthryth squashed them all beyond sight and imagined she was on a battlefield, carnage being wreaked where these people looked on. Her enemy was before her, and her job was to disarm this boy in any way that she could before despatching him to God. Buaidh's polished steel dazzled.

"Thou shalt not kill," the Bible told her - Father Beocca told her - and yet there seemed to be, for Christians, the caveat of, "Unless it is for possession of land or wealth for your king." And she would not kill, not today. Yet, she could not oppose Edward, truly, unless she fought with her heart.

It began before Osthryth realised she had begin to scream. Not rushing in was Edward's first mistake: he was casing her out, judging her moves and he was startled at her ferocious cry. Before he had even begun to oppose Osthryth he should have had some idea of the way the enemy would come at him, and he dodged her first thrust, more out of chance than any tactic.

Steapa must have coached him, surely, Osthryth thought, and she turned quickly to see him running at her, sword aloft. Good. He knew how to use ironware, and Osthryth parried the blade away from her, ducking below his arm.

Turning, she faced the boy again, her mind remembering when, instead of fighting against Constantine as a tutor, she would fight alongside him, and learn. She had learned from the best experience that she could: Domhnall had taken the field alongside her and Osthryth, clad in Constantine's armour, had fought the Norse unto Ivarr Loethbroek was in front of him, and he had slain him.

It had been enough to get rid of the Norse, who had slowly drifted to kin in Irland, where she had faced them again, and again at Caer Ligualid. Danes were not much different. And in order to be an excellent, wise, decision-maker, Edward would have to face them too: Alfred would have to put his son out into the field in order for him to learn.

And, he had the capacity to. Even now, stroke after stroke, making little impact on Osthyrth, he was anticipating her move, making imperceptibly tiny adjustments to pace and severtiy, and more were meeting her shield with force.

Osthryth dodged as a blade came between her arm and her head. She didn't hear the audible gasp as those watching saw her twist around, catching Edward around the thigh, and bringing him to ground. The thump was sickening, but the aethling was on his feet before she had turned and managed to thrust his sword towards her: clearly, as Steapa had been explicit with her role in this fight, he had been clear with Edward: give no quarter, and he gave none, as the blade sliced down her forearm, wrenching apart the leather of her jerkin and leaving a trail of blood down one side.

It was nothing: Osthryth fought on, bringing Buaidh's pommel down at the back of his neck, and Edward slumped down. Her heart was thumping so loudly, it almost felt as if it were coming out of her chest as she forced herself to step away from her opponent, fighting with every sinew her instint to turn her sword up the other way and deliver the killing blow.

Silence deafened the courtyard as no-one moved. Edward was still slumped on the ground, and Osthryth watched for signs of, well, signs of life. Had she injured him? She had tried to be as good an opponent as possible while on the other hand, not actually doing any harm.

She looked around for a cue, anything. But nothing came, not from Steapa, not from her guards, nor, cruicially, from the king. So Osthryth stepped towards the aethling, and stooped towards him. She whispered, "And now it is time to go for me, your opponent who had stopped to discover your condiyion, and shown her weakness." She dipped her head further. "Go for me - now!"

Osthryth didn't have to ask twice. From closed eyes on the dry ground to up onto his feet a moment later, the aethling sprung, sweeping a leg around Osthryth's which had her over. Very good, she thought, and told herself that she must remember that one.

Osthryth knew she should roll away, but remained...

Later, many years later, Osthryth would remember that fight, and how, potentially, she could have lost on all fronts. Maybe, aged fifteen, she had learned a lesson all women learned, sooner or later: that you had to give all to everyone, and keep them all happy regardless, with your own needs last.

That was why she knew she was a woman: had she behaved like a man, had she defeated Edward to show she was stronger and more adept at battlework, then she would have pleased King Alfred but put Lady Aelswith against her. Had she, a female, lost easily to ensure Edward was victorious and therefore throne-worthy, then her reputation as a warrior would have been brought into question and she might easily have been pushed aside. Men who failed, they were given a second chance, their failure chalked up to bad luck; women who failed, well: it was inevitable, wasn't it? Never give a woman a second chance and, come to think of it, it was questionable why said woman had been given a chance in the first place...

So Osthryth had chosen intelligence, and had chosen a hard fight and a dirty ending. It was about Edward, after all. It was he who was going to have to face Danes on a battlefield and instruct men to fight for him. Danes did not respect Christian conventions; anything which desecrated the body after death, such as decapitation or dismemberment were favoured especially because they horrified Christians. Edward aethling would have to learn to deal with all of that, and deal with filthy tricks and give no quarter.

Edward swung his sword. It was an armoury one that Osthryth recognised, for she had polished many. It quavered in the air as it reflected the sun's high rays and the aethling brought it around in one arc, slicing through the air. And struck, plunging the metal towards her body.

No coward, Osthryth thought. Don't be a coward. Don't close your eyes - act as if you are incapacitated and death were hastening to your side. Watch, and don't move. See what he will do...

The sword struck with skilled accuracy. Osthryth made a mental note to herself that she must congratulate Edward on this. It plunged into the earth just by her right ear, deep enough that it could hold itself up. Osthryth waited.

And then, there it was, the applause. Edward was beaming from his happy face as the crowd congratulated him, his sister uncharacteristically pulling herself to him, keen, no doubt, to be in his reflected glory. Or, maybe the next day, when she was wed, was dawning that she wasn't going to be calling Winchester her home for much longer.

A hand was thrust her way. Steapa helped her up and Osthryth brushed herself down, glad that little notice was being taken of her as the lords crowded around Edward, his father and mother first with a firm, praising word and hands clapping his shoulders.

"Well done," was all Steapa had to say, which was enough for Osthryth she got to her feet. She had done what he had asked - done what the king had wanted. Her eye trailed after her charge. Osthryth hoped the attention he was getting was enough to raise his courage.

She made her way towards the armoury after that, taking the palace's sword, which Edward had used, with her. She had no further instructions other than to take on palace duties, which meant Edward was with his family. His sister was marrying the next day, so presumably there were arrangements to make and fulful on her last day as Alfred's daughter, before she became Aethelred's wife.

As she got to the gate which led towards the kitchens and stables, as Aelffrith beckoned her over, Osthryth saw her brother and his men stalking across the stones towards the south gate. They had been there, she realised. They had seen her fight. Well, no matter. But Osthryth felt then very glad that she hadn't known.

Someone else who had been watching her was watching her now, crossing the cobbles towards the armoury towards one of her comrades. You will keep, thought the man felt cheated of the Wessex throne, as his trousers tightened around his erection. And, if it's a fight you want, it's a fight you can have.

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Osthryth was in no mood to be around the palace that evening, as a celebratory feast was held in Aethelflaed's honour. Once she had polished every sword under Steapa's responsible hand, she proceeded to the shields, spears, axes and anything else therein. As the evening drew on and the sun eventually dropped behind the horizon, Osthryth crossed to the kitchens for a jug of milk before going over to the stables to begin again the task that the stable hands had already completed.

Aelffrith and Aelfgar were already guarding in the palace's hall and she was glad of that, glad she didn't have to sit through the rhetoric and praise, wishing she was back in Alba where speeches lasted just over two minutes, if they were very long, and drinking was the order of the night. Everything seemed better there, and if she knew she could buy her freedom from Domhnall, which could save her from the promises he had given in her name as her lord, then she would, Osthryth thought. Silver enough, and to do that, no attachment, just to work and earn it.

For Wessex was not her home and, the more she watched her brother, the more it was obvious it was not his, either. Land and wealth were his priority, to be close to Beocca and his adopted sister, and give his family - his second family, for his first had been with Mildrith - security and safety. But eventually, if Osthryth didn't rob it all from him, Uhtred would have enough money to launch an attach on Bebbanburg and go home. Hadn't she decided the same? She had come to Wessex to earn money through fighting

A hand on her shoulder made Osthryth jump as she swept a small pile of dung-filled straw towards the entrance of the courtyard and, just for a moment, she thought it was Domnall Ui Neill. Instead, Aelffrith, merry-faced and mirthful, was proffering ale and bread.

"You have not been to the hall." It was a statement, rather than a question. "Alfred has bidden all servants, all warriors, everyone to sup this night."

I would rather drink the piss of these horses and eat their excrement than honour that daughter of his, who would trick her brother cruelly and think nothing of bullying weaker servants who have no power or influence.

"I have too sore memories of times such as this," she said, vaguely. "It is too much to bear, so I chose to be useful, instead."

"Is there anywhere in the palace you haven't cleaned?" Aelffrith asked, as Osthryth took the bread.

"If there is, tell me, for when I go to my guard duty for the aethling, I do not want my memories to come to me." Aelffrith sat down in the straw.

"My wife made these," he said, as he bit into his own bread. Osthryth, on her way to sit next to him, stopped, and looked down at her friend's face. He wasn't joking.

"Your wife?" He stopped in his act of sipping from his ale flagon and nodded over its rim.

"While you fight to earn silver - and, don't worry, the silver you stole and hid over there - " he pointed to the beam of the stables at whose base Osthryth had dug her hole to put her brother's wealth. Osthryth made to get up, to find it, but Aelffrith pulled her back down. "Don't worry! It is still there, I dug it a little deeper for you. Whatever your secrets are, keep them." He sighed deeply, and looked at the floor.

"For my part, my debt is being paid in Lord Odda's service. I drank," he glanced down at the flagon, then pushed it to one side of him, letting it go, "- not this watered-down palace stuff, but proper ale, like at the "Two Cranes'", and I gambled. So, to pay back what I owed, I gave the only thing I had - my time. The Lord Odda was kind enough to let me do so in his service. Otherwise - "

"Otherwise?" Osthryth prompted, dropping down next to her, suspecting she knew the answer.

"Otherwise," Aelffrith repeated, then drew a line with his index finger across his throat. "I owed a great deal, and Alfred's law requires no debtors, or that the person owed the debt is to choose the method of repayment. Aethelwold was about to choose before Odda intervened."

"Aethelwold?"

"The king's nephew."

"And he was about to choose death?"

"He wanted me to repudiate my wife."

There was that word again, Osthryth noticed. It was Aelffrith who had used it to describe Uhtred's actions towards his first wife, Odda's goddaughter.

"And she works in the kitchens?" Osthryth prompted, feeling aggrieved at the injustice of making a man give up his wife. How could the law, the Christian law, allow it? God, she missed Alba sometimes, and the stricter application of the Gospel through the Irish church. Osthryth bit into her bread again. And that was the second time she had heard of the king's nephew tricking someone. He was angry he didn't have a throne, and took it out on other people. He spent a good deal of his time with her brother, too, Osthryth had noticed.

"She makes good bread," Osthryth said, when the converstion had dropped to nothing. "It is no wonder you married her." Aelffrith turned sharply to Osthryth.

"I would have died for her; I would have done anything. I was trying to buy her out of service, d'you see?" Suddenly, Aelffrith's demeanour of pleasantly, teasingly, gossiping guard who was first with rumour and scandal on his lips was swept aside and in flashed an Aelffrith Osthryth had never seen before: angrily grave. He turned away, and Osthryth placed a hand on his shoulder.

"How long until you are free of your time in service to Odda?" she asked, kindly.

"Seventeen days," he replied. "Then the five years will be up - "

Five years! thought Osthryth in her own mind. What a time to be made to give up your life for the sake of debt.

"And what will you do?"

"Eathel and I will go to Mercia," he replied. "We have no desire to remain in Wessex. I am a good guard, and Merewalh has already said there will be a place for me in the Mercian househould guard.

"And you would leave your home?" Aelffrith narrowed his eyes as if she were moon-touched.

"In a heartbeat. This land has done me no good. I was Aelffrith of Wessex; I will soon be Aelffrith of Mercia." After a heartbeat, his eyes narrowed in the dusklight.

"And whence does Osthryth hail?"

"Nowhere that I know," she replied. "I have spent many years in Alba and Eirinn. But I am from neither of those places. North, somewhere, although I do not know where. I am Lackland."

"Osthryth Lackland, who fought so cunningly this day," Aelffrith remarked, pushing a jar of milk towards her. "Eathel milked the goat herself," he added.

"Cunning? Whyso?"

"Because you gave the aethling the fight he needed and you made sure it looked like he won."

"Looked like?" Osthryth scoffed. "I tried to overreach myself and he took advantage and took the killing stroke! If I had been a Dane then I would have been skewered right through!" Aelffrith narrowed his eyes still further.

"Both you and I know this is not true; most of the people who watched know this is not true. But, if you will deceive yourself..." His voice trailed off to nothing, and he gripped his flagon. If it had been a throat, its owner would now have been choking to death.

"And you lost to Aethelwold," she murmured, as Aelffrith watched the sky fill with stars from the door of the stable.

"I was stupid enough to lose to the most dangerous man in Wessex," Aelffrith murmured, then belched.

"Most dangerous?"

"He fears nothing!" Aelffrith bit back. "He wants nothing more than the throne of Wessex. Beyond that, he has no immediate family, no-one he truly cares for, no-one who truly cares for him. The most dangerous men in the world are those who have nothing to lose. And because they have nothing to lose, they have nothing to fear. And men become little more than playthings to them." He leaned towards her for a moment. "Those who lack a land to love are a little like that, too."

They said nothing more, simply sat beyond the horses as they stamped and sniffed in their equestrian slumber, as torches were lit and put out, as guards changed and people went between the hall and the kitchens. At length, Aelffrith left Osthryth, who then returned to the aethling's room. She was pleased to see that Edward was asleep, and relieved one of Steapa's men, who had been assigned guard duty to the boy.

But Edward was not asleep, and when she closed the door behind her and made to settle under her blanket behind the door Edward called her over to him.

"It's going to be such a brilliant day tomorrow!" he enthused, pleased with the grandness of the wedding and its arrangements, no doubt. "There will be Father Beocca, there will be a speech, and my sister in her gown and the Mercians all stood around in their finery!"

When Osthryth said nothing, he drew back his covers and sat on his bed, head in his hands. Osthryrth sat down beside him and he turned his face to her.

"Is it because I beat you this morning?"

"Is what because you beat me this morning?" Osthryth repeated, at a loss.

"Why you were not at the feast this evening?"

"I was cleaning the armoury, and then the horses," Osthryth reiterated. "It's what happens when you lose to the aethling and show up your commanding officer." Technically. Merewalh, not Steapa, was her commander, and neither of them had made her clean anything. She turned a smiling face to the boy.

"You fought well, very well Edward," she added, and he beamed. "But, you will need to do a lot more practise. You will one day be strong enough to beat me with force alone, but that day needs to be soon. Your father is about to lose one of this children tomorrow, and he does not want you to be defeated by me in the next few months. You also need to use guile."

"I wouldn't have beaten you if you had't let me," he said, his happy mood fading.

"Today, you beat me. That was what the people watching saw. But your father would have known. I am a woman, as you know. You need to be good enough to defeat a woman, soon." Osthryth put her hand out onto his arm, consolingly. "One day you will learn more than I can ever teach you and will be able to beat me with ease. But you must practise, much mroe than you do, and learn all you can. You will never know how the Norse fight, how the Danes fight, unless you practise and perfect every single part of your repertoire. And even then, you will not know what they are like until you face them."

"Is that what you did?" Edward's face was open and receptive, wanting a story, needing to hear something to calm his mind. But instead, against her better instincts, Osthryth told him about the moment she had put on Constantine's armour and fought beside her lord.

"I took what armour I could; I fought even before I had been shown how."

"You must have had great courage." Osthryth looked at him. A boy, well cared for, a royal prince, in a land so highly sought the Danes would never give up. It gave almost guaranteed harvests year by year, even in poor years where, otherwise, a kingdom would starve to the point of being a word in a monastic chronicle, whose fate some future reader would ponder over, wondering where "Hwicce" or "Elmet" really was. Wessex was rich, which was why the Saxons had displaced the Britons in the centuries before. Edward could not possibly conceive of the threat they posed; his father was on the battlefield beside four brothers at about his age, out of necessity.

"I did what I had to survive, and I hope I served my lord well," was all that Osthryth would say, despite the aethling urging for more, and as she tried to settle to rest beside his door, he kept hissing questions at her across his bedchamber.

"You would do well to remember you fight a woman, and you must overcome me to prove that you are kingworthy!"

"But...!"

"Practise!" Osthryth snapped back, and in the end went to sit silently at the end of his bed until dawn, pushing him firmly back onto his feather mattress each time he tried to sit up and talk to her until he went to sleep. It would be no good him being tired all the way throught the wedding, Osthryth thought, and she herself would welcome exhaustion, for it would take her mind of the proceedings, until the time she could guard the aethling again come dusk.

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Though she was smiling, Osthryth thought she had never seen a person look as discontent as Aethelflaed as she was on her wedding day. Not that she had much experience. But Mael Muire had looked positively radiant with joy whilst marrying Flann Sinna at Tara, as radiant as Osthryth remembered her to be when she had called her into her rooms to ask her to collect urchins for their ink for the Ionan gospels, which were to be completed at Kells.

In fact, while she had never seen Mael Muire, Ceinid mac Alpin's daughter less than joyfully assertive over whatever situation she was presiding, Osthryth thought that she had never seen Aethelflaed, daughter of King Alred anything less than self-centredly sullen.

The ceremony, conducted by Father Beocca in Winchester Cathedral - who had himself been wed, Aelffrith had told her the night before, to the Danish woman who was standing with her brother's warriors - was wearyingly long. Beside Uhtred stood a woman in a red dress, who Osthryth had seen before. Gisela did not look like Guthred, and she seemed overcome with overwhelming joy. Osthryth looked a little longer, as the daughter of Harthacnut, cousin to Ivarr, reached down and took Uhtred's hand.

Happiness because of wedding? Remembering her own? Her own had been based around her being brought here awy from their uncle, Aelfgar, for whom Guthred had intended her. Ha, thought Osthryth, the man could not decide everything with marriage, nor could Guthred. Nor still could Domhnall. Why would anyone choose that when they could fight instead?

Many prayers were said for the couple, for their lands in Wessex, for Mercia, that the union should bring forth bounties of children and riches, that their lands should grow together in a political union, and so on, and so forth.

Osthryth, instead, busied herself with reading the tapestry hangings around the chapel's walls, and had got approximately two-thirds of the way through the Old Testament, by her reckoning, before the "happy couple", the king and his lady the nobles and lords all made their way to the large hall, usually Alfred's throne room which Osthryth had organised, along with the rest of the guards, both of Wessex and Mercia.

That morning, a tired Osthryth was aware of, well, to put it bluntly, a not small measure of respect coming her way. Merewalh, for instance, clapped her on the back and told her that, as he was returning with the Mercian guard, he would keep a place for her should she decide she wished to leave her babysitting duty in Wessex; Steapa countered that she was in the employ of Wessex, and she had no leave to transfer to Mercia. Osthryth thanked them both for their confidence in her and went to arranging the tables with Aelffrith and Aelfgar, who was also returning to Aylesbury.

Now, the nobles, the lords and guests were seated at the tables and benches they had laid out and Osthryth was on guard a little way beyond Alfred's table, and was able to find other directions in which to look so she did not have to see Aethelflaed's sour face, which she was busy displaying when she thought no-one could see her.

"You there boy!" Osthryth looked to one of the tables near the centre of the hall. A lord was half-standing and pointing to his tankard. "Yes, you, boy!" He exclaimed, when he saw her looking. "Bring me wine!" Osthryth nodded, and turned to one of the maids, who was carrying a tray, on it contained a flagon which, on inspection, did indeed contain wine. She stepped towards the lord, who was holding his stone high, and she poured out the last of it, returning to her place, and giving the wooden flagon to another maid, who was heading back out into the passage between the hall and the kitchens.

"How long is this going to go on!" Osthryth turned as Aelfgar smiled at her, disguising his grumble with a sleight of hand as if trying to tell her the passage was clear of any threats there might be to the wedding breakfast.

"I know," Osthryth said, pointing towards the passage herself, "I'd rather be doing the stables!" At which point, Aelfgar grinned, and scanned the guests. "I know where there are bigger turds!" But his face fell quickly, and Osthryth realised there was someone behind her. She turned, and found herself face to face with Aethelwold.

"Lord Aethelwold!" Osthryth exclaimed, the nobleman's face leering close to her own. "If it is wine you seek, I sent the last empty flagon back to the kitchen, and - " She broke off as Aethelwold gripped her jerkin, walking her quickly towards the door to the outer passage, his glare one which made Osthryth more than a little concerned. She had only ever encountered Aethelwold drunk - now, he did not look drunk. He looked furious.

"Where are we going, my lord?" She asked loudly, hoping that Aelfgar might hear. He frogmarched her down the corridor and slammed her against one of the stone wall. They were out of sight of the doorway, and pressed he held her against it.

"You act as if you are innocent," he began. His breath, usually reeling of stale ale, was cool on her neck. "I know you commune with pagans." Osthryth said nothing as king's nephew leered at her, only cursed her stupidity. She should have gone back that night that she had gone to buy roots the moment she suspected someone of following her. What was it that Aelffrith had said? The most dangerous man in Winchester because he had nothing but his single-minded ambition and had nothing to lose? What did he really want?

"Should he know, my uncle would have you hanged as a witch," he continued and Osthryth soon found out: when shuddered at the memory of Bach, she realised he had moved closer to her.

"However," Aethelwold continued lightly, his demeanour changing like the weather on a spring day in Northumbria, "When I am king - " He pushed her up against her body with his own, "It will be of no consequence to me."

Osthryth was surprised to be able to push Aethelwold easily to one side and step towards the hall's door once more. Her hand imperceptibly hovered over Buaidh. But the man was fast and he had her pinned against the wall in a heartbeat.

"I do not know what you think, my lord, " Osthryrth said, making her voice consciously loud so as to hopefully be heard by someone, at least, in hall as her pulse quickened. She tried to control her breathing, get back into control, so the next move she made was a sensible one. "I am the aethling's guard, nothing more."

Admit nothing, Osthryth told herself sharply. Admit nothing, ask for understanding for nothing. This man works for his own amusement. Just like the time he sprang into her fight and attacked his own cousin, to see what she would do. As Aethelwold made a grab for her once more, Osthryth stepped aside.

"I guard his life with my own, nothing more," she repeated, and watched as Aethelwold smiled that reptilian smile of his, but did nothing, as Osthryth turned and made to stride back to the feast.

Nothing, at first. His swiftness was unnerving, and just as Osthryth's thoughts turned to service in the hall, she found he was holding her against the palace wall once more. Looking about, Osthryth shuddered as she felt his hand wandering to her chest, trying to feel for her breasts, and that that same trapped feeling came over her, which she had first experienced when she had overheard Domhnall discuss his plans for her with Constantine.

"Ah, but I could make you queen," he purred, and his handsome face crinkled into what he must have thought was an alluring way. Osthryth said and did nothing, for a moment, as his hands began to work their way down her body, then all of a sudden, ducked under his arm, and strode back towards the hall.

She was aware of heavy footsteps behind her, and she took her place opposite the lords' table, scanning for wine to bring, food to offer, anything that would give her opportunity to be visible, to be useful. Her heart was beatong fast; Osthryth knew she could not have attacked Aethelwold in broad daylight: he was royalty after all, and she could get in trouble for it. Yet, Alfred had found out about the silver, and his nephew would undoubtedly go to his uncle and claim she had attacked him, perhaps even so. He was dangerous, and Osthryth would now have to make sure she did nothing to anger him, nothing to provoke him, do nothing that could even be interpreted as a slight towards him.

"What was that?" Aelfgar hissed to her, nudging his head to the passage, and again to Aethelwold, who sauntered lazily back into the hall. Osthryth fixed her eyes on her comrade, so fiercely that Aelfgar looked away for a moment.

"Nothing I can't handle. He wasn't drunk for a start, which was a little concerning."

"You're shaking," Aelfgar commented.

"It's a cold day," she replied, in defiance of the evidence of the bright, hot sun streaming through the doors and windows of the

"You can go," Merewalh told Osthryth said to Aelfgar who, after a backwards glance at Osthryth, raced off to the kitchen, one of the maids havinh caught his eye, Aelffrith had told her. Aelffrith himself, standing opposite her, on the other side of the hall, twinkled at one of the serving women, who smiled deeply back. His wife, Eathel, Osthryth wondered. Beside her, a voice made her start. "You too, Osthryth." It was Merewalh, and he was merry again. She was astonished at his change of demeanour, what being in the wrong place for the wrong circumstances could do to the manner of a man. Odda would soon be losing two of his guards. But, the kind-hearted lord would soon have more: Hereward and Godwin were shaping up well, and would soon be valued members of the guard.

Instead of heading to the kitchens, Osthryth made her way slowly out through the palace gardens. It was the hot summer air making it difficuclt for her to breathe, Osthryth tol herself, not her encounter with Aethelwold, and she began to walk, her walk taking her beyond the palace gates and out into Winchester's market square.

At the centre was the large stone cross with kneeling places around it. The ground fell back as one of the roads headed south, towards Hamptun, and behind her the great cathedral which sat adjacent the palace, in which the wedding had just taken place. There were few people around.

Many had been outside the cathedral, a huge crowd to display their happiness and joy for the newly-married couple and Alfred had made a speech about a union between Mercia and Wessex, quite omitting he had been forcing Mercia's hand for many a year, displacing Ceowulf's rule as the Lord of Mercia by over-writing ancient laws of that land with duplicates of those in Wessex.

If there was going to be an alliance, it needed to be equitable between those lands. This did not please many in Mercia, but they had more pressing concerns, namely the Northmen on the border of the Humber and across east, through the Pennines and to the Wirrall. They incurred and Alfred sent men. There was rumour that even the Mercian Record, that centuries-old book containing the history of the kingdom, had come south and was in Alfred's library. It had not been seen in ten years. The Northmen were a blessing to Alfred's expansionist plans into the rich lands of Mercia, as well as a curse.

Yet, by the look on Aethelred's face that day, Aethelwold was not the only one who coveted the crown of Wessex, and while Alfred might have thought he had gained Mercia by stealth, some, including the Lord of Mercia, may think entirely the other way round.

Thinking about the all-but-invasion-by-alliance of Wessex into Mercia filled Osthryth's mind as she made a circumnavigation through the streets of Winchester, with the aim of ending back up at the cross and back into the palace for the remainder of her day's duty. It was easier to dwell on someone else's.

Had the Hen Ogledd felt like that? When Rhienmelth had married Osthryth's ancestor, King Oswy? Had Rheged felt that Bernicia had invaded them, or that they had expanded back to the eastern sea and regained the terriory lost to his great-grandfather? Had the Cymric there planned a second battle of Caetraeth to overcome the Sais and drive them back into the sea? Were they wise enough no not to trust the Picts this time?

Beside the kneeling cross, Osthryth sat, on a low wall that separated the palace from the commercial buildings, watching the few people who were there, some heading between the narrow streets to the alehouses; a few older men and women buying all manner of food, for the harvest was in.

Beside the western entrance of the palace Osthryth noticed a group of warriors sitting together. One of them seem to be lounging, another standing beside him. As she watched, it was like a different world unfolding to her, like the days she had spent on the Bebbanburg moorland above her fortress home. Nothing much seemed to be happening between the blades of grass, but the more still you were, the more the tiny kingdom of insect opened up and she would be looking at a life-land all of its own.

Osthryth soon detected her brother; he was the lounging warrior. Before him was a woman with her son, and in the midday brilliance Osthryth could make out that it was Aelfburh, the Two Cranes' employee, deep in conversation with the warrior her brother called Sihtric. And now a man was approaching, one who seemed to be a monk, dressed in a rough woollen robe tied with a rope, his pale hair around his head. He seemed to be in deep conversation with Uhtred, who was now standing up, and seemed to be insisting the monk leave them.

But the man was insistent, gesticulating to Uhtred, and then to himself, and then to the palace. Uhtred kept trying to still him by waving his arm towards him, but at last the monk got his way and was allowed to approach them, and they continued the conversation in the space between them.

That was them all, Osthryth thought, as she looked across to her brother again. All of his men were there, and Steapa had come behind them and was addressing Uhtred. She made to get up too; she had probably been away long enough from the hall.

But she had not counted correctly. For, when she got to her feet, Osthryth felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned quickly, but not quick enough to raise Buaidh, and her brother's Irishman put a finger to his lips, shushing her.

"I know you followed us that time Sihtric was after yer," the Irishman was saying, as Osthryth glowered, hand halfway to Buaidh. "Why?"

"You sang an Ui Neill song. So did I. So I'll ask yuh again, why?" Osthryth relaxed a little, and instead of withdrawing her blade, folded her arms in front of her.

"I heard a tongue I recognised," she said, hoping it sounded genuine. Finan's face flickered with recognition, but did not move away.

"You are a long way from home," Osthryth replied, her hand this time reaching down for Taghd's seax.

"As are you, Gaelish - woman," Finan offered. "Bean n'an Gaileage." Osthryth nodded her head slowly, but did not correct him.

"And you?" Osthryth asked, looking into his pale blue eyes. She had seen eyes like those before. "Are you of Eireann?"

"I was," Finan replied, not moving out of her immediate vicinity. "And you?"

"I am Lackland, once in service to a King, in Alba. "

"Aed?" Finan's eyes narrowed, thoughtfully.

"Who died, and whose throne was taken by Eohaid and Griogair." How strange it all sounded, like a story from another life, like a veil pulled down between Wessex and Alba, which she had sailed through with Ulf and Gert. "My lord died, so I turned mercenary." It was as true as Osthryth was ever likely to admit.

"So you followrd us because of my beautiful voice," Finan postured, disbelievingly.

"I did. " She glanced over to Uhtred. Finan followed the path of her gaze, before she pulled it away and back to him.

"You have a soft position here," Finan proposed, smiling a broad smile. "Guarding the aethling."

"I have known worse, it is true," Osthryth agreed.

"And you fought the prince well yesterday." Osthryth felt her heart glow, but she fought to maintain dignity.

"Tapadh leat, mo thighearna." At her words of thanks, addressing him as a lord, Finan threw back his head and laughed.

"Chan eil mi thighearna! Tha e thighearna." He pounted to Uhtred. Then, he inclined his head towards Osthryth's ear. "I saw Aethelwold speaking to you earlier."

"Yes." Osthryth replied, curtly. She had felt unnerved by Aethelwold, but here, in the bright light of a high summer's day, with people going about their business, her fear seemed much diluted.

"Tha mi duilich." Finan was sorry, he said.

"Well you cannot help his behaviour, can you?" Osthryth looked into his eyes. Osthryth had never met him, of that she was sure. Yet, Finan's face looked familiar.

"I could murder him, the little turd - " he replied, but broke off, and nodded to his lord as Uhtred approached them, with the warrior, Sihtric, who had chased her over the matter of her speaking to Aelfburh. Sihtric looked abashed, and when he turned to try to protest something to Uhtred, her brother shook his shoulder and gestured in Osthryth's direction.

"He has something to say to you," Uhtred announced, as Sihtric looked remorsefully at Osthryth. Osthryth looked back at him, waiting. It took two deep sighs, and a glare from Uhtred for the warrior to speak.

"I am sorry for our disagreement." He said, baldly. Osthryth felt a smile flicker at her mouth, at the absurdity of the situation. Clearly, he must now know that she was a woman, and unlikely to be a rival. Uhtred shook his shoulder, and Sihtric shuffled his feet. But, Osthryth replied before the young man could expand.

"I think Aelfburh saw something there is not between us." Sihtric nodded his dark head, glaring at her, but said nothing. "She is a very beautiful woman."

"Yes," he agreed, then picked up his head, defiantly. "And I intend to be married to her," he shot back. Osthryth bowed her head in acknowledgement, cleary it had taken a bit of courage to approach her over matter of the heart, courage, and the will of his lord. Osthryth could have teased him about it, but frankly,she was relieved. Aelfburh would hopefully have a home now, and wouldn't have to whore, and Osthryth would be able to go to the Two Cranes for a drink unmolested.

"So, that is an end to it." Uhtred looked to Osthryth, who nodded, and she watched her brother turn, hand still on Sihtric's arm as the young warrior looked back over his shoulder, giving Osthryth a frown.

"So, that's sorted out, then." Osthryth looked up to Finan, who grinned, and began to follow them. Then, he turned too. "Tioraidh an drasta!"

"Tioraidh," Osthryth called back, glancing back to the palace. They were going inside, and she watched them step through the gates. Making to go too, she looked in their direction again and caught Finan looking across at her once more.

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"Wine is needed! Are you not the one to bring it?" Aethelred's voice called to her across the hall. WIne had indeed been drunk, and she located Aelfgar, and decided to stick with him for the rest of the night.

"A walk," was Osthryth's reply when he'd asked where she'd been, and concern had crossed his features for a moment. From one of the tables near the doors to the kitchen a flagon, freshly filled, stood waiting to be poured.

"Indeed," Osthryth replied, pacing over to the wine.

"Wine will come when we are ready, Aethelred," Uhtred shouted across to him. Room had been made for Uhtred, and his warriors had been found benches. When she brought it, Osthryth caught him glaring at the Lord of Mercia as she poured it.

"I was impressed by how you handled Edward," her brother said to her, as she retreated.

"Thank you." That was praise enough. To be praised by a lord before other lords. It did not touch her as it should, though - he was her brother, and Osthryth wondered now as she had wondered earlier that day that she did not feel the surge of happiness she thought she would feel when her brother spoke to her, nor even when praising her for her warrior-skill. She caught Finan's eye as she turned, and returned to guard duty near the door.

"He hates him," Aelffrith hissed, as Uhtred turned on Alfred's new son-in-law. "He is his cousin. His aunt married the Lord Uhtred's father, moving to God knows where, up in the north.

"Interesting," Osthryth murmured, as her mind raced. This, she didn't know; not of their father's first wife. Which made Uhtred part-Mercian, as she, Osthryth, was part-British, of Cumbraland.

An hour went by, as Aelffrith regaled her with different alliances and feuds amongst the lords, until night began to chase the day into the western sky, a line of orange-red underlining the horizon in its vividity.

"You need to go on duty at the gates," Merewalh told her, tapping her on the shoulder. "Godwin and Herewald are there, and they need watching. One of them is bound to try to go to sleep" He lowered his head to Osthryth's ear. "If they aren't trained when the lord Odda is ready to leave, well - they'd just better be!" Osthryth felt herself nodding. It would be shameful of them all. If they were asleep, a bucket of cold water would be the least of their worries if Merewalh found out; garderobe duty for the next fortnight would clear their minds. Yet, the darkness brought a chill to her body that was nothing to do with the soft dusk air.

"I am not with the aethling?" she willed. Her eye drifted over to Edward, who was busy engaged in a discussion with one of the Mercian lords.

"Steapa is to guard him for the moment; some of the Wessex guards are sick and we are covwering more than one duty. So to it, up the ladders." He took a glance contemptuously at the flagon being replaced by one of the maids on the table beside her. "No more bloody wine pouring; it is demeaning for a soldier."

"Sick," Osthryth whispered to herself as she got outside. That was a new name for it. Out ceebrating promotions or redesignations to other armies. Consoling one another for being passed over for promotion.

Contrary to Merewalh's expectations, Hereward was one end of the parapet overlooking Winchester's city square, chatting quietly to Godwin, who was at the other. Perhaps they were pleased they were being trusted to be going to Devonshire with the lord Odda; it was a cushy role, after all; little happened in the country, and when it did, it happened in a slow and sedate manner. If they were unlucky, they might be posted with guard to the northern coast to guard from raiders, or to the very south to liaise with traders from Cornwalum, their neighbouring kingdom - though it was meant to be part of Wessex now - or from Frankia, bringing wine and cloth, to sell for copper, tin, wool and stone.

"What's in the bucket, Osthryth?" asked Hereward, when he saw the bucket in her hand. Osthryth grinned.

"To wake up guards asleep on duty," she retorted.

"Who would blame us?" Godwin answered back, cheekily. "Anyone who might attack Winchester are in there, drinking."

"Are you telling me there are Northmen in the palace?" Osthryth was enjoying herself. The look of confusion passed over Godwin's young face for a moment, and then he looked terrified as she bore down on him. "Are you telling me you are derelict in your duty, Godwin, that you have allowed enemies of the king into palace?"

"Who would creep up on the palace tonight!" Hereward answered back, hands on his hips. "On an important night like tonight?" He yelped when he got soaked in the cold well water that Osthryth had brought with her.

"A king was anointed the night I jumped from a parapet not much higher than this one!" Osthryth growled back, bearing down on him. "The king, anointed, and his so-called allies - creeping up to the monastery!"

"Doesn't sound very likely." Godwin was in the mood to try to out-argue Osthryth and back up his friend by sneering at her, but found himself pinned up against the wooden bars of the railings by Osthryth's right arm, her left hand raised to thump him.

"Doubt me, do you?" She snarled in his face. "I jumped; my best friend jumped..." Her heart beat hard as she remembered Taghd taking on two of them. "We disarmed them..."

"Oh yeah?" And that's why Hereward ended up with the punch that had been intended for Godwin.

"You haven't lived, little pups!" She shouted. "You...!" Osthryth backed away from Godwin as she hauled Hereward to his feet. "Those allies did indeed turn out to be enemies; no honest person creeps up to their friend's celebration. So - " She pushed him towards the railings, nearly making him topple over. "Stay there, and you - " She hauled Godwin to the other end, " - there. Now, until you are relieved, don't answer me back. Or I will personally ask to replace you in the lord Odda's guard; I could do the work of both of you and still have time to spare!"

Osthryth waited as Venus butted across the evening sky, as the moon rose and at two sullen, but chastened young guards, who were standing, statue-like and staring down into the darkened streets. They had no idea, down here, none. No clue of life other than a soft life. Where her heart soared with the Sidhe-inhabited lands in Alba and Eireann, there was nothing here, just chalk-softened water and fertile soils. Even the Britons hadn't put up much of a fight, it seemed, when the West Saxons had settled here. At least Hen Ogledd had challenged, and had kept on challenging Bernicia and Deria, settled as they had been by the Saxons of Lincolnshire, her ancestor - Ida - having beat a path north for land, for whatever reason. Which was why her namesake had sent to be buried her uncle, Saint Oswald, at Bardney.

Leofstan, a guard under Steapa, came to relieve her as the night grew heavier, and she descended the steps to the courtyard, leaving the two young guards, silent and fixed, for him to deal with.

The celebrations were continuing in the hall, and she headed to it. Food was still being sent, and as she drew nearer, she could see many of the guests still drinking and eating. Was Edward still there? Surely he had gone to his bed by now?

But she never got as far as the door to find out: Aethelwold, who had watched her progress from the ramparts, took her by the shoulder.

"Ah, the warrior witch," he slurred, as he backed her into one of the hall's hard walls. If he hadn't been drunk before, the king's nephew had certainly made up for it now.

"Continue to say it, Lord Aethelwold and you may not wake up." Osthryth, who had been growing resentful as she had brought to mind Alba, was in no mood to be equanimitable.

"Are you not supposed to be with my cousin?" He pushed her back harder, gripping her right hand, so that she could not reach for Buaidh.

"Aethelflaed? Hasn't she gone to her bed by now?" She was provoking him, and at that moment, Osthryth didn't care.

"The little whelp of a shit who Alfred is raising to be the next king, to take my place." His breath stank and Osthryth tried to turn away, but Aethelwold forced her chin back to his own leering face. Osthryth was expecting the press of his body and was ready to knee him in the balls, but a lightless came to his body and he was hauled away.

"Aethelwold, s he is just trying to do her job, alright there's a good fella." Behind him, Finan had both hands on the nobleman's shoulders. But Aethelwold wasn't finished yet.

"So you agree she is a woman, Irishman?" FInan turned to Osthryth.

"Do you want me to knock him out fer yer?" He asked, squeezing Aethelwold's shoulders, and the man winced in pain..

"Not tonight," Osthryth replied, glaring back at Aethelwold, holding her head back to the wall, as she relaxed her neck muscles; her next move was to have been headbutting Aethelwold in the nose. No-one wouldn't have believed he hadn't fallen, the state he was in. Instead, Aethelwold leered at Osthryth and was promptly sick all down himself and over the flagstones. Osthryth stepped to one side.

"Moran taing," Osthryth said, as Aethelwold stalked away. Finan nodded his head at her and turned.

"'S e ur beatha," he replied, "Caileag. 'S e ur beatha."

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A fortnight later, Aethelflaed gone from the palace with Aethelred and the Mercians with just a small household guard under Aldhelm, Lord Aethelred's most trusted advisor, and Osthryth realised she was coming to value her teaching Edward the Aethling.

She would wake at dawn from her place beside his door and wait until he was awake, escort him to brewakfast and then go out to the training ground beside the hall to begin their sword skill. He was certainly improving, and Osthryth could glimpse a figure every so often at the window, which she guessed was his father overseeing his progress.

However, that morning their training was interrupted by Steapa, and Edward was brought away.

"You may take the afternoon off, Steapa told her, "The aethling is to be with his father in the scriptorium until sunset." Osthryth was grateful for that. It was just after harvest and the weather had turned sultry. She needed to bathe, and had, on her walks around Winchester on nights she couldn't sleep, had identified a secluded place upstream near where she had once camped sharing the she-wolf's shelter.

After noting she needed more lily root to brew to prevent her bleeding, she nodded to Godwin, who had, once again, been given a privileged position above the ramparts of the palace, one which, this time, he was relishing by flirting with any young women who were passing by. Osthryth shouted up to him that, if he wanted to be remembered as the guard who let in Danes for want of watching properly, he should carry on.

"Probably doesn't mean you, lord," Finan said, with a chuckle, as Uhtred and his men passed across the street.

"That's because I'm a Saxon, born," Uhtred snapped back. He was irritable, because he was going to have to leave Gisela again, as there were reports of the Norse Thurgilson brothers in Lundene and Alfred would be calling on him to go there to prevent their takeover. He nodded, however, at Osferth, who now, with Osthryth still in sight, turned on his heel and began to follow her.

He did not, however, expect to be following her as she doubled back on her way to the river, heading north, and finding herself in Crepelgate, nor did he expect Osthryth to be behind him as she slipped into the Briton ghetto and Osthryth froze when he found a knife at his throat, a Seax, if he had cared to notice.

Osthryth had learned from the last time what the tread on a stone or the creak of a plank might mean and she had drawn Taghd's seax silently and Uhtred's youngest oathman was trembling under its blade. Osthryth noticed with satisfaction that he looked terrified.

"Tell me why you were following me, and I may let you live. May," Osthryth emphasised, making sure the blade was touching the skin on his neck.

"My lord sent me," Osferth quavered, looking across to her, then as down to the straw-strewn street as he could manage with his head forced upwards.

"Your Lord?" She thought back to the feast, and remembered how he had knelt before her brother on the steps outside the palace. "Uhtred?" Osferth nodded, carefully. Osferth nodded, a gesture which was halted when the blade pricked his skin.

"You? Are you not a monk?"

"I was a novice; now I am a warrior."

"You don't look like a warrior to me." She stepped away and looked at his form, and down towards his back. "Nor a monk: where's your hair?" Osferth's hair was short with a bald patch at the back, not bald all over with hair falling down to his waist. "Your hair is wrong; your robes are not coloured."

"We wear whatever we can find; whatever poor cloth the church has." Osferth sounded more nervous about his appearance than the threat to his life. "And, oh, you mean the Irish church!" he exclaimed, raising a hand to his head. "No, we are the one true church, the Roman church."

"The Irish church is the Roman church," Osthryth bit back, affronted. "And are you still the son of the king? Is Aethelwold triying to kill you, too?" OSferth gave her a crooked grin.

"I don't think so."

"So, why is Uhtred trying to find out where I go?"

"I don't know," Osferth lied. Osthryth knew it, too.

"If it's because I'm a woman, I am in no way interesred," Osthryth said, resheathing Taghd's seax.

"He is happily married...I think," Osferth protested, looking uncomfortable at where the line of conversation was going.

He looked it, Osthryth thought, ignoring Osferth's amazement at her sex. At the palace, at the wedding. He may also know about thre silver and catch me using it, or stealing it from somewhere else, Osthryth added, in her mind. I am glad I used only two silver coins - that would be explainable. Though, if he were to press her, she would have to admit she had come twice, and had more than two silver coins in her possession. She drew back Taghd's seax and it rang with cleanliness as it slipped into its fleece-lined scabbard.

"What?" she snapped, suddenly, when she realised Osferth was gaping at her.

"You are a woman?" he asked, amazed.

"Is that what he wanted to know? Is that what the Lord Uhtred wanted to know? Because I am almost certain he knows me t be." Osferth clammed up and took a step back from her, nearly tripping over a young British child who was playing with a stick.

"I...don't know...to see where you went, I think."

"What are you going to tell him?"

"I didn't see you," Osferth stammered. Osthryth put her hands on her hips.

"We both know that's a lie; he wouldn't have had me followed otherwise, and he will know."

"Mh-hm," Osferth managed. The seax had appeared again in her hand. Then she let go. What had he wanted to join her brother for, anyway? He didn't look much like a warrior; he had a sword but made no attempt to use it. Was this mission a way of testing him?

"What's your name?" Osthryth asked.

"B- brother Osferth," he stammered. "Warrior Osferth, now, really."

"And, is the king really your father?" Warrior Osferth nodded.

"Tell me why you wanted to be a warrior, with the Lord Uhtred," Osthryth demanded, her voice sharp and loud. "Why him?"

"Because," Osferth replied, not looking at her, "My uncle, Leofric, was his dearest friend. My mother sent me to a monastery because my f- the king commanded it."

And now my brother is trying to rile the king for his own amusement by taking you on and trying to make you into a warrior, the most unlikely candidate for warriorship in the history of the world. Even Anndra had tried to wield a sword at the Battle of Doire and had caused damage to a good few Norse before his demise. Osthryth's heart softened a little.

"And you will tell Uhtred, what of me?" Osferth just stared at her, shaking his head slightly but did not reply. Good move, Osthryth thought. For he probably watched me fighting, and would know I could discover whatever he would tell Uhtred. And if he told her he would be saying nothing, Osferth knew she would discover if he had not.

Osthryth took a step towards Osferth, and he flinched. She made an attempt to smile what was, she hoped, a reassuring smile. "Tell him the truth: say I went to the Britons for medicine," Osthryth corrected his story, "I fought you, I got away."

Osferth nodded in agreement, and flinched as Osthryth withdrew Buaidh. He took up his own sword as she nodded to him. "Hold your sword closer to you and swing from your shoulder," she counselled. "You will find it easier." He swung it, and Osthryth nodded, before striking her own sword at his. Osferth cringed, and remained crunched up even when Osthryth put Buaidh away.

"The Lord Uhtred will not believe your sword was used unless you have a mark or two on it," she advised. "Look, Buaidh is away."

"Buaidh?" As he slowly put his own sword back in its scabbard, he repeated the name of hers.

"It means "Victory". I was asked to name it before a king. I won it, in a fight." Osthryth glanced down, admiringly at the weapon. "It is a good name; she has not betrayed me yet.

"Good day to you, lady," Osferth said, dipping his head as if Osthryth really was a lady. A couple of older British children laughed.

"Warrior," she corrected. "I am no lady, believe me." Osferth nodded again, and then he turned and strode away, towards the river.

Osthryth's hand patted Buaidh's scabbard, and then she climbed up onto the nearest part of the wall, and watched him pass down towards the river then turn west and head towards the city. At least that part was true, Osthryth thought, and then she clambered down again and went in search of the British healer.

Ula had the lily root and she imbibed a steeping of it there an then. It tasted different compared to that prepared by poor Bach in Dunnottar. It would reduce her monthly blood to practically nothing, and reduce the burden in her bag brought with her and still hidden in the stables by three silver coins. Even to improve her sword had not cost that much. But the Britons risked a great deal to bring medicines to the Saxons and they, in turn, chose to ignore the Britons' existence.

More silver was offered, and taken, for more next month, and Osthryth, too, was soon beyond Crepelgate and back down to the streets to Winchester's city centre.

And who should be walking the other way, with a boy and girl in hand, but her sister-in-law.

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While her desire to make herself known to her brother had ebbed to practically nothing, Osthryth's interest in Gisela was keen. On the occasions she had taken Uhtred's silver, she had lingered to watch for a few moments and had been rewarded with the intimate picture of her brother's life, that with his wife, on whom he clearly loved, even after two children, and his son and his daughter.

Her niece and nephew, Osthryth told herself. And, as he had had a brief conversation to Finan on one of those nights when she had been where usually cats and dogs slept, it was clear that, first of all, Bebbanburg was his clear motive, and second, that his children were treasured by their father.

On one of her aerial eavesdropping evenings, she watched as both Uhtred, his first born, and the little girl Stiorra, came out to meet him. He had said nothing to them for a good long time, then swept his daughter up into his arms, depositing her onto his shoulders in that time-honoured father-child position, then wrapped his arm around his son.

Stiorra had come out with what looked like a bundle of cloth on a second occasion, and Uhtred had stared at it intently, before both of them breaking into laughter, his daughter's little, high-pitched tinkling blending with his own mirth at whatever it was that was funny.

As she headed back to the palace, to see if she was still needed that day, or if she could take more leave - to bathe in the Itchen was Osthryth's plan - she smiled at Gisela, who was being followed by two maids, close behind both children. Gisela smiled in return at Osthryth's pleasantry, and it took a couple of heartbeats until the little party had rounded the next corner, for Osthryth to climb the nearest roof, much to the annoyance of a butcher plying his trade from the front of his shop, and trod softly across the eastern row of shops until she watched them, too, disappear in the direction of Crepelgate.

Well, they were Danish pagans, after all, Osthryth thought, scrambling down to street level and strode towards the palace, and hadn't Beatha on the beach at Doire, explained that the Danish beliefs and those of the Britons were far more similar to one another than ever Christian belief was to either.

Unfortunately, Osthryth was needed with Edward, who had been instructed to practise his sword-skill and so they headed out into the courtyard, Edward holding his blade high, as Osthryth had taught him. Though he may have many other half-brothers, it was strange, Osthryth thought, that his elder brother was now Uhtred's newest warrior.

"Tell me a story," Edward begged Osthryth that night, when she thought he was just about to go to sleep. "Do you know any?"

"I know many," Osthryth sighed, wearily.

"One of kings? What can you tell me of kings where you come from?"

Kings where I come from, Osthryth thought, and thought again of Domhnall and of Flann Sinna.

"I read a story once that is very good," Osthryth proposed. It had been in one of the scriprotium books in the monastery at Doire. "It was of the first High King of Ireland, Niall Noigiallach, the first Ui Neill," and proceeded to tell of Niall's birth and abandonment and winning the throne of Tara. Edward listened in fascination, especially when Osthryth mentioned Niall's mother was a Saxon.

"He is of the Nine Hostages," Osthryth concluded sleepily, as the aethling wanted to know more. "All of the kingdoms of Eireann, they say, and Alba and Waleas, and the Heptarchy, through his mother."

"So the kings of Ireland have Saxon blood?"

"So legend has it," Osthryth replied.

"And you read that story?" Edward pressed. "You can read?"

"Read...write," Osthryth mused, thinking of the man who had taught her, Beocca. Perhaps, quite soon, she should approach him, and tell him she was alive.

Once the aethling was asleep, Osthryth left Edward's room, nodding to one of Steapa's men to watch the door as she went, of all places, to the palace's chapel. Perhaps the night would be tonight, Osthryth thought, as she thought about Bebbanburg, and his patience and kindliness towards her.

Beocca, Osthryth thought. He was often there at night, holding the vigil service. She had gone and sat and listened many times and heard him preach often. As August gave way to September, Osthryth felt like she had spent more time in the chapel than God himself, but had never brought herself to talk to him. What would she say? What could she say that would leave her life as it is now? He would argue she was someone's responsibility, Osthryth was sure of that, and she had gone those times more for paternal comfort than confiding in him, and there had watched his wife, Thyra, long hair, angular face, eyes like the north sea in the sumner, palest blue, bright and full of life, as she watched Beocca.

No-one was in the chapel now, and Osthryth sat, and thought of her life, and what to do next. Should she tell him? It felt right to do so, rather than her brother, Osthryth was beginning to conclude. Uhtred's connection, his only connection, to Bebbanburg was conquest, nothing else mattered to him, his life was utterly unconnected to her own.

If he came, tonight, into the chapel, to pray, Osthryth thought, as she sat silently, still, she would kneel beside him. She would tell him.

The joy at sharing her secret with her former teacher and priest, her father in more than one sense when she was a child became hopefulness, became jumpiness whenever the door of the chapel creaked.

But Beocca did not come to pray that night and, as the sun pushed its weak rays through the chapel's windows, Osthryth made her way to the kitchens to garner a bite of bread before returning to the aethling.

There was milk in a jug, too, which she drank and one of the kitchen maids giggled and another frowned in displeasure as she took some of the hot water simmering over the fire in a stone bowl. As with all the other palaces she had lived in, Osthryth found the scullery and began to take off her jerkin and shirt, before unbinding her breasts, holding out the discoloured, sweaty rags to the light.

Ferns were an ideal surfactant, Osthryth had found, and within a few minutes, she was holding linen bindings up that were very nearly their original colour. It took the work of a minute to wash her body, drying on her cloak.

She was about to start to redressing, when a scratch of stone underfoot caused her to turn.

"Not a boy warrior for Edward then?" Aethelwold was leaning against the door, arms folded, amusement at his lips. Osthryth threw down her bindings and reached for her shirt, but before she could dress properly, Aethelwold had trod the scullery stones and pushed her towards the wall. Osthryth pushed back, but he held her fast against the stone wall.

"Oh, it - is clear that you are no boy warrior," Aethelwold concluded, devouring each word and licked his lips as he stared at her breasts. As he made to put a hand out, it wavered, and he dropped hand, eyes flicked to her face. "It is...abundantly clear..." Aethelwold looked at her face, his expression serious.

"I can make you a queen; I am rightful king," he growled. Osthryth felt a jerk in her stomach. He really believed Alfred had usurped his place, she thought, as Griogair, who was long rotting on the battlements over Dunnottar, had really believed the house of Alpin had usurped his own.

Osthryth felt Aethelwold's cold hands on her breast, touching it as if he it were so delicate it might break in his hand, as he dropped his head to her ear, "and your travails to the Britons can be our secret. The aethling can be dispatched shortly after Alfred."

Aethelwold had little thought what Osthryth might think of that idea, though, for she pushed past him, the force of her shove making him fall towards one of the scullery walls.

"You'll...!" But what she would, Osthryth did not stay around to find out. Instead, she hurried, half naked, her clothes pressed to her, through the kitchen to the astonishment of the cook, and deduced that the safest place to dress in peace was the stables.

"I heard what he said, what he did!" A defiant voice came behind Osthryth as she began to tuck in the linen in a circle around her ribs. Osthryth turned and saw the aethling, who had clearly followed her. She was angry; she should have gone back to guard duty. Probably, that stupid guard she had asked to stay in her place had gone to sleep, or else wandered off, or traded his post for someone equally feckless. "I saw what you did!"

"Edward! Go away, I am not dressed!" His eyes were defiant, but there was something sweet, honourable in them. He was angry about Aethelwold's treatment of her.

"You're shaking," he accused, his face crumpled in concern.

"It's cold; I'm not dressed! Just - " Osthryth used a free hand to push away the space between him. "Turn away!"

"I will tell my father!" Edward threatened, turning. But Osthryth, shirt pulled to her chest, advanced on him.

"You will do no such thing!" she shot back, hotly. "Meet me at training," she added, pulling her shirt closer to her, for he was still staring. "Leave me. Please!" Osthryth felt her anger growing, but not at him: she was angry at herself, and she was desperate to get out, to training, where she could focus steady, repetitive actions and turn them into the lessons Edward needed.

Moments later, as the stable door creaked, then creaked shut, Osthryth began to bind her breasts again, tightly, aggressively. Why wouldn't that man leave her alone?

But training was worse than she imagined. Many people turned up to watch sword training, and there were some of the guards, and maids watching as she stood before the aethling. Amongst them, she could see Aethelwold, who fixed his eyes on her and made his way to one of the stone walls, lounging on it, conspicuously. He leered at Osthryth, and threw unhelpful comments at Edward when he made a mistake, only stopping when Steapa advanced to stand beside him.

They stopped, just before midday, while Steapa gave Edward praise for his work and where he needed to improve. Many of the spectators drifted away and Osthryth fell away and stood by the armoury door. Aethelwold took his chance, and strode, nonchalantly, towards her, before leaning close to her ear, "Just one word to say to you: silver!"

He passed, and continued to look back to her, grinning. That, again, Osthryth sighed. She had not touched that which Edward had hidden for her, nor that in the stables. She had paid Ula with her wages. But Aethelwold would clearly not give up, and he had gone from calling her a thief, to a witch, now back to a thief again. Out of his pocket pulled something and held up two silver coins.

That was it, Osthryth thought and, hand close to Buaidh, she pursued him. Aethelwold stopped in his lumber across the courtyard and turned to meet her, hustling her towards the wall. "The king might be convinced you earned it fighting," he made to hold her chin, but Osthryth shook him free, "More likely, on your back." Osthryth stepped forward. Aethelwold looked delighted. "I knew you would want me, eventually."

Out of the corner of her eye Osthryth glimpsed Edward, and turned her head to him, warning him off, as the aethling moved to take up his sword. Instead, Steapa took up his own and was advancing on them both. Osthryth smiled at Aethelwold.

"Tha mi a'tighinn, trealaich, my lord," she said to him, gazing into his face as if she had said something endearing. Aethelwold was still uncomprehendingly holding his leer, and made to touch her again.

But a snort of laughter came from the other side of the courtyard. Osthryth glanced as one of Uhtred's men, Finan was looking at her, his face highly amused. Her brother turned to him, and Finan bent his head - it was Uhtred's turn to snort. At once, Aethelwold understood she had insulted him and pressed down on her. Osthryth ducked under his arm in one swift movement and held Buaidh close to his chest.

"Careful - I am royalty," he warned, looking triumphant, "Some say, usurped. It is - death to threaten a member of the House of Wessex."

"Then, why are you not dead?" Osthryth shot back.

"I would escort you and Prince Edward to another training ground?" Steapa, of Alfred's household guard, was now at Osthryth's side. At her other, Uhtred stood. She breathed deeply as he echoed, "Shall I escort you to your duty?"

Osthryth glanced at him, without turning her head from Aethelwold. Was he really the same scared youth, boiling with anger and outrage that she remembered at Bebbanburg's gates, shouting up murderful threats to their uncle?

"I don't need your help," she found herself biting back in the Norse she knew, and he seemed to understand when Osthryth drew Buaidh closer to her.

Uhtred raised his hands away from her signalling peace and instead shouted to Aethelwold, "Leave this guard in peace." And to Osthryth, "You go to the aethling."

She sheathed her sword and strode towards Edward, glowering towards her brother. She coud have bested Aethelwold with ease; she could have bested Uhtred, too. Edward gave her a long look as Steapa escorted him to his father, and his lessons.

"I - " Edward began, but Osthryth gave him a look which told him that whatever he was about to say she would not be replying, and she watched him glance over his shoulder a few times as he turned into the passage that led to the hall.

Making to go armoury for her duties that afternoon Osthryth heard footsteps behind her, but Finan's voice came before she had decided to reach for Taghd's seax.

"I know it is an insult," he counselled her, when she stopped and folded her arms. He smiled, and nodded towards the courtyard. "Best to leave him; he can be one shifty bastard."

"Aethelwold or Uhtred?" she asked, glancing back out to the courtyard, where Aethelwold was beginning to walk in their direction.

"Aethelwold," came the second voice. Osthryth hardened her face when she saw her brother standing there.

"I am the aethling's night's guard," Osthryth said to him, baldly, looking at Aethelwold, "And a poor guard I would be if I could not protect him from those who would attack him in his sleep."

"He is not the aethling!" Shouted back Aethelwold, plaintively, past Uhtred's shoulder. "And, that is all you do for young Edward at night, guard him?" Osthryth felt her face harden, muscle memory reaching for Taghd's seax again as visions of fumblings, Constantine tricking her into what he wanted, filled her head. She made herself breathe steadly, and did not dignify his insult with a response. Aethelwold was handsome, and could have done well in his life but chose to drink, whore and complain bitterly about his usurpment. If he were king, Osthryth thought, then a Dane would be behind him and a Norseman in front: a puppet king on a hollow throne with no law or order as bands of Danish warriors roamed the land and destroyed it. Osthryth watched Finan and Uhtred exchange a look. But, if she were going to attack him, she wouldn't have let either of them stop her.

Stepping towards Aethelwold, she stared at him in his slow, sly features.

"Don't sleep tonight," she warned, refusing to take her eyes from his mocking face, "Nor any night."

Then, she turned to go to the armoury. Behind her, cheering rose from Uhtred's men, but she scowled and went to find Steapa for her afternoon duties. She would ask for the stables; few people wanted that job, or even the garderobes. Anything to work the anger out of her system.

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But, she hadn't been wanted. Steapa had told her to report back to the palace at dusk, where she could resume her guard duty, so instead Osthryth went beyond the southern palace gates and turned right, for a determined walk alongside the bank of the Itchen.

The leaves were still green here, in the heart of Alfred's kingdom; up in Alba, most would have been brown and orange by now, different trees, taller and broader, thriving on acid soil, rooted to last, rather than the flimsier sycamores and elms, their roots lazing in the upper stratum of the soil; there was no need for them to seek water and nutrients further down.

As the trees, so the people. They could afford to spend time worshipping ritual and valuing wealth, to record events in their kingdom, to create a written record of themselves. Even the Eirinn, who had a longer record of kingship, did not commit their kings to paper in as much lavish detail and ceremony as Alfred did. She hadn't yet been a year in the land of the West Saxons, and she had done nothing she had intended to do. She had not spoken to her brother; she had not spoken to Beocca. They had their own lives here, and she could see they were not missing a piece called Osthryth.

And not just the distain of Wessex was making her heart ache; she missed Alba, had little purpose other than guarding Edward, and he would be able to guard himself soon enough. She hated Aethelwold for interfering and was indifferent to Uhtred and his family. If she thought she would be welcomed back at Dunnottar, Osthryth would leave that day. Yet, very often, Osthryth found her thoughts turning to Uhtred's man, Finan.

Osthryth found, when she was guarding and it was slow and quiet, or would be walking, as she was now, she would be thinking about Eireann, about the time she was there and her mind would wonder about where Finan was from, whether he had been living there when she was there, and if so, what he would have been doing. What would it be like if he were beside her, like Domnall always used to be. Domnall, who had hated her once, had been as close as she could describe as a friend, a prince of Eireann exiled in Alba now.

And Finan nan Ulaid reminded Osthryth of that man, who may still be in Alba, with his cousins, if the latest reports in the monastery that she had spied just over a week ago was true: Flann Sinna was winning his war against the Norse, penning them by the sea, making their lives wearingly difficult in a very successful attritative way. So her friend, who had taken her from the sea at the mouth of the Foyle was likely still at Dunnottar.

As she walked, Osthryth looked at the river, which was widening now as it travelled south towards Hamptun. Those waters had never bothered her, and she reasoned that she was over the terror of that day, now, though it came back to her in her dreams: the deadening sun, obliterated from the sky length by length, the cold water of theAtlantic rising up her naked body, to her chest, her shoulders, her neck, as two of the Ui Neill enemy, Ninefingers and his brothers, two Ulaid princes, watched her as she began to drown when the water reached to her mouth.

The water was something that was different here too. In Alba, in Eireann, in Bernicia too, the water was something with power, with a life of its own. Here, it languished by the coast, slipped through river channels, taking its time, picking up ephemera as it drifted by. There were no Sidhe here and, in the vacuum, God was able to flourish. And even the manner of worship was different, and -

Osthryth was dragged drom her memory by a shouting. She looked up and saw a bridge ahead, near the mill, where the river widened out to provide the rush to drive the machinery. On it, a man was shouting. Other people were looking too, and some were running.

Picking up speed, Osthryth ran too, and she saw that there was a man pointing into the river, shouting in turn at those running towards him and at -

- there was a figure in the water, arms flailing, splashing. Osthryth ran on, hearing the words around her - he fell in; he was leaning too far; he can't swim.

Then Osthryth heard words which chilled her heart. From the crush of people now gathered, dithering over what to do, a voice came, "It's Prince Edward! He can't swim!"

And there he was, blonde hair bobbing on the surface as he struggled in the water.

"Go! Go!" urged Osthryth, as she pulled off her jerkin, pulled off her belt, Buaidh and Taghd's seax clattering on the chalk rocks that stuck out unevenly by the path beside the river. It had to be her, and it would take some time after for her to realise the glaring error in the logic there.

Cold water chilled her legs as she pressed on through the waterweed which was threating to pull her down. That was likely the hazard there, and the boy was probably being pulled down by the submarine entanglements. To her right, on the opposite bank, she saw more people, and amongst them, Steapa. Clearly the news had reached the palace and the head of Alfred's guard had come running. He was shouting to Osthryth, but she could not hear - would not hear as she focused on the aethling in front of her.

She forcd herself on, despite the rising terror in her body, as the water filled her head, reminding her that the water goddess was in league with the Ulaid princes to drown her - had Wachilt whispered to the water here, to lull it to sleep, only to make it pounce on the unsuspecting? Her? The aethling? The man splashing into the water now?

The river was deeper and had a stronger current than Osthryth had anticipated, that was true. Beside her, more people crowded, and if she had the attention to listen, she would hear Merewalh bearing out his anger at being left behind and not being able to go home to his beloved Mercia at the situation, shouting at her stupidity, and everyone's foolishness.

Guards were now in the water, they too devoid of armour. But Osthryth was closer; no-one could swim in the weeds and the struggling of the boy was now becoming frantic: he was losing strength, and soon he would be pulled under the water, and suffer the fate she had nearly endured.

Osthryth pressed on, oblivious to Uhtred and his men on the western bank now, and Steapa told him the situation.

"If the boy gives in now, he will be dragged under and into the millpond, into the wheels and be crushed to death!"

"Or her," Finan observed, as Osthryth's going was by no means confident, as she plunged with difficulty to the child.

But, difficulty or no, Edward was her charge, and whatever had brought him to here, Osthryth was absolutely determined to do the duty she had sworn to do. More commotion on the bank drew more people, and Merewalh ordered more guard into the river.

"Who is the child?" Uhtred asked of Steapa, and was astonished to be told it was the son of the king.

"The aethling?" Steapa nodded.

"I came immediately," he replied, "but I cannot swim." But Uhtred shook his head.

"Who said it was Edward?" Uhtred demanded, as he shook Steapa by the shoulder. The hugely-built man turned back to him, and shrugged.

"Edward is in his father's scriptorium, with Father Beocca going over Latin."

"It is the aethling," Steapa replied, stubbornly, but glared at Finan when he took the path of logic."

"How can Prince Edward be here, drowing, Big Man, and also learning God's Latin?"

"He can't," Steapa admitted, after a pause, and then pushed past some of the people who had crowded before him, and watched the impossible.

The impossible. Osthryth was within arm's reach of the aethling. The boy was slowing his movements now, and it looked like he was in real trouble. He wasn't the only one.

"What's she doing?" Aelffrith asked, of Aelfgar, who were being held back from entering the water by Merewalh.

"What?"

"Don't you remember, in Exancaesrte? When we went to the shore and Merewalh ordered us all into the river to wash, but no matter what he did, Osthryth would not?"

"What?!"

"She can't swim," Aelffrith concluded, and the word got around to the people around them.

"She can't swim!" Uhtred repeated.

"Sweet mother of God!" Finan exclaimed, and it took a moment for Uhtred to realise what his right-hand-man was doing until Soul Stealer was thrown to his feet and Finan had pushed his way into the river too. But Uhtred had a hand on his shoulder.

"Why?"

"To right a wrong, long ago."

"To her?

"To someone," Finan replied, his voice cracking at the memory. "To a child we left to die, cowards that we were."

Uhtred could not bring himself to ask more, as his friend's face, so grave as it was made him fall back and he watched Finan attempt to right his wrong, doing far better, it seemed than Steapa's men, who had entered several minutes before him.

The impossible, Osthryth thought, as she got to Edward's shoulder. But it was at that point, she realised how wrong she was. For the boy who so resembled her charge turned at that moment, giving her a laugh, and began to swim away, as sprightly as a minnow in the river's cold water, but not before pushing her under with a hand to her shoulder.

The scream came to her lungs, pushed out, silently, causing bubbles to break on the surface. Though she could not hear it, the bystanders gasped as she disappeared. Those in the river doubled down to moving towards her, for their object had changed in a heartbeart: the boy that was drowning was now swimming with the current beyond the mill and it was one of their own who was submerged.

It was Finan who got to her first and brought her head out of the water. He pulled Osthryth onto her back, her eyes closed to the autumn sunlight as she gasped and gurgled the water in her lungs. And, when on the bank, fought those crowding round for more space. It took Merewalh to set the guard around her for people to start drifting away, the drama over.

"Edward...!" she managed, when air had replaced water in her lungs.

"Lie still!" Merewalh snapped at her, and then he added, "The aethling is well." And, it was only Steapa reminding Finan that she was in the employ of the palace that made him step back and allow her comrades to help her to her feet and get her back to it.

It was Sihtric who alerted Uhtred to the presence of Aethelwold, who had been lurking at the back of the crowd and who had been looking, far too often than could be attributed to coincidence, in the direction the boy feigning drowning had gone.

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"A girl, a bloody girl!" Steapa's outrage was loud enough to bring the cats and dogs out of the thatch over the stables. He had been raging about this for the rest of the afternoon. Uhtred rolled his eyes as they began to polish the armour. Any day now, and Alfred would be ordering them to Lundene to fight the very brothers Uhtred had failed to kill in Cumbraland. They had regrouped in Frankia and were threatening to choke the Thames, Alfred's trading lifeblood.

"You mean you didn't know, big man?" Finan made to wind up Steapa as was his usual style but his words felt flat as Alfred's head guard thrust a score of spears at the Irishman.

"She is female. Why was this a surprise?" Merewalh put in, suggesting Steapa implied it as a slight towards him. "Odda knew; our guards knew." He nearly said that the lady Mildrith knew, but knew enough and liked his teeth too much to say that in front of Uhtred. "Why is this only a problem in Wessex?"

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Later that day, Merewalh got his heart's desire - permission to march to meet his lord and move to the Mercian household guard, Aelfgar too, with several of Lord Aethelred's men left behind in WInchester afrer the wedding and were needed at Aylesbury for training. There was going to be an offensive on Lundene, and reclaim it, ostensibly for Mercia, but in practicality, for a so-called "Wessex-Merica union".

But for Osthryth, her days since trying to rescue Edward were almost artificially quiet, and she was almost relieved when Steapa summoned her to the king's presence.

"I will get straight to the point," King Alfted said, his voice quiter than Osthryth remembered. Beside him, Lady Aelswith, with a strange, awkward look on her face. "You have the rest of the day to get yout affairs in order."

"Is my work poor, lord King?" She saw Alfred start at her directness, and Aelswith was glaring at her.

"The aethling is to be tutored, and Steapa can manage his sword training. Like your Scottish lord, Edward is also grown." He gave her an odd look and it struck Osthryth that he appeared so unlike the Alfred she had seen daily, commanding and organising. Almost apologetic. "You have worked well with my son, and I am pleased with your service." The finality of his sentence might have stilled most people, but Osthryth was nothing if not hot-headed at an injustice.

"Then why?" she pressed. "Lord King, you said yourself, my training of him has been exceptional."

"Because the aethling can never be who he needs to be while you train him." It was not the king who had spoken. Beside him, in the gloom, her brother stepped forward. It was his words that confronted Osthryth's directness with his own. Uhtred took a step back, and the king looked back to her.

"The lord Uhtred will supervise the aethling from now on. You are to leave the kingdom. I have sent word to the lord Aethelred. Your guard cell has gone north with the Mercian army, has it not?" He looked across to Steapa. His usually impassive face was one of silent fury, directed entirely at Osthryth.

"Indeed, my lord," Steapa replied, slowly. "Merewalh had taken the men Odda had had in his army and his commander, Aldhelm, had accepted their pledges to Lord Aethelred."

"You should be pleased," went on her brother. "You have a place in an army, which will keep you."

"Pleased?" Why was she to be pleased? She wished to be in Wessex, and the king was sending her north. And her brother was trying to sell it that it was in her interests?! Damn it, she wished she had found more of his silver to steal!

"Is that not so?" Uhtred pressed. Osthryth glared at him, wishing she had not had to place Buaidh and Taghd's seax into Steapa's temporary safekeeping for, brother or no, she would have run him through right there.

"Lady," Osthryth dragged her eyes from Uhtred of Bebbanburg to Lady Aelswith, folding a leg behind the other, and dipping as she might to a queen. "I do confide that I will seek to honour the kingdom of your birth where I have lacked in doing so for Wessex."

With not a little satisfaction, she saw muscles by the king's mouth twitch and she knew, she knew that the reason he had told her was not the reason she was being dismissed. Alfred called it transferred. But, she had made an enemy of Aethelwold, and that made her a liability, and a potential danger to their son. Instead, Ostryth bowed her head to the lady Aelswith, and then to the king, refusing to make eye contact with her brother.

Perhaps she could go back to Domhnall. If she did so, it would be over land, and she would have to travel north, and through Mercia, in any case.

But, she had heard, Lundene was under attack and, as Lundene was Mercian, warriors would be needed, she had a sword and an arm and a body. And with her bag of silver became a warrior.

When she was walked from the throne room, shoulder to shoulder with Steapa, they walked back to the armoury and gave her back her weaponry.

"I told them you deserved a place. I wished to keep you here." Osthryth stopped. Really? steapa had vouched for her? After raging at her sex. But, he nodded.

"You are single minded and ferocius," he continued. "You are an asset to any army." Osthryth thought that that what Steapa had just said were the most words she had ever heard him speak together.

"I wish it too. But the king has ordered me to join his ally, Mercia," she said aloud. It didn't sound too bad, to anyone who took it at face value.

"Stay, at least until tonight," Steapa pressed, his face looking strange. "I will be walking with you to the edge of the city."

And she remembered what she had half-heard Aelffrith, who told her so many things, had once told her, that Steapa was, without putting too fine a point on it, with the same tastes as King Domhnall with Finnolai. She smiled, despite her dispondency. Had he really taken her to be a boy?

"Do you have armour in need of polishing?" Osthryth offered.

"In fact, I do," he said, and for once, Osthryth didn't grumble about doing it.

Her feet were her memory that night as she paced along to the aethling's room. The guard was outside, one of Steapa's men, a middle aged West Saxon, who was snoring heavily over his spear. Anyone who wanted to kill the aethling that night would have found they had it very easy. She stepped over his prone body and turned the latch, pushing the door open.

"Osthryth!"

"Shh!" She insisted, as Edward, not a child to remain in bed and settle down at a disturbance, bounded over to her.

"I heard you are going with the Mercians!" In the canglelight, Osthryth could see his face, usually sunny and happy, fallen and unhappy.

"I saved you, or what I thought was you," she said, flopping down next to him. "And I was foolish. I should have thought I could not do it alone. Your father has done this for your benefit; you do not need a guard who is foolhardy."

"But you're not!" Edward insisted. "Father is just mindful of my cousin; he is missing Aethelflaed and he knows that the east of his kingdom is threatened. He wants me to be the best I can be, and - " Osthryth nodded, taking is hand and patting it.

"As I told you, you have to beat me, and you have done that many times in our battles recently." He had grown taller, Osthryth now noticed, and filled out a little. His childhood was slipping from him and his maturity was replacing it. Physically that is; emotionally, not so, for he drew his knees to his chest and bent his head, his hand dragging out of hers.

"I have served my usefulness, and I will miss you too, Edward." But her sentence was not the finality that Osthryth expected it to be. She jumped up, suddenly, as Edward crossed before her, and pressed silver into her hand, and Osthryth knew at once another meaning to him mentioning Aethelwold: Alfred knew of his nephew's harrassment of her. She was a woman, and it was not something he would do if she was a male guard. That put Edward at risk. She would have done the same, and at a stroke, the grudging resentment she was feeling towartds the king of the West Saxons was replaced with renewed respect.

"You kept this?" Edward nodded, and Osthryth noticed his demeanour was a little more awkward than she was used to.

"Thank you. I will miss you," she said, kindly, and was astonished when the young boy came back and Edward jumped at her, hugging her to him, before she stepped out, and back to the armoury.

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But not. Stepping over the prone guard, snoring heavily, and doing the very opposite of the thing he was meant to be, that is, guarding, Osthyth turned instead in the opposite direction, her mind awhirl.

It was Alfred's scriptorium she went to. If Steapa was expelling her from Wessex she needed a plan, and one plan may have to include Alba.

It did not take her long to discover that Domhnall was still king, that Constantine was with him, and that Alba was strengthening its kingdoms. Unsurprisingly, Domhnall's rogue kingdom was still Strathclyde, but Osthryth was astonished to find that Eochaid had died and his son, Dyfnwal, was now king. If Domhnall had any sense, he will have had this cousin submit to him at Dunadd, Osthryth thought.

But she could not go back. Her only thoughts now was that she could head north, to Mercia, to Lord Aethelred, who claimed independence of Alfred, whatever Alfred thought; he had accession to the army; Merewalh knew she could fight, at least, if not swim.

And her heart beat faster. Osthryth's will was to run from the palace now, to find the one person who made her feel good, at Uhtred's house. And yet, even now, as she was leaving, Osthryth could not find it in herself to go there anyway, and tell him she was his sister.

Intrusive thoughts of Constantine invaded her mind and she went to the door of the scriptorium, locking it behind her, and finding a place where she could sleep. It would be warmer than outside, where the weather had taken on an autumnal feel. Parchments were on the floor, and Osthryth found a place in the corner where she could huddle, and she thouht about the first time he had made her come.

She had discovered how to make it happen herself, as a girl, and had done herself regularly, as she was about to do just now. But Osthryth did not realise then it was the same as the riding, grinding feeling of that little knot of flesh right at the top of her cunt. Constantine had not even come the first sime, and Osthryth had been ignorant too. What had the in-and-out been for, she had thought then.

Osthryth knew much better now. Placing a hand between her legs and positioning her breeches so the seam ran in just the right spot, Osthryth pulled them up between her legs and pressed down with her hand and, at the same time, crossing her legs at the ankles, an expert move perfected from the first moments, as an eight year old girl, when she didn't even know what she was doing, but knew that she wanted to put her hand between her thighs and cross her left leg over her right.

It was always after catching sight of one of her uncle's young warriors, who had been about twelve or thirteen years old. He never spoke to her - Osthryth didn't even know his name -but he would smile, and Aedre, as she was, would take herself away, usually down behind the cliffs to a little secluded cave, or up to her bed chamber, even behind the screen in the chapel and perform this relieving, comforting exercise.

She twisted her hips a little into the papers until she had got it just right...

...and let her mind wander...to loyal Ceinid, who had waited for her, who had helped her escape...an older man...what would sex with him have been like? Osthryth shifted her bum so she could take advantage of the pressure as she thought of the head of Domhnall's household guard, hands on her, loving, protective...

And then there was Taghd, who had chanced upon her as she washed one morning. His eyes had lingered just a fraction of a second too long...Osthryth pushed her hand up under her bindings, taking her nipple between thumb and forefinger, while bearing down onto her trousers...she had known then of his thoughts...what would his touch have been like? Her husband...

...Taghd had told her he loved her...now, if he had lived and not died rescuing innocents, they should be together, married properly. They could have been together whenever they liked. He could have done this to her, she thought, pressing her digits together and rolling her nipple, her back arching in pleasure...

Would the Doireman have been gentle, and treated her softly? Or, would he have held onto her breasts while bucking her from behind as she had seen him do to the servant at Tara at the time of the Uí Néill festival, when he thought he had been hidden and had been turned away by Gormliath? The same move Domhnall had used on Finnolai on the most holy island of Iona? Or would Taghd have been fitful, mighty, as he had been with himself in that same stable?

Osthryth adjusted her rhythm again as the pleasure from her own fingers had begun to build up tension around her hips as she rode against her breeches as she might ride a horse - not how she rode a horse - she was dreadful at that - rhythmically, grind...grind...grind...listening to her body as her nerves built their pressure...

...Domnall...his face appeared in her mind as it sought again the memory of Constantine. He had nearly humped her, unwillingly, at Tara. There had been so many times Osthryth had wanted to tell him to kiss her, to touch her here...there... to lie with her...to take her back to Eireann...she never had taken it further, though, and neither had Domnall. What would he have been like in her? In same way that they talked to one another, for friendship? Should they have humped one another for relief? For comfort?

As she picked up speed, friction rubbing at her thighs, her labia, her vulva, giving a satisfying tension, another face melted into focus and was with her. Osthryth imagined his body in place of her hand and breeches, touching her skin, feeling her, and she him, her dampness now being the dampness that eased his cock into her, thrusting his own rhythm.

Finan.

Osthryth pulled harder, riding her clothing up, as hard as she could against her clit, not caring that tomorrow she would need to bathe her chafed flesh with terabinth. Passion now turned to anger as a rapist was now entering her body...Aethelwold...he had wanted to do this to her, and she could see behind his eyes he was scheming to trick her, to trap her... and further up, pressing her thumb knuckle into her nerve-filled nub as firmly as she could until, rotating it a little with a rhythm that she accelerated until finally, pleasure radiated out from her the bump of flesh, across her chest, and she panted to a stop as more waves, each less powerful than the last, overcame her.

He would have held her then, Osthryth imagined, Finan Mor, if she had been with him, she speculated, as she came, enjoying her pleasure almost as much as the release of his own, grinding upwards again to accelerate the next waves of sinew-melting orgasm, holding her hips as she thrust onto him. She hated herself for losing her emotions to handsome face, to his sense of humour, to his strength and humility in equal measure. He was the man Domnall was not, who Constantine never could be. And while she felt she knew him entirely, in reality, Osthryth barely knew the man at all. He had spoken, what, a dozen words to her?

Drowsiness came next and Osthryth closed her eyes. In the morning, she still had her hand between her crossed legs and the memory filtered into her mind of who had brought such desire to her body and she rode her breeches once again, her body remembering her recent orgasms of the night before which meant she could frig herself off quickly, before quitting the scriptorium and the crumpled parchments that had been her bed for the night.

As she quietly left WInchester, a solitary figure walking north, a good deal of silver in her possession and in pursuit of the Mercian guard, Osthryth's heart fixed on what she had told herself she must be like in Wessex, a warrior, in search of wealth. She had wealth, some wealth, and she was on her way to Merewalh, to gain more.

Yet her heart was sore; she had not united with her brother; she had not put her faith in Beocca. She had garnered enemies, as well as friends. But her friends were north, and that was where she was going.

As Osthryth wetted her feet in the River Avon, she passed out of Wessex and into Mercia, to begin a new life, as the warrior of Lord Aethelred. Of course, whast she hadn't fully appreciated was, that this would include Lady Aethelflaed, as well.

Summer 909

It was the evening, and Osthryth's usually high-energied younger brother sagged. He knew it was over, if Einar the Norseman's defeat by the Scots was correct. They had been garrisoned in the villages surrounding Bebbanburg as Uhtred's attack came, and had been defeated. It meant her elder brother's deeply-held aim to recapture Bebbanburg was one step nearer. They had also inhabited Lindisfarne, under Ceinid's leadership, in an attempt to make an agreement on behalf of the king of Alba with the king of the West Saxons.

"I will go, Whitgar," Osthryth said. "Constantine knows I'm here."

"He knows you're here," Whitgar repeated, grimly, "which is why he has requisitioned most of the food for his army. We will starve eventually, as Edward tried to starve Sygtryggr at Eoferwic."

Osthryth took a step towards him. All summer, Uhtred had been attacking the beach, until suddenly he was called away. She had discovered that Eoferwic was under attack: Sytryggr had called on his father-in-law from attack from the West Saxons, Edward and his army. It had given Whitgar time to refortify, and had paid Einar and his Norsemen to build a palisade around Bebbanburg. Now it would go unfinished, or at least, unfinished enough to be useless. For Uhtred had returned and was camped beyond the fortress and it would not take him time to launch his attack, having sailed from Cookham up the east coast masquerading as a pelt trader to fool Whitgar's men, to fool Ceinid's men before it was too late to stop them.

"Constantine gave him nothing," Osthryth went on. "Merely restated his desire that the land to the was Pictland, Alba, that is and was his to own, to claim. Whitgar gave her a long look.

"And when it is yours, you will give it to him? A Saxon fortress to a Gael?" Osthryth said nothing. His optimism had lessened as the season had gone on, as the lean month of July before the harvest had hardened his will. His men were loyal still, but it was clear that they craved their life overseas, viking as the Danes vikinged, and it was merely that he wished to hold onto a base in Northumbria that kept him going.

"Whitgar, I have no desire for this place - it is yours," she sighed. "And Bebbanburg is certinly not, and will never be Constantine's." He held out his hands and crossed to Osthryth, standing at the place Osthryth had as her very first memory of her home, near her uncle's chair, with Beocca standing beside her, and her mother - her aunt - smiling weakly at the joy of her marriage. Beocca had been directed to take her to the chapel to teach her to read, and Osthryth remembered looking above her uncle, to the banners of Bernicia, the red and yellow blocks alternating across the cloth and being entranced by the colours. She took them.

"We can fight him - we will fight him. Constantine will honour the treaty you made with him, that is certain."

"Certain?"

"Certain, because of..." Because of Aedre, Osthryth thought, certain because she was, still, his spy, though the only spy in the world who paid for the privilege o espionage, rather than the other way round. "Because I have Constantine mac Aed since he was eleven and defended him against the Norseman, Ivarr the Boneless - you know of him, do you not?" Whitgar's winning smile returned.

"His kin flood Northumbria, claiming Cumbraland, claiming Eoferwic." Whitgar looked angry. No, Osthryth thought, he looked resigned, as if it were just a matter of time that he would lose Bebbanburg. But then, like the Northumbrian weather, clouds parted and he smiled, warming her face, reminding Osthryth how much of a delight her younger brother was. It was how she had long imagined Uhtred would be, in her immature mind, an image which had long been Osthryth's undoing.

"Our mother loved you," Osthryth said, warmly, "when you were born. Mother...my aunt...lived nearly a month, fed you herself, would not let you out of her sight. But then Beocca - "

"The priest?" She nodded.

"He told me she was taken by God as she slept. She felt no pain, he wanted me to know. But I felt a coldness then, in my inside. I wanted to fight against everything. I felt Aelfric's belt on my legs many times for being unladylike."

"And you escaped." He pulled Osthryth to his shoulder and gave her a sisterly hug.

"I survived; I've never stopped. All I've done since then was to find ways of getting along, and on the way I've done so many things. I can't sit around in Bebbanburg, managing the estates, I need to be away, doing."

Whitgar said nothing for a while, as he held her close, and Osthryth thought how alike they were, in that he needed to be away winning treasure and men and loyalty. What was Bebbanburg to either of them, really?

"Will you remarry?" she said, after a time. "How this place would thrive with the laughter of children." Whitgar loosened his hold and Osthryth stood away from her brother. Another image had replaced the derelict one of Uhtred inhabiting Bebbanburg, one of her alliance to Whitgar as he re-established the Idings at Bebbanburg, with herself as aunt to a gaggle of nieces and nephews as they brought life to the home of their ancestors.

But she knew her little brother was set on leaving. While he toyed the idea that she could manage Bebbanburg for him frivolously between them, Osthryth suspected that once he had defeated Uhtred, that would be what he wanted to do. And to spite her elder brother, Osthryth was very happy to support her younger one.

"I may; I may not." His non-committal reply was enough.

"Then I will do all that you wish me to do, Whitgar," she replied. Deep down, Osthryth knew that Uhtred desired to win the fortress of their ancestors far more than she wanted to defend it. But, she could defend, and knew she could precisely because it was her elder, treacherous brother, who had sold her out to Aethelwold, who had thwarted her at every step, who had divided her from Finan, who bidded for it.

"If you wish to leave me with men who are loyal to you, I will happily manage your estate."

"Truly?" In the glimmering light of setting sun, she saw her brother's eyes glow, and she watched as her words fitted into spaces in his head which he had forged. It was what Whitgar wanted to hear. "You would truly do that, for me?" Osthryth smiled, more assured of this course of her life than she had been about anything she had done in her life so far, and nodded. His face, crinkling around the eyes, told Osthryth she had been right, and that this felt right.

How much Whitgar looked like their mother then, at that moment, an embodied male version of Gytha of Cumbraland, dark brown hair of the Britons, of the line of Urien, honourable to his Cumbric ancestors as well as his Anglish blood. A true man to lead Northumbria - Oswald reborn. Which it is why it was heartbreaking that her baby brother had no desire to contemplate another marriage and more descendants.

"Come, sit beside me, Osthryth," Whitgar asked, and they sat adjacent one another on a wooden settle near the hall's great throne. "Uhtred is at Frisia is he not?"

"That is what the rumours say," Osthryth replied, looking at the lazy waves bringing in a spring tide and which would, in six hours' time bring in another, with Ceinid. "So they will be false." Osthryth bent her face to her younger brother, nodding at his astonished eyes.

"And I have what he desires, most of all," she added, "Or rather, Ceinid does."

"Your betrothed?" Osthryth nodded. "I asked Constantine what it would take for me to leave me alone and he told me my marriage." Whitgar looked at her in astonishment.

"So, the only man I would ever consider."

"The head guard of the Scots army?"

"He rescued me from the Norse when I was twelve, as I had rescued Constantine. He was beside me when I wielded Fadersword on the battlefield, patched me up. Treated me as an equal. Constantine has given us land to farm."

"Where?" Whitgar frowned, his eyebrows curling towards one another as he listened to his sister.

"Berric. Claiming Lothian as Pictish, so therefore Scottish?" Expecting Whitgar to be angry, Osthryth braced herself. But her brother did not shout at her. Instead, he shook his head, and smiled.

"Clever," he mused, shaking his head. "Very clever. Land which he would claim; land which I would claim, land which the sea might claim." Whitgar reached for her hand, and held it, affectionately. "And you love him? Ceinid?" The Scots name sounded strange when Whitgar said it.

"Aye," she replied, thinking in Gaelish. "His name was of that king, Ceinid mac Alpin, Constantine's grandfather. He is loyal and faithful, and has been for many years."

"He is probably in sight of your land there," Whitgar pointed to Lindisfarne. "And where does it say therwise that Constantine owns it? Where does it say I do?"

"It says so here." Osthryth got to her feet. She had wanted to save the surprise until tomorrow, but now was a perfect time. In the light of the dying sun, she crossed the throneroom to a curtain, behind which was a door. Whitgar must have known about it because his face betrayed no surprise. But, it altered in a flash when Osthryth went through it, and pushed open an upper door, which opened above Whitgar's chair. It was just big enough for Osthryrh to climb through even as an adult, and she threw down a bundle from this secret hiding place. It has taken her a lot of silver and a lot of guile to get them.

"Anything else you have up there?" Whitgar called as she tossed the bundle down to him into his hands. "Like a hundredweight of gold?"

"I think you'll find this is worth more than gold," Osthryth called, and Whitgar unrolled a fine linen standard upon which a black wolf's head was embroidered. Beneath it, parchment. And on it? The declaration of inheritance of Bebbanburg, taken by Beocca and kept safe by him, until the day he died, passed on to Hild who has passed them on to Aethelflaed. It had taken surprisingly little inducement for them to get into Osthryth's position.

"What did my cousin, your brother, do to you?" Whitgar asked, shaking his head, knowing that his possession of these meant he, as the next Christian male of the line Aethelfrith, was the legal possessor of the place that had been the dream of Uhtred to the core, his driving force. Osthryth skimmed her memory for frivolous conversation.

"He gave Ingulfrid to Osferth," she began. "Alfred's bastard son. They live in Mercia now, near Mamcaestre. And your own son was a member of the West Saxon army, last I heard. If he is not dead, he will have just invaded Eoferwic with King Edward. Deprived me of a nephew and sister-in-law." She jumped from the upper door and landed heavily beside her brother, who was goggling at the documnts.

"Though I cared for her, Ingulfrid was not one of my father's best decisions. She was the daughter of a Norse lord, Ivarr's kin," he added, glancing away from the flickering flames of the peat fire to Osthryth. "It broke my father's heart, his kin taken from him. I think it was then I knew, after all of his harshness, all of his cruelty, what was I actually for? The wheel in a cog to get from him to my own children, no matter the way? A political match," Whitgar shook his head, sadly. "As would have happened to you, has Aelfric given you over to Kjartan. Dunholm was no place for a child. It's barely a place for human, even now." He put his arm around Osthryth's shoulders.

"And yet Thyra survived. Barely."

"You did right by right by her daughter." Whitgar's humanity radiated from his beaming face, and he put his arm around Osthryth's shoulders. "And you have not told me why YOU hate Uhtred so much."

"It is good that you think so, my little brother. I pay enough for her keep with Constantine." Osthryth looked up to him. "You want to know?" Whitgar nodded. And she told him everything, from the time she had left Bebbanburg as a twelve year old, through to her time at Dunnottar, Caer Ligualid. She told him about Finnolai and Taghd and Domnall, and her escape south to Winchester because of King Domhnall's betrayal. All of that did not involve Uhtred. But what came next did, and Osthryth did not hold back. Once she had finished, Whitgar leaned back in the settle, looking away from her for a moment, and then his blue-green eyes met hers.

"Yes," he said eventually. "Yes, I do see. I understand, Osthryth."

He had never once said she needed him to be with a man, or a husband to rule Bebbanburg. The only person ever to assume that she was capable of managing his interests in Northumbria while he was away. That was how she knew that Whitgar was the right choice.

When he turned his gaze to her from the sea view Whitgar took up her hands. "For you, after what you have done for me, and all you have said you will do, I will take his life. My cousin!"

Whitgar growled the last words, like a dog aggressively attacking a tough bone. And, for once, Osthryth did not argue. Whitgar would kill him, he had the desire and the will, for if he did not kill Uhtred, Uhtred would kill him. And, inside the fortress named for the Pictish princess married to the Anglish warlord, Osthryth and Whitgar sat in the very centre of Bebba's fort and planned for war.

88888888

"That's Uhtred?" Garh, Whitgar's sea captain, once a warrior from a land beyond Frankia looked through his dark, heavy brow across the chasm between the inner perimeter wall of Bebbanburg and the men marching towards the beach.

Never had Osthryth seen such loyalty from men to a lord; Whitgar had saved many of their lives and led them all to riches and glory across and beyond the Mediterranean Sea. This land was too cold for many of them, and more than once Osthryth had seen the men rubbing one another's limbs. It was summer, so it was hot enough for Northumbria; Osthryth had remembered colder summers and this year's harvest was going to be bountiful. But Whitgar had promised them that, once they had defeated his cousin they would be sailing south, then west, to the lands they loved best.

"It is," Osthryth agreed, standing beside him, Buaidh to hand. "He will attempt to use the sea gate, and slip inside." She pointed to the man-made harbour below them, no longer a little inlet from which she had sailed Seobhridh's hidde boat, but enlarged to accommodate Whitgar's ship. "He will also try to attack over the cliffs at your weakest point." Garh turned, looking across the land. He beckoned a few men over to him, signalling with his finger where these were two three of the other men. Then, he pointed down.

"The gates?" Osthryth nodded. She understood him to meant these were a weak point, too.

"The conduit, where the servants throw the slop for the pigs." Behind then, Whitgar narrowed his eyes."

"He did it at Dunholm; he has the wile."

"I am glad to find you, sister." He patted her arm. "And, now for your birthday surprise." Osthryth turned to him, astonished.

"But, it is not my birthday, I don't think," she protested. But Whitgar pointed beyond Bebbanburg. Dark blue sails, richly declaring they belonged to Constantine. There would be a battle there, on the sands. That would determine much. And what it determined would determine who would make an attempt on the fortress itself.

Osthryth had promised not to fight. It had been a hard promise to make, but she understood Whitgar's thinking. If one of them died, then the other could live. And Osthryth could not bring herself to contemplate telling Whitgar he should be the one to go.

Men stepped out of the boats now. Looking carefully, Osthryth could see a man she deeply cared for arranging his troops. She could stand beside Ceinid, make Uhtred see that she cared both for Alba as well as Bebbanburg.

"You know the general?" her brother asked. Osthryth smiled. "Ceinid," she smiled. "His crew have made good practise at landing here over the years." Then Whitgar leaned close to her ear.

"The man you love," he concluded. Osthryth stared at her brother, then nodded. It was a false gesture. She knew she could grow to love Ceinid in a way, and be settled with him, at Berric. But the man she loved would be at Uhtred's right side, plotting how to breach Bebbanburg's defenses with him.

"Be safe, Osthryth, whatever happens."

Kissing her brother, Osthryth made her way to the lower storey of the fortress and down Oswald's Steps. It took her minutes to be at one of the cave entrances, as the Scottish army made its way across Bebbanburg's pale yellow sand. She looked at her hands, into which he had thrust something, and smiled. The Bebbanburg documents and Uhtred's standard.

No time to think, for there she was, within spitting distance of Constantine's general. Ceinid strode with his men across the beach, making it look as if the Scots prepared to attack Bebbanburg in response to Constantine's recent assertions at land ownership. Gain Bebbanburg, gain the prize in the North, and his dream was all but realised. Uhtred knew this too, but could not be entirely sure, especially when Whitgar's men began to shoot the Picts, who made up the bulk of Ceinid's army.

One or two had seen Osthryth now, and were making to pursue her, swords raised. But Ceinid called them back, driving them to run forwards, not left,towards the cliffs. Whether Osthryth did catch his eye, she never could tell, but she remembered him striding out towards the fortress, screaming the Gaelish yell that they all had learned. For the Picts were forgetting their Pictishness and were Gaelifying themselves according to Constantine's rites and honours. No dual-kingdom status on the east coast of Alba; the Picts and Gaels thought as Scots and were now fighting as Scots, giving no quarter to the men of her younger brother, matching them stroke for stroke.

She ran. Beyond the fortress a gully ran which, if she took it, carried on up towards an unnamed settlement by a little stream. Whitgar had given money for a white horse to be kept there so that she could ride north when the time came - this time came.

"Osthryth!"

She turned, her right foot on the cliff rock, not expecting to remove it and turn, as she did. Finan the Mighty stood before her. Osthryth bore down onto the rocky path and began to climb.

"Don't go, please!" But Osthryth did. Not up the gully to her mare, but through it, and down into a small cove. Behind her, Osthryth heard quickened footsteps. When they were well concealed from the battle behind them, Osthryth turned to her once-lover. When she could go no further, Osthryth turned, and prepared to stare him down, and was taken aback at his appearance.

Older, yes, much older than she remembered, Finan's hair was greying at the temples, though his hair was still waist-length, bound with a leather strap. His eyes were the same pale blue-grey like Constantine's. He was breathing heavily, and also fighting to control his breath. Osthryth's rapid pulse slowed as she screwed up her left hand, and made a fist around Buaidh's hilt. He had every right to be angry with her, for leaving Winchester nearly ten years before, without a word. Did he hate her so much, then? Was he for murdering her right then and there?

The remembering of his hands upon her body made Osthryth shiver, and she moved towards the gap in the rock, where the hot summer sun dived through, illuminating the yellow-white sand in the cave, throwing her bundle at the foot of an ancient stone which was also lit by the summer sun.

"You left," Finan said, eventually. Osthryth nodded.

"Yes."

"With a child."

"Yes."

"To Alba."

"To Alba," she agreed, standing as still as she could. And she would be away to Alba now, except that...

...it was Finan...

She waited for him to say something, but it was tears not words which left him, flowing down his cheeks. Finan ran to her and, before Osthryth could even attempt to stop him, he took her into his arms, holding her tightly to him.

"God in heaven, Osthryth, I have missed ye so much!"

And then he kissed her, mouth pressing so hard to hers that Osthryrth wondered whether they were bruised, tears reaching her mouth and onto her own face. She didn't care. She loved Finan of Ireland, and would give anything for him to be by her side until the end of time. He tangled his fingers into her hair, and Osthryth held onto him tightly until her muscles ached. When he had finally finished kissing, her face, her neck, her hair, he drew her to him, Osthryth's head against Finan's shoulder.

"I too, Finan Mor," she whispered, which only began him kissing her again. But then she broke away, treading the soft sand to the wide sun-gapped fissure. Finan made to follow, but Osthryth held up a hand of warning.

"Please. Come no further." The look on his face was heartbreaking, and Osthryth felt a lurch of pity in her stomach.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"When King Oswy turned to the Roman church, there still were adherants to the Irish church," Osthryth began. She pushed a pile of sand away from a stone block which was lit up by the shard of summer sunlight. "They kept in secret, they corresponded with Kells, Doire, Ar Macha." Osthryth looked through the gap. "But that was nearly two hundred years ago, and it is no longer used. I used to come in here when I was a child, for peace."

"I can see why," Finan nodded. "I am here with Uhtred."

"I know."

"And you are here. You are for your brother, then?"

"I am." She stared determinedly at the face she had seen in her dreams for so long.

"Then God's love upon - " But Osthryth rushed to him, and placed a finger to his mouth. "Not that brother. He is treating with Constantine for access to the lands, in exchange for support here."

"The Scots are to have Bebbanburg?! With Whitgar?!" Finan sounded aghast. But, of course, he had been beside Uhtred for so many years that to think another way was clearly too hard for him.

"Why not?" Osthryth deliberately misled. "I am for independence of the north from West Saxon ambitions, not unity. Edward invaded Eoferwic, did he not?"

"With the Scots!" Finan shook his head in disbelief.

"With a people who are more like the Bernicians - and Derians too - than the West Saxons. We are Angles and we are Brythonic! I have more in common with Whitgar than I ever could with Untred." Finan looked shocked.

"But, Osthryth!" Osthryth shook her head, moving away from Finan again.

"Whitgar has never wronged me."

"But Uhtred!"

But Osthryth turned, and when she spoke, the bitterness and regret of the years flew from her and into the air between them.

"I travelled to find Uhtred!" She declared, at last. "He turned out to be a dissolute, cowardly, ungodly, arrogant man who would stop at nothing for his own way, for that fortress, and forced me to leave - please!" Finan stared at her.

"Please?" he asked, confused.

"Please don't give me the line about him being a slave, or Aelfric being his enemy. All three of us have reason to have despised Aelfric."

"Yes, but - " Finan looked pleading.

"And you took his wife and child back to Wessex, Finan?"

"Yes, but - "

"And she is now Osferth's wife?"

"YES! But Osthryth!" he shouted, throwing his hands towards her in frustration.

"What?!" But his tone was meek now, full of the same hurt that had filled him when he followed her.

"When you left..." he looked away, and spoke to the altar, "It hurt me - a lot - when you left. It was like Ethne dying all over again." He looked at her, eyes wide. "Worse, I tell ye," he sighed. "Worse than her death!...I - " Osthryth stepped towards him and she made to take his hands, before stopping.

"I am...sorry. You...know what I did to myself, for my own mistake. And then - what he did to me." She turned, to look at the pool of light by her feet. "Uhtred."

"WHAT did he do?" Finan demanded. But Osthryth didn't answer his question. Instead, she continued.

"Then, it became harder to return. I had a baby to support, Beocca's and Thyra's child."

"What?"

"They were defeated!"

It was clear what he had thought, and Osthryth waited a while, as the battle sounds permeated the little church. Then, she looked at him.

"You fight for my enemy of a brother, Finan! I am spy for the King of Alba! How can we be together?!" A little shard of her self-respect crystallised in satisfaction at the surprised look on his face.

"I...don't know," Finan replied, his shoulders sagging. "But I do know this is nothing - " he waved his hand towards the fortress, "Because of how I feel about you, Osthryth."

"S...still?" It was her turn to be shocked. Finan nodded, then paused. "Osthryth said nothing. Instead, she turned away from him, and began to look out towards the sea.

"And how do feel?" His urgent question was pitiful, but still Osthryth did not reply.

"Goddamn it, bean mo chri!" Finan shouted. "Have you no heart?"

It was then that Osthryth turned her eyes on his face. Then, within a moment, she ran to him, into his arms.

"I love you, Finan Mor!" she cried, her words absorbed by his leather jerkin. "I have loved you - " kiss - "Since I first knew you!"

The sand was damp, Finan took off his cloak. They kissed and they continued to kiss, hands on each others' body, hers on his leg, his up her shirt. A kiss turned into much more. Even after all the years that had passed memory of touch and caress and love were remembered, and their bodies fervently remembered for them. Bereft of clothing, Finan lay her down, gently, and knelt astride her, kissing and kissing as if there was not enough time left in the world.

And after...

Osthryth remembered the waves crashing against the cliff. They were safe there, no high tide could reach the little church. How was it that the air was so sweet now, the waves feeling like a thick blanket wmbracing them both. How could it be such a marvellous moment, and yet, Osthryth told herself, she was shivering. But still she shuddered in Finan's arms.

"You don't like the water."

"No."

"That is understandable, after - " Finan broke off. Osthryth turned her naked body to look at his face.

"After what?"

"Your nearly drowning." Osthryth frowned.

"Who told you that?" Finan shifted under her, his cock resting by her leg.

"I was there Osthryth, when you rescued the little shit Edward from the river." But something in her sensed that what Finan told her was not the truth.

"I must go," he said, suddenly. "Uhtred will have got to the beach." Osthryth moved, and he got up. But, before he could dress, she flung herself on him again, nestling her head to his chest.

"Will I see you again?"

"Across the sand, I expect." But Osthryth shook her head. He held her away from him suddenly, and looked into her eyes.

"You will not join Uhtred?"

"I will not!" Then, he kissed her again, and she felt his hardness grow once more, and it was all Osthryth could do not to instigate her passion again.

"Be safe, Osthryth," Finan said at last, after he had dressed, and he pulled her to him for a kiss. "I will turn from you if I face ye," he added.

"And I, too, Finan Mòr." Osthryth watched him leave, then made her way up the gully, to the settlement, to her white horse making sure she did not cast eyes upon the battle on the beach below her.

88888888

She had been born in the autumn months of the sixty sixth year of the eighth century after Jesus Christ was born, Osthryth knew. She knew that because Father Beocca had showed her a large bible where, at the back, was written the names of her family, her ancestors, back to Ecgfrith, Oswy, Oswald, Aethelfrith all the way back to Ida, and then back to Noah, the father of all since Adam. She had a nine year old foster daughter residing in the care of King Constantine of Alba, for whose upkeep she paid, and she spied for the Scottish king, or at least, paid some of Aedre's keep with her intelligence.

Though, not with her body. Not now. Since she had left Constantine to visit Guthred, Osthryth had made a promise to herself that neither the king of Scotland nor the king of the West Saxons would touch her again. She had moved on. That she was riding inexpertly (Osthryth had never got the hang of horses) towards Lothian, once Bernician lands, was merely a detail: Osthryth would be free of them all, including her brother. That meant Whitgar would have to win.

She would know, Osthryth told herself, when a message came from Bebbanburg. One way ot the other, one of her brothers would be lord of her former home and she would return, either in triumph or in war. She had enough money now to not be reliant on either of them, and enough strength still to fight in battle.

Yet, her heart knew what the outcome would be, and even if she were to shout it from Bebbanburg's high cliffs, saving many hundreds of mens' lives, it would do no good: Uhtred's will to own the fortress which had been all their homes once, far exceeded the will of Whitgar to prevent him.

Osthryth knew she would just have to be patient, something she was never very good at. On collecting the horse from Bebbanburg's tenants, she rode the handsome white mare following the coast. The yells and screams of battle rose from the strandline. Do not look! Osthryth told herself. Do not look, or you will abandon your beautiful mount and join them.

So she thought of Aedre, her wilful daughter, who could speak five languages and whose firm friend was Constantine's second son, lldubh, who was as dark as his father and astute as his mother. He would marry her, should his father consent. Mairi had given Constantine many children, but only two boys. And Constantine had been careful enough since with Cellach, having had to hand him over as hostage to Uhtred many years before.

Neither lady from Eireann lived, now, not Eira, nor Mairi. Nor even Ethne, Flann Sinna's first wife - and Finan's - shaken off and enslaved so he could marry Mael Muire, Constantine's aunt. Gormlaith did live, and, Osthryth's heart was tender as she thought of this, little Niall Glundubh - little grubby knees - had married her through pity at her plight. She had moved round Ireland from one marriage to another, before arriving at Doire practically a beggar.

Even after telling Niall she was unable to bear children, he still took her as his wife to protect her. That kind boy she remembered, who saved beetles and insects, even when they were a bit too squashed to really have a chance of living had grown to be a kind-hearted man. Oh, how she wished she could see Domnall again, return with him to the Ui Neills' territory and see Niall once more.

A clash of metalware made Osthryth jump, but she dragged her eyes to the horizon, throwing the reins down towards her horse's neck. The white mare started a little, then cantered a little on a downward slope.

Owain was on his way to meet Constantine when Osthryth had left. His son, Dyfnwal, had been sent to Dunnottar to form an alliance. Osthryth suspected the content: Constantine would wish an alliance of armies in exchange for Cumbraland, their natural lands.

And onwards, past the screams and the roars in the beach...

...to the little cave she had discovered when she was young, following the older boy into it, the boy who would later become the fair haired warrior who had become her masturbatory fantasy. Osthryth was younger then, and it was the first time she had slipped down from the castle to explore. She had asked the boy how it was he had got in, beyond the sea harbour, and he had told her she had to swim down and under a rock, then re-emerge at the other side.

Osthryth had panicked a little, but the boy had held her hand and brought her up into the secret Irish church. King Oswald had brought that faith to Northumbria, to Lindisfarne. That place was special, as was her next aim, to aid the lord of Mercia, Aethelred, the bitch Aethelflaed's husband, to rescue his body from Daneland. Merewalh would gladly have her back in the Mercian army, and she could ask to be with the men who were going to Bardney.

And then she turned back. It was a deed which Osthryth never saw coming. The battle below was past its peak, men lay dying on the beach, men under all banners. She scanned to beach for the Scots, who had come so far to lay a trap for her elder brother, at the agreement of her younger.

Then she turned, riding away from the carnage, and reined the white horse in and it trod carefully over the basalt rock ground, its head raised as if in defiance at being slowed, and she flicked her own, hair, pulling out her braid so her hair flooded over her back like the waves of the sea meeting the coast as she spurred her horse around. Ahead, was a still smouldering fire. She brought her horse slowly to a halt, vaguely recalling how well trained the beast was at her poor handling of her. The fire was large, and had only just been left, for its fuel made it flicker as it consumed its wood.

She was about to get down when a shout went up. A group of warriors were striding towards her. Osthryth's heart hammered when she saw who was approaching her. Long hair, tall and rangy, black wool cloak, arm rings. The bones of enemies in his hair.

"Do you win?" she called past her elder brother, and spoke to Finan, who had looked as if he was trying to stop Uhtred from gaining on her. Osthryth refused to look at Bebbanburg fortress to know the outcome, and instead called to the man beside Uhtred.

"Finan!" she called, anxiously, "Finan Mor! Did you win?" But Uhtred strode up to her, and gripped her shoulders, pulling her from the horse and holding her upper arms to stop her from withdrawing any blade.

"Why do you never call me, "My Lord"?" Uhtred sneered at her, shaking her shoulders.

"Uhtred!" Finan called behind him, but Uhtred ignored his closest friend. For the first time since her elder brother had chained her in Aethelwold's room at the palace in Winchester, left to the king's nephew to do what he will, for her role in Gisela's death, Osthryth stared into his eyes. It was one of loathing, that she knew, and for a moment, Uhtred blinked away her ferocity.

"Because you are not my lord," Osthryth hissed back.

"Who am I to you?!" Uhtred had raged back at her, shaking her harder. "For you have been my shadow for so long!" Behind him, Finan gave her a warning look.

"Osthryth don't be a fool," her lover added, when her face relaxed. She looked down. An obvious feint, but the stench of battle, metal and sweat and blook radiated off her brother, and he was not thinking clearly enough.

"You...you...let the Scots in, you supported my cousin!" Uhtred narrated, looking at her face, trying to discern the meaning. "My fortress! Mine!" Osthryth looked back to him, her face hot with anger and embarrassment, but she managed to grin terribly.

"Why?" he added, eventually. There was another part of Uhtred's mind working now, too, one which recognised Osthryth's looks, reminding him of the only mother he had known, Gytha, the woman who had had him baptised again by Beocca so that God would know him, not as Osbert, but by his new name, of Uhtred. "What does the king of the Scots gain by this?"

"A Christian king of Northumbria, as Wessex, Mercia, East Anglia, Waeleas and Alba all have a Christian king!"

"And you did this?!" Uhtred demanded, rage builing pressure in his head.

"Me?" Osthryth made herself sound innocent.

"You gave them information! You - " Uhtred broke off. He was staring at Osthryth's thigh, which she had begun to expose with her free hand to the day's light for all its ugliness. The flaying, from her hip to her knee, about twelve inches long and six wide, was enough to take the words from Uhtred's mouth. It had taken a long time for the skin to heal, and when it had, it was ugly and bumpy and raised, a dark red scar replacing the flesh Aethelwold had skinned from her. Then, Osthryth pulled up her breeches.

"Did you think that what you did to me in Winchester would go unpunished?" she asked, feeling his grip weaken on her arms and she wrenched herself from him as rage filled her stomach. "Blood means little to you. The blood of Ida Flamebearer means little to you except the fortress! I stood there! At Geafring! Looking at the line of the Saxons!" For what?!"

And then was she free, free of her brother, free of her anger. Free of his hold on any part of her. So it was a great satisfaction for Osthryth to land her knee into his balls. There was an audible groan from the three warriors who had followed their lord.

"I...killed...Aethelwold..." He staggered from the pain in his testes.

"For Brida!" she hissed back, "You killed Aethelwold for Brida, for Ragnar. That's whose blood you worship!" Osthryth backed away as Uhtred staggered towards her, the pain in his grin causing him to stagger then fall to his knees while she mounted the white horse, which had been waiting sedately for her and began to ride away. Where was your loyalty to your own blood then? She shouted, silently, at him.

No looking back, Osthryth told herself, for she could imagine Finan's face. If she had have done, Osthryth knew she would have got back off and flown to him.

"Bitch!" He managed to shout, stumbling after her. Beside him, Finan and Sihtric took one arm each and helped him up. And she took her chance. Uhtred would take Bebbanburg, this was certain, but he would be without the legitimacy that she carried within her jerkin. Whitgar had given them to her, trusted her with them. Trusted that she knew what to do with them.

"Uhtred of Benbanburg, who should really think before he acts!" Osthryth's laugh was a false one, designed to taunt him, and she pretended to look over her shoulder. Her brother gave a groaned shout as he watched the parchments which declared his legitimate claim to the fortress curl into ashy nothingness as Osthryth tore at them, throwing them to the fire. And, too, no-one would ever know who owned Berric now, either, or where Bernicia finished and where Pictland began - no other document existed, and when she returned to Constantine, when Ceinid returned, she would be able to start her new life under her terms. Documents were power; Alfred had taught her that. Another weapon in her armoury.

Then, pulling herself up onto the white horse, she beat the mare's reins against her neck, and began a charge over the fine-grassed land.

"Uhtred of Nothingness!" Osthryth shouted over her shoulder. "Uhtred of Aethelflaed's cunt!" She knew it was a weak shot, but her anger at her brother was preventing a more intelligent comeback.

"They sail, Uhtred, your cousin's men!" Finan declared, pointing to the sealine, gripping Uhtred's shoulder and compelling him to look away. "They have no leader now and they flee in your cousin's boats! Your cousin must be dead!" But Uhtred was looking, not out to sea, but at the retreating figure of Osthryth.

"That bitch!"

You could not have got into Bebbanburg without her Scots!" Finan pointed out. "They cleared your cousin's men!" But Uhtred was already running in Osthryth's direction. Finan, with an incline of his head towards their lord, tore after him, with a troubled look at the guilty fire which he had laid that morning, Sihtric close behind.

"She is a spy for Constantine!" He shouted back to his best friend.

"How do you figure that, all the years she has spent in Wessex?" Uhtred turned to his friend as Finan watched his woman flee, fair hair stained with gold, like the summer sun on a still, clear lake, hair down to her waist, face defiant. Osthryth held up her left hand and waved. Her left hand. Finan knew the scar on her palm, so many times he had kissed it. It had been one of the last things she had told him about, before she had disapeared, knew too the agony she had suffered from Aethelwold, for he had nursed her at her lodgings, refusing to return to Uhtred, having taken her from the Britons when they were about to turn her from Crepelgate, fearing that their lives might be exposed. Even silver had not stayed Ula, nor mercy. It was true, Osthryth had spent a good deal of time at Wessex. She has spent her formative years, unfortunately, with the damned Gaelish nobility.

"Precisely." Uhtred tore past Finan to Sihtric and then across to his son, who was still carrying one of the crossbows that he had won from one of the now-dead Whitgar's men, demanding the young warrior hand over the arrows. As he got one in the string, Uhtred was pressed to the floor as Finan flung himself onto his lord.

"Why?!" Uhtred demanded, as Osthryth's figure diminished to a distance where no weapon would be of any use now. Finan wrestled the bow from his hands and threw it away, where it smashed on the cliff rocks and tumbled, splintered, onto the sand. "Why?!"

"She is your sister Uhtred!" Finan panted, staring as madly at his friend as Uhtred was staring at him. Silence enveloped them for a while, as Osthryth's form continued to diminish towards the horizon.

"My sister." The words took some time to register in his mind, and still it took Uhtred longer to understand quite what his friend was telling him.

"Yes," Finan nodded, staring in the direction Osthryth had gone. "And I love her," he sighed, almost too quietly to hear, watching Osthryth's hair, like a sheet of gold, flowing behind her in her wake. "God forgive me, Uhtred, I love her."