October 25th, 899

"There yer are, lord!" Finan, Uhtred's Irishman stroked down both sides of his beard with one hand as his torch illuminated the antechamber of the foetid dungeon in which he had found his best friend. Beyond the bars, he could just make out the prisoner hanging by his wrists, head slumoed down, black and blue and bruised,bleeding. Whoever had enacted the punishment had done a good job.

"Lord?" He shook Uhtred by the shoulder, pushing away an empty ale jar from the table. He was lying in some of it which had spilled, and Finan pulled him to a sitting position.

"Lord," Finan said gently, his eyes going back to the cell. The body was in a poor shape. "What did he do?"

"Offended me." Finan chuckled as Uhtred lay his head back down on the table. "I needed to see it done." Finan backed away. When Uhtred was in one of those moods it was best to leave him.

"I am guessing you are not coming home tonight," his friend said, then left him to his beer. Uhtred passed back out.

But the prisoner was no longer chained five minutes later. Aethelwold had left the chains free for her hands, but her muscles were stiff and it had taken a good while for her to shake them free.

The cell door was locked, of course. And she was cold. Abhorrent though it was, Osthryth managed to gather Aethelwold's wool cloak about her damaged body, her own clothes rags on the floor. There was no escape. She was to be declared a witch. At least hanging would be quick, possibly. For there was two ways to hang a person, a slow way and a fast way. Nevertheless, Osthryth was willing to bet that the pain would not exceed that which she had experienced at the hands of the king's nephew.

And then she saw it. From the light of one of the almost-burned torches hanging in a steel bracket on the wall, something glittered, milky white, and Osthryth stared at it for a moment. The jewel sat in a clasp made for it by a blacksmith working in Bernicia. Many craftsmen gained knowledge of exotic gemstones but this, Eirik had explained, had come from a river-mollusc from the Tuide river. It shone in the gloom as beautifully as it would have done in the dark waters of that northern river when first an eye saw it and a hand reached out to encapsulate it in their fingers.

From the table beyond, Osthryth could hear the deep snoring grunts of her drunk brother, lying in the spillage of the ale, and she let the air from her lungs, wincing at pain that had not been there earlier. He had watched.

Uhtred did not know that she was his sister, but to any person, a woman especially, it took some kind of sickness of the mind to allow another person to abuse them so badly.

Osthryth's fingers still worked, mostly, and she flexed them as much as she could bear to take up the jewel, walking tenderly across the straw-covered floor. The soles of her feet were, at least, one part of her body Aethelwold had not damaged, and her boots were at the gates, waiting, she supposed, for someone to claim them, for the prisoner would not need them. For the prisoner's path led only one way.

Osthryth put them on before approaching the cell gates again, and found it surprisingly easy to get the catch into the lock and wriggle it so that the pins in the casing were all lined up, the metal acting like the head of a key would. The catch clicked, and the cell door swung outwards. She grabbed it, and pulled it to, withdrawing her jewel, watching for any sign that her disturbance had alerted anyone. But not even her brother shifted his head.

She gathered up the cloak about her, before finding her boots, and pushng her unstockinged feet into them, Osthryth's soles pushing against the joins of the leather. But, that was the least of her pain, for it seemed as if every sinew of her body was on fire.

There was a "click" behind her, as wood moved. Uhtred had pushed back into his chair, and his eyes were now open, blurred, trying to focus. When he realised it was his prisoner stealing away, he tried to raise his head, calling out that she was a dead bastard and that she was to come back.

"Criochnaich ceann thoin!" Osthryth croaked back. "Taigh nam gasta ort! faigh e deas suas fhein!"

"I will kill you," Uhtred threatened, which was a laughable threat, for he was having trouble even standing.

"Lord!" Osthryth heard someone call. Uhtred turned his head to look, and did not see Osthryth reach to the armoury wall and grab a spear.

"I will kill you!" He threatened again, as boots stamped down the passageway. Whoever it was was a good five minutes away, for there were many gated entrances between them and this dungeon. But Osthryth knew another way, and it was the way she was going to take.

"Duin do ghob!" She shouted to her brother, as he stumbled against the table, now more alert than Osthryth supposed.

"I will kill you!"

"Not if I kill you first!" Osthryth managed, and plunged the spear she was holding towards him, pain searing down her arm and she let go of the shaft, for she had embedded it into Uhtred's hand, pinning him to the wooden table.

No time to run, but, unbelievably the silver she had brought for Aethelwold, originally stolen from Uhtred, was sitting in its bag by the air grate. She pushed it through while, behind her, her brother fought to free himself from his pinioned situation as more voices called to him.

Osthryth ignored it all. There was a vent, no more than a few bricks wide, which would get her to the room beyond, the guard room where Steapa slept. She had discovered the way, once, when she had, ironically, been hiding from Aethelwold and had climbed down, and back up again. Steapa was on duty now, Osthryth knew, for she had heard his whistling above, at courtyard level, as he patrolled.

But it was painful, and it took all of Osthryth's strength to get her up into the channel, and heave herself onwards, pushing the silver before her, but, finally, she managed to tumble unceremoniously onto the cold floor of the armoury.

Shirts and breeches lay in piles, newly laundered, Osthryrh supposed, and she scooped up clothing.

"Up there!" Osthryth heard Uhtred say, and she realised she had no time to dress. Instead, she bundled all of her things together and snuck out of the postern gate, hurrying around the inside perimeter of the courtyard. A voice called to her, Osthryth knew not what they said in her haste, and she got through to the outer palisade, and through the kitchen postern.

Tired, limping and sore, Osthryth took all she had to Ula. No arrogant demanding this time, Osthryth needed to beg the woman for help. If the Briton did not help, Osthryth knew her life was over.

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...she could go to Alba, to Domhnall. She could no linger remain here...

"...He's a piece of shit..." She was in his arms, in her boarding house, just her and him together, forgetting the world, just them, together...

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Osthryth did not know how long she remained with Ula. She did remember the day she had opened her eyes and seen the healer, but could not move.

She did remember the healer telling her of the Battle of Catraech, beginning, "Gwyr a aeth ododin chwerthin ognaw, Chwerw en trin a llain en emdullyaw," and finishing, "Rug ciuin uerthi ig disur, Ig kynnor guernor guaurdur." It was a catastrophic defeat, Osthryth knew; Rheged and Pictland were broken apart, atomised to almost the basic level of subsistence, for all lords needed the farmer to grow the food and know how to store it.

There was a gentle melancholy about it all, a story, a history all together, meaning and interest and culture together.

It suited Osthryth that here was a detachment from the woman who was healing her. A chasm, where cultures, though fitted by each other like tesserae on the floor of an old Roman villa, were unconnected.

"Make a plan, any plan that is good for you, Osthryth," Ula had told her, then had sung on, this time Talisen, the poet, lifted her ears to the, "Gwen Ystrad," when Prince Urien fought at a forded river, fough the Picts at dawn, and won.

Osthryth. That was some thing of note. The Britons did not, as a rule, acknowledge personal names of Saxons. Acknowledgement was acceptance and Britons had little of their own, so it was understandable that they wished to use it sparingly.

"Where are you going?" If the Saxons had not noticed, and Osthryth guessed someone would, she had. Far fewer Britons were on the mud streets of the poor settlement without the city walls. That was the day Osthryth felt strong enough to stand at the front of Ula's house, the familiar smell of the morning's broth permeating the air.

"Cymru. Hywl Dda will take us." She reached for Osthryth's hand, then her other, and encouraged her to squeeze hers. Her strength was returning.

Ula had shared, because Osthryth had shared. She had told Ula, once, her mother had been of Rheged, and her ancestor was Urien. It was when she was singing Talisen, and Osthryth remembered the same song.

Then, on the morning Osthryth found she could walk, more or less, Ula had another question for her. "How long since you last had your bleeding? It has been two months since your warrior brought you."

Osthryth did not know.

"Your body needs treating," Ula told her.

"Old battle wounds," Osthryth suggested, vaguely. She watched Ula's daughter dismantle a washing stand, bundling up the wood. Not that there wasn't wood in Cymru, Osthryth supposed. It would be significant to them, a reason linked to their heathen faith, perhaps.

"No battle caused this," Ula told her, anger in her words. "I warned you last time."

"If I had not kept my counsel, others would have died," Osthryth told her, and she looked about Ula's home and the slow, systematic abandonment of their settlement, where Britons had probably lived for millennia. Ula understood, and busied herself with herbs from the bowls by her pot.

"You need some rue, monkshood, lily root." Osthryth lifted her head at the ingredients list, as Ula's pot released a slow, steady cloud of steam as it began to boil.

"There is a child, Osthryth."

"How long -?" She brought her yellowed arm and put her hand to her mouth.

"How long?" Ula asked her. "Since you came last."

"Two months."

"Be certain."

"No more than three."

"It is within the time you came to me," Ula told her, narrowing her lips, eyes looking at her depleted stores. "You were attacked then."

"Have I really been here that long?" Osthryth wondered.

"I track the moon," Ula shrugged.

Aethelwold. Even though it could be Edward's or Finan's, Osthryth's heart knew it was him. His attack on her was monstrous, horrific. Depraved. If he had learned it with the Danes, Osthryth was certain it was not the Danes she had known.

"I am going, north." There were hoards of silver she would steal. It would not take much to reach Hamptun. "I cannot have a child, this child, any child." Ula turned and looked at her, slowly, and contemplated Osthryth.

"I will do this, but it must be the last time. Your body is damaged, even if you choose birth it may be the death of you. This," she gestured to the pot, where a yellow-green mush was forming a foam near the top, " - may be the best for you in any case." She crossed to Osthryth. "You are of Urien's line. If I were to ask anything of you at all, Osthryth, I wish that you discover the depth of meaning of that, for yourself."

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And so, a bodily-healed, single-minded Osthryth strode towards the market square of Winchester, to an untrained eye no different than she had been a few weeks before.

She was meant to be Edward's guard, but nothing would compel her to the palace. Instead, she turned to the western street that would lead her to her rooms, and when she got there Osthryth found waiting for her was a man she knew. Aldhelm picked his head up and his face brightened when he saw her.

"Where have you been?" he asked, crossing to her. His face dropped a little when he realised something was not quite right.

"Unwell," Osthryth replied, laconically.

"Are you well enough to join us again? I need reliable people on guard, under the circumstances." He smiled his usual encouraging smile.

I do not believe that I have anything you require: you have one Lady in Mercia, Osthryth thought, bitchily.

"I would be too much trouble at the present time," Osthryth told him. Aldhelm sighed, visibly, and laid a hand delicately on her shoulder.

"Osthryth, I do not know what precisely has happened to you, what has kept you from your duty." He cleared his throat. "While I wish to see you back with us, I will respect your decision."

Osthryth flinched. She had spent much time hardening her heart, but Aldhelm's humility made Osthryth cringe at her own harshness.

"What happened?" A very good question. Osthryth looked at him in silence for a moment.

"I met my match in an opponent," she replied, slowly. "I was not clever enough to get away; I was trapped."

"Osthryth!" He exclaimed. "What can I do?" But Osthryth shook her head.

"Allow me to say that I can no longer serve Mercia," she told him.

"Understood," Aldhelm nodded. He made to step past her, then turned. "Should there be a time you should wish to join us again, there is no question. I, for my part, would be honoured, relieved, even, to stand shoulder to shoulder with you, Osthryth, in battle, any battle, in the future." He cleared his throat again. "May I ask where you go?"

"Home."

Aldhelm stared at her for a moment, then nodded his head. "Alba." And Osthryth knew that, indeed, she would be going to Alba, to Domhnall. She just had to make it worthwhile to the King of the Scots.

"I found this, in the armoury." Buaidh. It was not how she remembered her blade, she was polished, had an edge, and reached for her belt. Both absent, her sword and her seax. What had she done with the seax Taghd had left with her for safekeeping? Osthryth was aware that Aldhelm was still staring at her.

"I saw to it that your blade was readied, for whenever you need it - Osthryth," her name broke into his politeness, " - if ever you need my help, you only have to find me. No matter what, I am your friend." And then, as Aldhelm made to stride away from her, her once commander and ally in assassination, he turned. "Remember, too, Mercia is your home."

But what was she going to do now? Beside her rooms, which were dusty after several weeks lack of occupation, She could not stay in Wessex with threat of witchcraft over her and she had just closed the door on Mercia.

She walked. Out of the city, and on a circuitous walk around to the river, where she had often walked when she wanted to think, when she wanted to be away from the palace. Darkness came quicker than she expected, and Osthryth thought she might be hungry. But she did not feel as if she could pass food beyond her jaws.

But feeling sorry for herself flew away from Osthryth as she spied a small figure hurrying along to the building at the back of the palace's chapel and she followed her. A man stopped her, but it was clear Thyra did not want to speak to him for she put her shawl over her head and hurried. Osthryth avoided them by shrinking into the shadows and watched as the man followed her. A stone came out of somewhere, hitting Thyra on the back. The man picked up the pace, as did Thyra.

And then Beocca's wife stopped. For, when the man turned the corner, breaking into a jog, Osthryth tore after him, raising Buaidh and piercing him between the ribs.

Thyra was shaking, and she ran as fast as her child would let her. Osthryth followed her, but Thyra and Beocca's door was barred from the inside.

"Thyra!" Osthryth called. But Thyra did not answer. She shrank away again when, some hours later, a man came to the door, tried the latch, and then banged on the door. It was Thyra. Osthryth let go of Buaidh's handle as she watched Thyra's husband wait for her to let him in.

"Beocca!" Thyra cried when the door opened and launched herself into Beocca's arms, and Osthryth could see the woman had been crying, tear-rivulets reflected from the light of the full moon.

"...What aren't you telling me...?" Osthryth heard Beocca say, as she trod silently away, heading back the opposite way to where she had killed the man.

"Get a plan," she told herself, as she headed in the direction of the, "Two Cranes," at the south of the city, before doubling back and heading towards the market square. "Begin by pooling the silver, then plan your transport. You came to this city by trap and boat - these are good places to start."

A bell sounded in the distance, in the direction of the palace. Birds, disturbed from their nighttime roost, fluttered into the air as doors banged sporadically.

When she arrived at the Now back in Winchester. And she had. Osthryth knew what she was going to do. Already she knew of a cart heading to Hampton. At the port it would be a pretty straightforward matter to find a ship's passage. And Uhtred had been useful again. If her - brother - decided to hide his wealth when drunk, that was his problem.

"I have had no money for six weeks!" The complaint filled the darkness, and Osthryth, now very foot-weary, who had arrived back to her rooms, blinked deliberately several times. The wraith-like woman whose rooms Osthryth rented. She walked past her and strode into her room. Nothing she could tell had changed in the time she was away. The ash hadn't even been swept from the hearth.

"Are you going to pay me?" the woman demanded, following her in. Osthryth turned to her, slowly, wondering whether she had just imagined her body creaking.

"The palace," Osthryth said, poking a finger in its direction. But the woman folded her arms.

"No! I have had nothing! How am I going to live?" Osthryth pushed past her, and felt for the candles on a shelf by the wall. Still dry, so she struck a flint against the stone onto some straw, then dangled it over them. Light oozed into the room.

"Well?" Osthryth turned, pushing the woman out into the street by the shoulder, and closing the door behind her.

"Pay me, or leave!" She screamed at the door, but Osthryth had only closed it to prevent the whining woman from seeing where at least one bag of her brother's silver was hidden, and she opened the door again, slamming into the woman's hand enough coins to pay her for the next two years. "How am I going to live?" She whined again.

"You won't, when the Danes take the kingdom," Osthryth said, without remorse for her hard words. The woman stared at her hand, then back to Osthryth, before scuttling away.

And she slept. Not as comfortably, or dreamlessly as she had with Ula. Images began to form in her mind as she slipped into unconsciousness, like shadows, that disappeared as soon as Osthryth's sleeping eye began to try to focus on them, or follow them.

The morning came, a damp drizzle, and Osthryth felt she could not remain indoors.

Tonight, then. Tonight, she would sneak into the palace, get to the stables, retrieve all she could. Tonight, she would go to the armoury and find her hoard there. Consolidate it so that she could slip it all into her clothing, and chance on a journey to Hamptun. It was a mere nine miles' walk in any case, with a busy port to find passage north, if she could not steal a horse.

How ill-coloured the place looked now. Dark and mizzly, the colour seemed to be out of the world, and Osthryth had no interest in anything either, except the mechanism of leaving, just as the Britons were leaving.

So she went to another inn, less frequented by the palace guard, and ate a quiet, midday meal of meat and cheese, bread and boiled water. The bell sounded again, and more activity came from the streets.

Which meant her mind was not entirely alert when a hand caught her arm. Osthryth turned quickly, reaching for Taghd's seax and gripping nothing. Instead, she found that blade in the hand of her accoster.

It was Thyra, and she was holding the seax defiantly to Osthryth's chest, lowering it when she saw who she was threatening.

"Osthryth?" the woman asked, and declared, "Osthryth!" louder, jumping towards her in a hug, when she nodded. "Come, come with me," Thyra urged, and looped her arm in Osthryth's, escorting her to hers and Beocca's home.

"You are feeling threatened, walking around Winchester?" Osthryth asked, as the woman barred the front door again, moving to the back one and struggling with the plank. Osthryth took it from her, and pushed it into place.

"Thank you," Thyra exhaled, panting a little at the exertion, before stirring at a pot suspended over a small firepit in the centre of the living room. She was fuller in the stomach since Osthryth last remembered her. Her time could not be much longer. "Will you eat supper?"

Though she had eaten, the smells from the pot, of first meat of the killing season and harvested vegetables made her stomach grumble, and Osthryth readily agreed. As she sat with Osthryth, Thyra leaned into her, and placed a hand on her forearm.

"You followed me the other day," Thyra told her. Osthryth nodded. "And you killed a man."

"Yes," Osthryth agreed, her cold attack coming to her mind. "You looked as if you were being harrassed."

"I have been, for I am a Dane, no matter that I am a Christian and married to a priest," she said, sadly, but then fixed Osthryth with the same look that she remembered her brother, Young Ragnar, giving Osthryth when she had left Dunholm, and she half-expected Thyra to call her, "Krieger-kvinde".

"But that man," Thyra persisted, "He was not the man who has been bothering me. Please, do not do that again."

"I won't," Osthryth told her, meaning it. She did not intend to be around after tomorrow, so the chances of her finding a man who was giving Beocca's wife a hard time would be slim.

"Does Beocca know?" Osthryth asked her.

"He does not," Thyra replied.

"Shall I tell him, or shall you?"

"I have the blade you gave me," Thyra told her, putting Taghd's seax on the table, and Osthryth got the impression Thyra did not want Osthryth to ask for it back. So she didn't, and instead, asked, "What was your name, when you were younger?" Osthryth jerked her head and looked at her. How did she know she had been otherwise named? Beocca, perhaps?

"Aedre," Osthryth told her, spooning the last of the broth into her mouth, where it was very well received.

"Aedre," Thyra mused, and stroked her stomach. "I like it."

Just then, a bell sounded. Thyra pushed back her chair. "I must go, Beocca will need me at the chapel." She looked at Osthryth for a moment.

"May I walk you there?" And Thyra's face broke into one of relief.

"I would be very grateful," Thyra replied, and the two women walked from the house and back up to the palace. No threats, or harrassment, and Osthryth ordered two guards aside, young striplings, which was unusual at night. Where were the more experienced guards? What had Steapa been thinking, if Danes were approaching? Where was Aldhelm, or for that matter, the dratted Aldred and those others of his type?

It mattered little to Osthryth, however, as her excursion with Thyra had a second purpose: the silver, which she located, when Thyra had kissed her goodbye at the chapel's door, still in the stables, still in the armoury, and she trod the streets of Winchester until she had got back to her rooms.

Fold the silver flat, Osthryth told herself, when she had locked her own door. Tie it to yourself and walk south, or ride, if she could manage it, but Osthryth could not manage the coins in a flat shape, so instead, she pulled her bedsheet to strips, wrapping them around the coins so they would not jangle, and then she could wrap the blanket around it, and carry it on a stick, like a vagrant, with her. There was a slight knock at the door.

Leaving a the job nearly finished, Osthryth moved the bag towards the corner of the room, for she did not want Aldhelm asking questions. As she opened it, the bell rang again in the night air, and only then did she vaguely wonder what it was for.

"Osthryth!" He called her by her name, Finan, and Osthryth just stood there, fixed, as Finan's face broke into a hopeful smile.

"I have been waiting for yer..." he began, stepping in, and Osthryth did not stop him. "Where have yer been, girl?" He asked her, and Osthryth shut the door behind him, shutting out the bell signal once again.

"What is that?" she asked, but Finan ignored her, and turned to face her. "I had been here, waiting for yer, for mny, many nights," Finan told her. "I thought you were gone, and - " He her face, and watched Osthryth's mouth turn up at the corners, the best she could do when her heart felt so sore. Then, she threw herself at him, no tears, no emotion, just holding on to him until, after a time, he pried her from him.

"I am sorry I left no word," Osthryth said, as he drew her to sit next to him on her bed. "I went away. My brother - "

"You found yer brother?" Osthryth had told him, a long time ago, but since she had found out her brother was Uhtred, she had never mentioned the subject to him again.

"I have found my brother," Osthryth said, with care, and she saw he was examining her face, particularly the inuries around her eye and her head.

"Your brother, what?" Finan asked, his tone growing more grave.

"Threatened me," she replied, laconically.

"Threatened yer? Must have been a lot of heavy words for you to look like that." And Osthryth did entirely the wrong thing, and pulled her clothes closer to herself.

"I...was not on my best form," she continued.

"I tried to find you," Finan went on, "I went to that healer, the Briton. She said she had not seen you." And Osthryth felt her heart melt to a puddle, at the kindness of Ula, though she need not have had to, and the persistence of the man she loved.

"Yet, I was there. She treated me. Lucky, really," Osthryth added, pulling her arm from Finan's grasp - she did not want his touch, for any touch was abhorrent to her, but eve this resolve buckled under the pressure of her feeling for him. He did nothing more than pull her close, and stroke her hair, and Osthryth let herself lean on Finan and listened to his words.

"We are to right; Uhtred has a plan; a plan to help Ragnar," Finan told her.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

"Brida believes that he is in the cold of hell rather than Valhalla. Some rite will send him on tbe way. He knows who killed Ragnar."

"Aethelwold." It had to be Aethelwold. Brida might only have had to ask Osthryth, though she had no proof. He had the most to gain by trying to dominate an army heading for Wessex.

"You knew?" Finan pulled away from her and looked at her face.

"I deduced. It was obvious." And the feeling as if she were disconnected from it all, a detachment of emotion, came over Osthryth again. She was functioning; Aethelwold and Untred had driven away any feeling, all that was good, and happy and right in her life.

"And what is the rite?"

"Thyra's blood, mingled with his blood, and the blade Ragnar was killed with," Finan said, stroking her hair, then he ran his hand down her back. Osthryth winced, out of habit. There had been soft tissue injuries across her shoulder blades from the flogging she had received, and she had forgotten that they were no longer causing her pain. "Uhtred is going to do this, at the battle, at Bedford, one last push by Alfred, if he lives, to - " he broke off.

"This brother," Finan persisted, "What did the bastard do to you?" But Osthryth did not answer, and instead, reached for his breeches, first hand-jobbing his cock, and massaging his balls, and when he was good and hard, allowing, her mouth to slip around it until Finan came. She could give him pleasure, at least; it was on her terms.

And he closed his eyes, and Osthryth nestled under his arm, sleeping beside him, until his restless dreams wakened her. Finan opened his eyes too, and the lighted candles illuminated his confused face.

"Osthryth? Come back to bed."

"You were talking in your sleep," Osthryth told him, "I wanted you to have the room you needed. "Were they bad dreams?" Finan nodded. "To do with your slavery?"

But that was too much, and Finan shuffled away from Osthryth, and she regretted asking him. She stood up, and Finan stood too. He was still breeches-less, and his seed coated his cock. He was not aroused yet, but it soon twitched to life as he moved to Osthryth and began to undress her, and in her absence of mind, he had got to her bindings before she recoiled.

Osthryth looked at his face, really looked, at the Irishman, who had been a slave and now followed Uhtred just as slavishly who had been so troubled by his incarceration it had cost him the stability of any sort of home. He was content to be with Uhtred, who had shared that ghastly experience with him, which anchored him to a purpose, and now she knew he felt like she was rejecting him.

And she loved him, Finan Mòr, the Irishman with whom she could converse in Gaidhlieg like their own private language, a bond of her childhood and happy times. She would be by him, with him, his wife, her husband if the church had ever demanded for their partnership to be legitimite. But he would never abandon Uhtred. He would be hardest to leave, when she departed Wessex.

But she thought no more about it as knock came to the door. It was Osferth. He looked at Finan, and then at Osthryth, clutching her clothes to her chest, and instantly back to Finan again.

"Uhtred said you must come," he told his comrade. But Finan shook his head.

"No, baby monk, I will not." But Osferth did not move, and spoke again in his soft, determined voice.

"He said you would say that and said to tell you that Alfred has died." Behind Osferth, the bell sounded again, but its toll had changed; it now rang at twice the rate it had rung before. Finan turned his back to Osferth, and grabbed Osthryth gently by her elbows, drawing her to him.

"Stay here," he told her, in Gaelish. "Wait for me, I'll not be long."

"I'll wait," Osthryth agreed.

And she waited, against her better judgment, and her first thought was, that man who came to get Finan, that was his father, too. And he will be sidelined, and pushed away, as if his pain, as great, of not greater than those of his siblings, did not matter.

Osthryth cried, because of that. Hot, blubbery tears, for the king, for Osferth. For the death of her time in Wessex, ending on the day the king of Wessex had also met his death. She would atone for Osferth, Osthryth decided, she would do a piece of good for someone else in his name, for the cruelty that was bastard children and the burden they had to carry.

It was morning when Finan returned, clicking open the latch, to find Osthryth still semi-naked, stil pressing her clothes to her chest, lying on her bed, and he sat down by her legs and reached out to stroke her hair. He left her food and milk, covered in cloths, and and waited until he could wait no longer, and strode away, to whatever business Uhtred would have of him.

"There is to be a funeral, this night," Finan told her, when he returned that evening. Osthryth had awoken, dressed, and eaten the food he had left for her. Her mind had been filled with mist again, and, that afternoon, she had called out to a boy running in the street to check that Finan and his message about Alfred was not a dream.

"He has died," the boy confirmed, solemnly. "They say Edward Rex will be the next king, after the funeral."

And Finan had, once again, to return to Uhtred. There was a royal family to guard, and Osthryth ran to the door, looking at the sunset.

"Finan," Osthryth said, softly, and he cradled her in his arms and they stood there for some time. She felt low, so very low, her time in Winchester like a list of instructions, tasks to do, she could not feel anything in anything she did.

Except anger.

Then his hands roamed, and Osthryth let him take off her jerkin and breeches, and she got to work on his breeches for Finan was still clothed, and he did not seem to want to undress himself. Osthyth wondered whether he was going to insist in remaining clothed, so if Uhtred needed him it wouldn't take him long to go.

But Finan, Osthryth realised, had stopped for another reason, and had backed away from her, his eyes were looking at her body, all over her body, and Osthryth cursed herself for letting her mind go where her will would go, and not being cautious about her injuries.

"Osthryth!" He exclaimed, looking back to her eyes, "What the hell happened to you?"

And that was when Osthryth felt the shame creep over her skin, and she pulled away from Finan, and she scrabbled for the blanket to cover herself with.

"Osthryth!" He insisted. But she said nothing. How could she tell him? What words did she have for this?

And she got up from under him, and stood back, fully naked, which made matters worse.

"Your body, Osthryth!" He said, putting words where she could not. "Your stomach, your back..."

"Battle injuries," she lied, but Finan shook his head.

"No," he replied, pointing at her, his voice low, dangerous. "No battle would do that to yer..."

"I found myself in a position I could not fight back," Osthryth told him. It was a bland statement, one which she quite expected Finan to scoff at, which he did.

"Who did this?" he demanded. "Edward? I will ram my sword so far up his arse - " But Osthryth shook her head. She was about to give some woolly words about a brother she had decided against meeting again, when he remembered what she had said earlier.

"This brother of yours - " he began, and then stepped back, and onto the wrapped bundle of silver. "You are leaving?" He narrowed his eyes. "Osthryth?" He asked. But this time it was time for Osthryth to question him.

"Alba, Éireann," she shrugged. "Come with me." But Finan shook his head, slowly at first, then looked down.

"I swore an oath. To Uhtred." His reply sounded as pathetic as Osthryth's own excuse.

"Tuchdeen!" Osthryth spat back. "Tuchdeen!"

And then Finan advanced on Osthryth, angry now, and asked, "What, what is it with you and him? Did he jilt ye?"

"How do you know I did not jilt him?" Osthryth shot back, realising Finan was looking at her injuries again. She had, too, on the way to Lundene. "Mac na bean-cu!" she added.

"You forgot to slander his mother there,"Finan said, but his words were soft now, his face tender.

"For I never knew her," Osthryth replied. Finan narrowed his eyes a little at her strange reply, but drive to know the enmity between his best friend and his lover overrode curiosity.

"Why do you hate him so?" Finan persisted, and Osthryth turned away, beginning to dress.

"I found my brother," Osthryth told him, glancing over her shoulder.

"And it is he who did this to ye?" Finan asked, watching her slip on her shirt, and pull on her boots.

"Uhtred," Osthryth gulped as she jerked her head to him, the name slipping from her throat, in a choked cry. "I am his sister, Finan Mòr!" she said, taking his face in his hands, then turned away as quickly. And softer, reiterated, "I am his sister!"

And she backed away from Finan as the realisation flooded her mind, finally admitting that, yes, her brother had been in Wessex all that time, and she had failed to unify with him, failed to be kin. She had been a shadow all this time, following him, never trusting him until the time when trust was no longer an option.

"His sister..."

But Osthryth's steel returned, and she folded her arms. It was nothing like she had pictured, and Osthryth had, indeed, imagined telling Finan first, when she had first discovered he had a language in common with her, to help smooth the path to Uhtred. At the beginning, and she had soon abandoned that idea.

She realised Finan was staring at her.

"You wanted to know - I am his sister...I am Aedre ingen Uhtred; Uhtredsdottir, as Uhtred is Uhtredsson. I was born just after he was taken by the Danes."

"He has a sister?" Finan asked, dumbfounded.

"Did he not know?" And she watched him sink, bollock-naked, onto her bed.

"I do not believe so, but...all this time - " He looked at Osthryth, his eyes shining, joy in his words, "This is wonderful news! Tell him! He will be happy; he won't treat you like this again!" He already has, Osthryth thought, wretchedly.

"He had a brother too," Finan enthused. "Until the Danes, who he grew up with, murdered him...your other brother," he added.

But Osthryth shrank away from Finan, towards the bundle that she would take with her, away from Wessex, her mind focusing for a moment on the third of that name, her younger brother, Uhtred.

"It can never be...after what he has done."

"No!" Finan replied, shaking his head, "No! Listen! I can talk to him, we can make this right!"

"No, Finan!" Osthryth insisted, folding her arms around her. "I told a lie, once, a lie to preserve myself. It did not work, but that lie has followed me ever since Eireann!"

"Lie? What lie?" And he knew, knew, in his mind, and in his heart. "The sun?"

"It was disappearing!" Osthryth pressed on, her voice hollow, looking away. "I told them...the princes...that I was a witch..." she looked, wretchedly to Finan, "To stop them raping me."

And then they tried to drown you, Finan thought.

"It was a lie?" Finan looked thunderstruck. "Osthryth...!" And he thought of how he had participated in the lie, told Uhtred, one night, when he lay under a clear, icy sky, as slaves in Iceland, when colours danced over it, red and purple and blue. Uhtred, he noted, grimly, had enjoyed the story.

"He is your brother...you can get past all this!" Finan insisted, casting guilty thoughts from his mind. "I can speak to him for yer - " But Osthryth changed tack.

"What did your brother do to you?" She demanded. And Finan thought about what he had cast aside for the woman with such beauty. His brother's wife.

Gormlaith.

He had abandoned his children and his own wife to run away with her. He would never utter her name again.

"You can forgive him?"

"Never." Then, he looked at Osthryth. "Gisela? Did you kill her?" Osthryth laughed, and shook her head, laughing again.

"I took herbs, Finan," she told him, "And prepared them as the British healer told me to." She turned her head away. "But it made no difference; was too late, there was little I could do."

"Tell him!" Finan demanded.

"I hate him! I will not try again! He believes what he wants to believe, and chose...violence." And then Finan was by her, kissing her lips, kissing her face. But Osthryth flinched, shying from him and Finan stepped back as she shook her head. Uhtred had spoiled everything, that she could not even bear Finan's hands on her now.

"And you want to return to Pictland," he said. It was not a question and Osthryth nodded and moved away from him again.

"When I fled Bebbanburg, I was taken by King Aed to be compantion of his son, Constantine," she explained. "It was my home for so long."

"Constantine?" Finan echoed, and a look passed over his face. Fate really was inexorable...how was it he had come across her again? Had she really been naked, next to his own naked body? Had he really loved her, come in her, enjoyed her, and her him And then, especially the one of a shadowy figure, fresh from Aethelwold's punishment. Hanging by the wrists, no flesh discernable as a result of the floggings.

The bell rang again, double time, and Osthryth broke off, looking at the door, waiting for the knock. It did not come. But Finan was already dressing.

"Stay in Wessex, Osthryth!" Finan compelled, taking her hands and holding them firmly. "We can make this right...there is something I need to talk to you about...to explain..."

Osthryth said nothing, but looked at the door again.

"The funeral, I have to be here, stay here, wait for me, Osthryth. Wait here."

"Yes," she agreed, despite herself.

"Yes," Finan confirmed, looking at her in the eyes, before drawing her to him, and kissing her hard, purposefully, on the lips, and she felt his body beneath her clothes.

Osthryth watched Finan pace at speed down towards the marketplace, and her eyes adjusted to the blackness. And doubt immediately replaced the promise she had just given. She could not stay here! After all that? She sank to her bed, feeling the thick wool fibres.

And even if apologies were given and ameds were made, which Osthryth doubted could ever happen, she could still be taken off to be hanged, for her lie.

When she could not stand the tension any longer, Osthryth got to her feet, diving to the cloth in which she had wrapped her silver, and bundled it up in the blanket, making it into a pack which she could carry.

One thing left to do.

Removing Buaidh, Osthryth bunched up her hair, which had grown to shoulder length. She had erred, and as such, her hair was her forefeit. Around her, golden strands sprinkling around her, like thin autumn leaves on a warm day.

She would start anew. She was leaving Wessex and vowed never to return. Alfred was dead, everyone would be at the funeral. It was the perfect time to leave.

Osthryth doused the candles, and closed the door.

She was halfway along Westgate when she saw a person hurrying along it. The streets were deserted, predictably, for everybody who was everybody would be inside the chapel at the palace, and everyone else would be outside. So it was an odd sight, and Osthryth turned and followed the figure.

For she recognised the gait: it was Thyra. Behind her, a man strode, pausing when Thyra paused, and began to walk, too, when she did.

Caution, Osthryth thought. Do not attack him. If you commit murder, you will definitely not be leaving Wessex. She had Taghd's seax, and Osthryth, filled with a nostalgia obtained only when a place is far away from a person in time or space, infiltrated her mind. She never got to tell Thyra about the seax, or Taghd, or anyone about her time in Alba. And she was happy to go. Thyra had the seax; she would be fine.

And turned, to head south, to the Hamptun road. But a shriek made her head turn, and she saw flames beginning to kiss the sky.

At first, Osthryth thought it was a battle, beyond Winchester's walls, and the Danes had reached the city. But she checked herself: everyone was at the funeral, there was no-one who would fight a battle.

Osthryth turned back, against the will of her feet which had definitely left Wessex and were heading to Alba, before drawing to a horrified halt: Thyra and Beocca's house was on fire, and it was taking hold.

The smoke was hot, thick. It burned her throat, coiled into her lungs. Osthryth stumbled coughing into the building that was more flame than wood. She tried to call for Thyra but her name died in her throat. In her coughing fit, Osthryth groped for a surface her hand catching a table. On it, she dislodged a bowl of water, which crashed onto the wooden planks of the house floor.

A whimper came up through them. Osthryth gasped, more smoke filling her lungs. She groped on the floor, lying close to it. A cloth had soaked into the water amd she pulled ut to her mouth, her airways clearing suddenly.

A banging came from the floor where the whimper had come from. Outside, shouting. Osthryth crawled along to the floor, groping with the other hand as the damp cloth filtered the intensifying smoke.

Another breath and a crumble ahead as the front of the house took the flame. The heat was intense; it was like looking at a thousand suns.

A body, itself fuelling the fire caught Osthryth's foot and she stumbled, before pushing it away with her hands, lowering the damp cloth from her mouth. And that's when she saw it - the trapdoor, and the whimper was coming underneath.

When she thought she could stand it no longer Osthryth's hand caught a latch. Scrabbling, she pulled it open, the smoke curling and coiling around the square hole. The flame roared before her as the consumed wood crackled away. An out-draught of air shot into the house of Father Beocca. Osthryth plunged forward.

Siezing the body of Uhtred's adopted sister she pulled Thyra up through the hatch under which she had been trapped. Her head lolled back but Osthryth pulled her to her shoulder. The charred body of the dead man, whoever he was, fell in as Osthryth stepped through the remains of the floorboards.

Ahead of her, the door was a burning archway, the wood crackling around it making it larger and smokier.

Osthryth took her chance. With the might of her body she leapt to it, Thyra's tiny frame a negligible burden on her shoulder.

In the street feet running, feet pounding, voices calling, and calling.

Staggering, Osthryth stumbled into the street, Thyra falling beside her. The shouts were getting louder as the thatch lit up, white-hot peaks of flame stretched for the midnight-blue sky.

She swallowed and shouldered the woman again, willing that Ula had not yet left for Cymru. Down Aldgate, through the passage near Gaolgate and into the slums of Micklegate. Mud-dark children slunk against the wall as Osthryth's voice broke over the words "Move!" and "Now!"

And there was Ula, leaning on a broom, glancing to the sky as the fire belched hot smoke into the night sky.

"Help her!" Osrthyth demanded, unfolding the copper-headed Danishwoman onto the horsehair mattress. Ula raised an eye. Then, her face became a mask of concern.

"I know her. She came for rune-sticks six months ago. She is married to a Christian priest."

"She was very nearly burned alive at her home," Osthryth snarled. I followed her out of the King's wake. She has breathed a good deal of smoke," Osthryth added.

"Thyra Ragnarsdottir," Ula nodded, but then alarm filled her face when Thyra screamed, the power behind it nullified by the burns on the inside of her throat.

"And how much will you pay this time, for her, ferch Urien...?" But Ula's practised words were cut shirt as Osthryth pushed a bag of silver into her hand, stopping Ula's picking of her burnt jerkin. A groan from Thyra caused her to jerk back her head as Osthryth stepped to Beocca's wife.

"Pull the curtain, quickly!" Ula demanded, the candle-smoke trailing as she pinched out the flame." Osthryth did so, then stalked over to her, hands on hips.

"What is the matter with her?" But Ula did not answer. Instead, she tried to get Thyra, her singed skin on her face and neck crinkling as she did so.

"No, she is too weak to lift, Rheged-woman," Ula shot at her, "you must tilt her forward while I help her deliver!"

Half an hour later, and Osthryth was pacing on the straw-and-dung- strewn alleyway, images of Mairi and the experience of Aila in her mind. So much blood! So much pain!

"Come!" Ula shouted. Osthryth pulled back the curtain. Blinking, Osthryth strode in. She had been banished for being a Briton, and had lived in the shadows for a long time with her kin. Yet, butterness did not eat at her. Osthryth would come to think on that when Uhtred pressed in her mind. Give in to forgiveness, not hatred. Osthryth would soon learn how difficult that would be.

And Osthryth's head turned to a mewling coming from a sun-bleached cloth; a tiny hand groping in the air.

"Take her," Ula panted, the effort of this little child's entry to the world sapping energy from her muscles and sinews and ligaments. "Take her!" the healer demanded, holding her out to Osthryth. "It has mere months since I took life from you; I am giving it back!" Osthryth looked between the baby and Thyra.

"She used what strength she had left to bear her," Ula added, sorrow in her voice. She looked slowly over to Thyra and lowered her eyes. Osthryth looked too. Sonehow the woman, Father Beocca's pagan wife, looked at peace, nothing at all like she had been, screaming in terror at the fate that was to befall her.

"Take the child!" Ula insisted, for I know of no-one else who can. We depart tomorrow, now that the old king has died." She pulled at Osthryth's jerkin and then her shirt. "If you don't feed her now she will surely die like her mother." Ula held out the bundle. The tiny child rooted for instinctively for the teat as Osthryth felt her mouth falling open. She couldn't do this? A child? She was leaving for Alba!

"There will be no charge, Osthryth of Rheged," Ula told her, giving Osthryth back the purse of money. "I will send this good Dane on to Valhalla; you will raise her daughter."

Osthryth began to laugh. Take a child? A baby? She had no home, no place, nothing to offer a child. She cast her eyes on Thyra.

"Her parents died in a fire," Osthryth murmered. My brother told me. Only he didn't know that he had. That was the day he had laughed with his men over the antics of Mus, the Bishop's wife and devout carer of the poor and hungry, who sold her body in the tavern at night for the fun of it. That had been the night Uhtred had taken Mus for his own.

The night before he - her own brother - had abducted her to Aethelwold. So much for Gisela's memory.

In Ula's arms the little thing tried to cry, but its lungs, underdeveloped and weak, could only manage a sound like a loud sigh. Osthryth cursed her body. Since paying for information on her back and conceiving from it, it had never been the same as it once had been.

"She will perish if you do not, Osthryth," Ula warned.

And then her body intervened in the impasse between mind and biology. Dampness oozed on the inside of her linen jerkin. Osthryth held out her arms and took the child, knocking the buttons of her leather jacket open with one hand.

The baby took it eagerly, though there was no fore-milk. It would have to do. Of course it would have to do. If she took the baby back to her father she would be put to a wet-nurse and, within a week, suffer the same fate as her mother.

"Sit," Ula said kindly, though there was little in the way of furniture left in her house. "Eat. Remember this, kin of mine: she will want to know her mother; she is comnected to her mother so strongly." Ula turned her black head back to Thyra.

"She will be strong, and a sorceress. But she will keep her Christianity." Ula looked back to Osthryth. "Like you, Osthryth. A Christian of the Irish faith who, beneath it all, knows our heathen gods and feels their real presence."

The Morrigan. Could she even feel the great queen of the Sidhe with her now?

She smiled and looked down at her new, unexpected charge, and shuddered. Is this what her baby might have been like? Hers and...his? Tiny, squirming, mewling, desperate for food, for closeness?

"She must be baptised," Osthryth declared.

"But, of course; it is part of who she is. But, like you, she will never forget." Osthryth said nothing for, to her shame, she knew that Ula, the outlaw healer, spoke the truth.

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"Aedre", Osthryth said, almost to herself, when her heart had stopped hammering and the tiny baby was surviving next to her own skin, buttoned up against her chest.

"It is a long way to Alba," Gert cautioned her, as water splashed on Osthryth's face. He looked kindly to her, sitting within his fish catch, and also, concerned. The child concerned him. Ulf nudged his brother.

"She has paid?" He asked his brother, angrily, and Osthryth remembered how much the big Frisian fisherman, who had always been so kind to her, had a brother who hated her for no apparent reason.

"Then double, for she has opened her legs and brought forth a second passenger."

Osthryth watched as Gert punched his brother hard, and he fell over the edge of the boat, landing smack into Hamptun's harbour water. As he climbed out, he gave Osthryth a look of detestation, but she stared him out, despite how vulnerable she felt with her breast outside her clothes, feeding the infant.

The child was snug, though, and when she had finished her fill, gave a tiny belch, and settled to Osthryth's warm chest. Ulf ogled Osthryth, who pulled her shirt close to.

"Alba?" Gert asked, his voice soft, kind. He hadn't changed much in half a dozen years, maybe getting more muscular, broader, and handed her sacking and moss. "The child, you know, it go."

And go Aedre went, all over Osthryth, and she was overcome, crying and laughing as Gert shielded the cleaning process until Thyra's child had a clean bottom once more.

The were going to safety, to King Domhnall who, she was hoping, would be swayed by the silver enough to overlook her flight. To her home, Osthryth thought, and saw the hills and glens and mountains of the land she loved.

To Alba.