Oft for ðæs lareowes unwisdome misfaraþ ða hieremenn.
Often because of the leader's folly, the followers go astray, Gregory the Great's Pastoral Care.


Ceolbert dreamed of being chased again.

Once more he was stumbling through the town, hearing the cries of dying men dogging his every step. This was Repton, his childhood home, and yet in his terror it seemed anything but hospitable; the walls were tall shadows looming over him, and the trees extended their branches as if trying to grab him with great crooked claws. Ashes and smoke clogged his nostrils as the flames ate through Repton. Still, Ceolbert trudged through blood-soaked mud, raw fear propelling him forward.

Finally, he staggered outside the town walls. Ceolbert ran out to the shoreline to wade through waist-deep water, knowing well that his pursuer was still close. Unlike the men he commanded, this hunter was silent, committed solely to his pursuit. When he arrived to the islet, Ceolbert drew his sword, turning to face his grim-faced opponent. The man walked slowly as he emerged from the water, broad shoulders and dark head haloed by the blaze ravaging the city behind him.

"Stop," Ceolbert said, blade pointed at his pursuer, blood trickling from its point in a slow, steady drip, "I do not wish to fight you. This… this doesn't have to end this way."

The hunter's face expressed no emotion. He was covered in blood—his own, and that of the men he'd killed. "It does." He raised his greatsword high above his head. It gleamed red in the firelight. "The enemies of Mercia must die."

He swung the blade and—

Ceolbert awoke with a gasp.

For an eternity he lay panting in the dark, sheets and furs twisted around his body. When Ceolbert finally calmed down, his eyes had adjusted enough to see the dim outlines of his surroundings. Great tables, with chairs scattered about. A hearthfire, braises still aglow. Moonlight peering in the rafters high above his head, and tapestries and shields hung on every wall.

The meadhall. He was in the longhouse in Ravensthorpe—safe and sound, surrounded by friends.

Ceolbert sat up in his cot, grasping at his chest. His heart pounded hard. He was in no discernable danger and yet—he only had to close his eyes to see once more the cold condemnation in Leofrith's gaze as he'd stared down at Ceolbert, that dreadful night.

This was not the first time he had dreamed of this event.

And Ceolbert was sure it would not be the last.

With a sigh, he stood. Ceolbert could hear the murmur of a conversation coming from the war room; Eivor and Randvi were still awake, then. Part of him wished he could go speak to the two women – the part that had driven him to seek his mother or sister's company when he had been spooked by a nightmare as a boy, he suspected. At the thought, his cheeks grew hot with shame. No, it would be ludicrous to look for reassurance as if he was still a small child. Ceolbert was a man now, tested and tried in battle. Eivor and Randvi had been kind with him so far, but he could imagine all too well the scorn that would surely show on their faces if he were to trouble them with his childish worries.

Instead, he headed outside the longhouse. At this late hour, the small, quaint village of Ravensthorpe was quiet, save for the nighttime noises of the surrounding forest. These sounds were comforting; even miles away from Repton, nature remained the same: owls still howled in the night, foxes still shrieked in the darkness. If Ceolbert closed his eyes and listened, he could almost pretend he was home.

He could almost still pretend he was simply Ceolbert of Repton, the son of a lowly thegn, instead of the heir to a throne won through violence and treachery.


The Dane warriors stationed in Repton had marched out on a grey morning to join the other forces camped outside Ledecestre. Ceolbert had ridden beside the brothers while his father had stayed nearer the end of the column of soldiers. Ceolbert was nervous—but also curious. As a boy reading old military treatises, he'd often imagined how ancient battles had unfolded, the majesty of dozens, even hundreds of men moving as if they were one. What sort of tactics would the Danes use in battle? What sort of strategy could they employ to minimize the loss of lives?

How could Ceolbert prove himself useful, for once?

The morning they left the encampment for Tamworth, Ivarr came to fetch Ceolbert at the break of dawn, calling in a sing-song voice, "Little ǫðlingr! It's time to go to war! We must feed the Raven-God's black-feathered attendants!" The man had been surprised—and perhaps a little disappointed—to find Ceolbert awake and ready, his belongings neatly packed upon his horse.

Together, they had gone to meet with Ubba, who waited upon his horse next to the column of marching soldiers. Ivarr's brother was accompanied by two other Dane warriors, a red-haired man that Ceolbert recognized as Jarl Sigurd of the Raven clan and… a woman. A shieldmaiden. Ceolbert had heard of the famous Dane female warriors, but he had never laid eyes upon one. The fair-haired she-warrior was nearly as tall as the Jarl, and her scowl was formidable indeed; Ceolbert suspected that many cowhearted men must have fled when faced with her fury.

"Come on, boy," Ivarr said. "We'll forge a man from your softness, hammered on the anvil of war."

Ceolbert tore his gaze away from the shieldmaiden. He frowned as he said, "One does not need to fight to be a—"

"Move!" Ivarr cut him off, dragging him by the arm. "Move!"

"Calm, Ivarr," said Ubba. "The fight's not here."

Ivarr snorted. "Aye. The fight's not anywhere to be found in this boy."

"A boy who happens to be Ceolwulf's son." Ubba knit his brow in a thoughtful look. "It's ludicrous to bring him along. We should leave in the camp here with his father."

Ivarr shrugged in a nonchalant manner. "Our future king needs a battle-hardened heir. Time the lad proves his worth, don't you think?"

"Can't be an heir if he's dead, Ivarr," the shieldmaiden said. Her voice was deep and hoarse. There was a scar on her neck, a tangled, angry knot of flesh. Ceolbert wondered if that old wound had anything to do with the raspy quality of her voice. "Can he wield a sword?"

"I've had some training," Ceolbert replied. At her insistent gaze, he blushed, adding, "I only... I must admit I am reluctant to kill anyone. These are my friends, my countrymen."

"Relax, little king," Ivarr said with a laugh, "they won't call you friend now. You can thank your father for that."

Ceolbert's stomach made a painful somersault at these words. The shieldmaiden narrowed her eyes at Ivarr.

"Throwing a boy who stinks of fear to a pack of wolves is not the best way to train him," she continued. "Are you sure that's what Ceolwulf wants?"

"Mm..." Ivarr shrugged again. "He left it open for interpretation."

They mounted up, following the line of soldiers until they reached the head of the column. The Ragnarssons exchanged light banter with the Jarl, while Ceolbert rode beside the shieldmaiden. She seemed to note his scrutiny, glancing at him with piercing blue eyes. Ceolbert quickly looked away in response.

"You seem curious, young lord," she said, with the barest lilt of amusement in her voice.

"I'm sorry," Ceolbert answered, "I should have introduced myself properly. My name is Ceolbert, son of Ceolwulf. A pleasure to meet you."

"I am Eivor Wolf-Kissed, of the Raven clan," the shieldmaiden said.

Ceolbert raised his brows. "And you are Jarl Sigurd's…?"

"Sister," Eivor completed. "We are newly arrived in England. This battle will serve to prove the valour of our clan to the Ragnarssons."

And thus earn yourselves powerful allies, Ceolbert thought. "Your voice, Eivor. You sound different than the brothers."

Her scarred lips twitched into a genuine smile. "Good ear, lad. Most in England cannot tell the difference. But not all Danes are Danes."

Ceolbert nodded. He had suspected as much in his dealings with the varied bunch that made up the Ragnarssons' army. "From where do you come, if I may ask?"

"North of the Dane Lands. A place called Fornburg, in Norway."

Ceolbert had never seen a map of the mainland that included the Danes' home territories, and thus his curiosity was genuinely piqued. "I didn't know there was land north of there," he said. "What are the people like?"

"You ever see a herd of sheep follow each other off the edge of a cliff?" Eivor answered, jutting her chin. "They're like that. The ones who remained, anyway."

From up front her brother scoffed and added, "Couldn't have said it better myself."

"Was it a mass exodus from Norway then?" Ceolbert asked. The Ragnarssons had never been quite forthcoming with the reasons why they had come to England. Ceolbert had heard tales of their desire to avenge their murdered father, but the Danes would not have brought their women, children and elderly if they simply sought power and plunder. Something must have happened in the Dane and Norse homelands, he was certain of it. Political unrest, perhaps, or a vast famine. Though the brothers tried to hide it, their invasion reeked of desperation.

"It was," Jarl Sigurd answered. "Norway is now the province of a young king. Harald by name, a boy wise beyond his years."

Ceolbert had heard his name from Ivarr—or, rather, the man had compared the young king's recent triumphs with Ceolbert's nonexistent accomplishments. "And the Norse whelp is barely a few winters older than our own little aetheling!" Ivarr had said with a laugh. "Truly, we've got our work cut out for us, hm?" Ceolbert's cheeks tinted pink at the memory.

"Are you not angry that he has displaced you and so many others?" Ceolbert said, trying to mask his embarrassment.

"I was, for a time," said Sigurd. "But our weeks at sea have softened my brow-fire. If I am honest, I realize I quite admire King Harald. By words and weapons both, he had pacified the country I call home. For the first time in any man's memory or any skald's song, Norway has one king. Just one. And that is quite a feat."

"That is impressive, truly," Ceolbert said. "The Isle of Britannia is a rather small territory, and yet we have four kings for our four kingdoms."

Jarl Sigurd turned around to give Ceolbert a smile. "You see? How could I not be impressed? No, Harald is a good man with grand ideas. I can see that now."

Ceolbert nodded, feeling once again a low swoop in his belly as he remembered Ivarr's laugh. Despite his efforts, his hands tightened around the bridle of his horse. "I am only six years his junior, and have yet to see my first battle. I cannot imagine the skill and cunning he has."

"Your first battle is coming, young Ceolbert. From this day on, you may see rapid progress."

Ceolbert could not return the man's grin. Instead, he frowned. "I'm not sure I want so swift a rise."

Jarl Sigurd did not seem to notice Ceolbert's uneasiness. His sister, however, was watching him closely. There was a slight crease between her brows.

"In truth, Ceolbert," Sigurd continued, "it is my father who bears the heaviest of my anger. Not King Harald. My father gifted my birthright to Harald without my consent or knowledge, as easily as if he might hand over a barrel of mead. It was not merely a deception, it was a betrayal of trust. The prick of which still stings me."

Ceolbert mulled over these words. The Jarl had been denied his birthright, while he had been given an unwanted heritage in the form of Mercia's crown. Perhaps in realms across the world fathers set up their sons to fail with the scope of their ambition. Still, Ceolbert only said, cautiously, "Be it a blessing or a curse, family is always first."

"A good line, boy!" the Jarl said heartily. "Were you not an aetheling, I would hire you as my skald."

"Skald..." Ceolbert thought back to the hours he'd spent watching the Dane warriors in their nightly revels, a silent observer in their midst. In many ways, their feasts heavily resembled Saxon celebrations, with music and mead aplenty. He'd been surprised to find that he greatly enjoyed hearing their stories. "It sounds something like scop, our court poets. Is that what you mean?"

"Right again," said Jarl Sigurd.

"Fascinating." For the first time in hours, Ceolbert nearly managed a smile. "The harmony between our words and yours is quite something. As if we were distant cousins, separated by an ocean of time as well as space."

The Jarl laughed. His sister was smiling as well. "I like the thought of that, I do!"

Ceolbert exchanged light banter with the man on the rest of the journey, finding in him and his sister an agreeable pair of travelling companions. In the days before, before the Ragnarssons' arrival, Ceolbert had longed to wander the docks of Repton and hear seafarers's stories, wondering how people lived in the realm of Frankia, in the Iberian kingdoms, in the Byzantine Empire. Ceolwulf had forbidden him to interact with sailors and foreign merchants, however; he had not trusted such men with his precious heir.

By midday, the column slowed, and Ceolbert could see smoke coming from atop a distant hill; the fortress of Tamworth, safely ensconced within a tall palisade. Another camp had been erected down the ridge. As Ubba and Ivarr rode forward to meet with the advance troops, Ceolbert froze in his saddle. Within the walls of Tamworth were King Burgred and the soldiers still loyal to him. Within these walls were the men that Ceolbert would have to fight—honest, God-fearing Saxons, much like all the people Ceolbert had ever known and loved. He knew he had to prompt his horse to follow the Ragnarssons forward, but—no, Ceolbert found himself unable to move. He could not tear his eyes away from Tamworth, his mouth drying, the blood leaving his cheeks.

They won't call you friend now, he remembered Ivarr's low drawl. You can thank your father for that.

"Ceolbert," said a kind voice by his side. The Jarl's sister—Eivor. "Is something wrong?"

Ceolbert managed to meet her gaze. Her blue eyes were soft, softer than he would have ever expected. "I know these men," he croaked, the words tumbling out of his mouth all on their own. "I've supped with them. Only a few moons ago Leofrith showed me how to wield a sword. He's a friend."

"Friendships end," Jarl Sigurd said. "Often at the end of a spear."

He'd said those words so casually, like the horror of such a betrayal meant nothing to him. As the Jarl rode away to join the brothers, Ceolbert thought back to the camaraderie they'd shared over the road, suddenly feeling a chill down his back. Beside him, Eivor had not yet moved. Her eyes were still on Ceolbert.

"Lad?" she prompted, with surprising gentleness.

"It cannot be that cold," Ceolbert told her. "Least of all with Leofrith. He is only following orders."

Her frown deepened. For a moment, she was silent, as if thinking over his words. Then, Eivor said, "When the march begins, find an empty tent and stay there."

Ceolbert's gaze snapped toward her. His hands were clammy, and his teeth nearly chattered. Yet there was no scorn in her eyes, only understanding. That gave him the courage to say, "Do not think me a coward. I'm not afraid of war. I simply…" He licked dry lips. "I do not want to kill my friends."

"There's no other way," Eivor answered. "Fight or hide. It's up to you."

And then she had gone as well, joining with her brother and the Ragnarssons ahead of the army. Ceolbert remained still on his horse, very much aware of the curious—and sometimes scornful—gazes of the warriors marching beside him.

Ceolbert took a deep breath, stilling his pounding heart.

And he made his decision.


The sun was all too bright when Ceolbert left the longhouse.

He shielded his eyes with one hand, squinting at the glare of the solar disc. He'd slept very little this night, plagued by nightmares once more. So far, none in Ravensthorpe had commented on the deep, dark bags that had formed beneath his eyes; Ceolbert worked hard and worked well, and that was all that mattered in the end. In the week he had spent in the home of the Raven clan, Ceolbert had mainly assisted Jarl Sigurd's wife with her duties. Handling correspondence, preparing the coming harvesting season, coordinating the construction of dwellings for new arrivals… Frú Randvi had so much to do that it was almost dizzying. But the woman took it all in stride, never letting a word of complaint leave her lips.

Even now, so early in the morning Ceolbert could see her making her rounds at the docks, supervising the loading and unloading of merchandise in the few boats that would depart soon to find buyers and sellers in the nearby towns. Her long red hair was bound in a braid resting on her shoulder, and her brows were knitted into her usual frown; he'd rarely seen her relaxed in the days he had been here. Randvi was not what he would call delicate, but she had a natural elegance in her movements, limbs coiling and uncoiling in the graceful gait of one sure of her worth and her place in this world.

Jarl Sigurd had been away for the week that Ceolbert had been in Ravensthorpe, but Randvi seemed to mind very little. Theirs was a marriage of convenience, then—as were most unions of people of their class, in truth. There had been no passion between Ceolbert's own parents, but they had been cordial toward each other. A small, childish part of Ceolbert was saddened by the notion of being wedded to an uncaring partner. That surely made for a very lonely existence, he suspected.

"Staring at our Jarlskona again, are you?" someone drawled next to him. Ceolbert startled, head whipping toward the sound. Eivor's blue eyes were twinkling at him. "It's understandable. She has that effect on people, our Table-Maiden."

"She's very efficient," Ceolbert admitted. "Your brother is very lucky to have such a wife."

Eivor quirked one brow. "Should we really reduce her worth to her role as wife? I think Randvi had other qualities, doesn't she?"

"O-Of course she does!" Ceolbert stuttered. "I would not dare presume otherwise."

Eivor was grinning; it had not taken long for him to find out just how much she enjoyed teasing the people around her. "Don't fret, Ceolbert. I understood your sentiment." She examined him more closely. "So, what will be your tasks today, young lord? Randvi is not making a slave driver out of herself, I hope?"

"She is expecting to send the scouts to neighbouring shires," Ceolbert answered. "Oxenefordscire, for one. I'll be giving them a few pointers as to what they should expect within those territories. Norvid will go to Buckingham, while Randvi's other scout will see to make contact in the north…" He frowned, rubbing his chin. "I've forgotten her name. She has red hair, a little darker than Randvi's..."

"Sunniva," Eivor supplied.

"Sunngifu?" Ceolbert wondered aloud. "That was the name of my sister as well."

"'Was'?"

"She died long ago," Ceolbert explained. He remembered her the best out of his four siblings. Her hair had been redder than his: a colour similar to Randvi's own locks. If Sunngifu had survived, she would have been about the same age as his stalwart mentor, he realized. Ceolbert wondered what Sunngifu would have made of Eivor and Randvi—surely she would have been intrigued by these two women, who fought in battle alongside their menfolk and almost ruled in their own right. "The pronunciation is a little off," he continued, "but it seems a variation on the same name. Interesting."

That confirmed one of his hypotheses; the Norse and Saxon people shared personal names as well as traditions and words. Ceolbert wished he had access to old maps to check if the Angles' fabled homeland was close to Denmark and Norway. It was the only explanation he could find for all these similarities.

Eivor chuckled. "You've got this look on your face again, lad…"

That snapped Ceolbert out of his reverie rather swiftly. Some pink tinted his cheeks. "What… what do you mean?"

"You're lost in your mind. Like one of these ancient libraries, it must be, filled with all that knowledge you treasure so much."

Ceolbert remembered Burgred's sneer, Ivarr's laugh… and his father's indifference. His spirits plummeted. "Oh. I know. It's a bad habit of mine, I really should—"

"Have I ever chided you for this?" Eivor said. "You have a prodigious mind, lad. I've never seen the likes of it, even. Continue to sharpen your wits, Ceolbert. This wretched world is in need of wise leaders, and they are in short supply, sadly."

Ceolbert blinked at her, almost as if he could not quite parse the meaning of her words. She had praised him. He willed himself to stand straighter and said, "You're right. A lot of people will depend on me in the future. I cannot let them down."

"Good." Eivor clapped him on the shoulder. "Have a little more pride in your skills, Ceolbert. People will flock to a confident fool before they follow a wiser, but softer-spoken man."

Ceolbert nodded. She was right. Alexander of Macedon had not been meek when he had conquered his great empire at barely twenty of age. And the lad who had become Caesar Augustus had seen the same number of years as Ceolbert when he had crossed hostile territories to join his illustrious uncle on the war front in Hispania. If those boys could be bold, then so could he.

"I know. History is filled with such examples. Leaders should appeal to reason, not seek to inflame people's passion to fulfill their own selfish ends. I must be wary not to fall into this trap as well."

Eivor's smile took a strange quality. She did not say anything, only tilting her head slightly as she examined him.

"Did I," Ceolbert said, brows furrowing, "did I say something wrong…?"

"No," she answered. "I am only thinking of the chasm that lies gaping between reasoned thought and bold action. Perhaps if we valued knowledge as much as we exalted the acts of daring men and women, then…" She seemed to have said these words more for herself than for Ceolbert's benefit.

"Eivor?" he prompted.

She shook her head, the familiar grin returning to her lips. "Think nothing of it. Come, lad. I am itching for a little bout of sparring. We should be honing your skills in battle after all."

"Of course," Ceolbert replied, militarily-sharp. "Lead the way."


Ceolbert hid besides some crates, heart pounding in his ears.

It had almost been easy to sneak into the ruins of the Roman bathhouse in Ledecestre. The soldiers that Leofrith had assigned to guard the location were angry and restless, still shaken by the loss of Tamworth only a few days prior. These men wanted to kill Danes, not to defend stockpiled supplies from potential looters. They did not understand that Leofrith was thinking ahead, knowing that they would have to last a campaign that was sure to stretch into summer.

The guards' angry rants echoed in the vast space of the ruins. Ceolbert had managed to slip inside unnoticed, then make his way upstairs. He had found many crates of supplies—foodstuff mainly—but not what he was truly seeking.

King Burgred had escaped the chaos of the battle at Tamworth, and they needed to find him before he could regroup with his men. Every day Burgred spent as a free man eroded Ceolwulf's authority a little more. Ceolbert swallowed deep to still his heart. That mercenary Tonna had said that Burgred was possibly hiding in Ledecestre or Templebrough. Had she lied? Ivarr believed she was on the runaway king's payroll. "And the Wolf-Kissed let her go with her life," he'd drawled, rolling his eyes. "All she deserves is an axe between the eyes if you ask me."

Ceolbert was mulling over how to escape the bathhouse without being seen when the doorknob rattled. He froze, then quickly crouched behind the crates. The door opened slowly, quietly. A figure in a dark cloak entered with furtive steps; Ceolbert could only see a blond braid coming from under the hood.

A very familiar blond braid…

Ceolbert erupted from his hiding place. "Eivor?" he whispered.

She startled, one hand going to her axe. "Ceolbert? Lad, have you lost your mind?"

Ceolbert managed a wavering smile. "Thank God! I feared you were one of them."

"Keep quiet," she huffed, glancing significantly to the door. They could still hear the voices of the guardsmen coming from the main hall. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm..." Ceolbert hesitated, feeling like a stupid, foolish boy. He could almost hear Ivarr's laugh in his ears. The man had not uttered a word about Ceolbert refusing to join the fight in Tamworth—but his grin had expressed all that he wanted to say. "I was looking for Burgred."

Her face went slack. "You are Ivarr's scout..."

Ceolbert nodded. "I hoped I might find Burgred myself, and talk him into surrendering. But he's not in Ledecestre."

"How can you be sure?"

"Leofrith passed this way with some men, and I eavesdropped. It seems they're only stockpiling food here. But he did say something of interest. Leofrith gave orders to send more men to Burgred's wife, the Lady Aethelswith. She's in Templebrough."

"Not anymore," Eivor said, shaking her head. "We stormed the fortress and took the lady back to Tamworth."

"Then, she must know where Burgred's hiding," Ceolbert said, eyes widening.

Before he could say anything else, they heard a commotion coming from outside the room. Men were shouting, and from the receding sound of their footsteps, they seemed to be running away from Ceolbert and Eivor's location. Ceolbert glanced outside the window, and he saw the guards pouring out of the bathhouse, no doubt heading toward the source of the chaos.

"Do you hear that?" Ceolbert said, feeling his heart pounding once more. "The sounds of battle…"

"Ivarr..." Eivor had spat the name like a curse. "He should not have brought you here!"

"It wasn't Ivarr who sent me," Ceolbert said, with some heat. I can be strong, too! he wanted to shout. I can be brave! "I sent myself."

Her scowl only deepened. "Have caution, boy. Until your father is crowned, you're Mercia's enemy, not its champion. Understand?" Ceolbert nodded, and she added, "Good. Let's get you out of here, now."

She took off first, and Ceolbert made sure to follow her closely. Already, the main hall of the bathhouse was empty. Ceolbert struggled to keep up with Eivor as she quickly made her way across. Outside, the shouts and the clanging of blade against blade were louder, breaking what had been a peaceful grey morning. Ceolbert stopped, assessing the situation. Leofrith's soldiers had run to a specific direction, which meant—

Ceolbert turned to head the other way.

"Where are you going?" Eivor called, rushing after him.

"I know my way around!" Ceolbert answered. "We'll go through the market. This way!"

People were screaming in the streets, scrambling and stumbling away from the fighting. Ceolbert and Eivor had to go against the tide of frightened civilians, a harder feat than it looked since most of them were too panicked to look where they were going. In the distance, a familiar voice was shouting, gleeful in the chaos.

"Find the king!" Ivarr was calling. "Put him on his knees before me!"

Yes, now that Ceolbert was getting closer to the market, he could see that Leofrith's soldiers were engaging with warriors bearing the black Raven banner of the Ragnarssons. Ceolbert's heart leaped into his throat. He'd advised Ivarr to use caution and to only let his troops inside the city if one of them were to be found out. Ivarr had seemed to agree, though Ceolbert had been wary of the smirk that had tugged at one corner of his mouth.

Ceolbert turned on his heel, unwilling to rush into the market now that he could see that it was overrun with soldiers. He nearly collided headfirst with a guardsman who looked over his shoulder. The man saw Eivor and shouted, "Look! Another Dane!"

Ceolbert held up his hands. "No, wait—"

But the man already had his sword held high, right above Ceolbert's head. The latter could only watch helplessly, knowing that he would not be able to avoid the bite of the blade in time. Then, there was a sickening 'splat!' and an axe buried itself deep into his eye, making a red mess of his skull. Ceolbert froze as warm blood splattered all over him. He had already seen men die—he'd seen the aftermath of the battle at Tamworth and had even helped with the wounded—but this

Eivor was shouting his name, but her voice seemed to come from far away. Finally, she shook him by the shoulder, and Ceolbert gasped, as if he'd forgotten how to breathe.

"Ceolbert!" she called again, wrenching her axe from the dead man's skull. "We need to go!"

Ceolbert opened and closed his mouth. Words failed him for a moment. Then, he managed, "T-They're everywhere!"

"Stay close to me!" Eivor commanded.

"Wh-What do I do?" Ceolbert sputtered.

"Fight, man! Fight!"

"But…" Ceolbert looked at the soldiers wearing King Burgred's colours. Most were simple peasants and artisans who had taken up spears and shields at their ruler's command. They had families, people who depended on them to survive. They only fought because it was their God-given duty.

What right did Ceolbert have to take their lives?

"They will kill you, Ceolbert!" came Eivor's voice. Her voice was grim, almost cold—but not deprived of empathy. "You have no choice. Now move!"

Ceolbert turned to her, mouth thinning into a single line. He drew his sword.

And headed into the fray.


Ceolbert awoke trembling and panting again, clothes sticky with sweat.

Once again he'd dreamed of that duel on the island. Of the hunter's bloodstained, expressionless face. Of that greatsword, poised to detach his head from his neck.

Of the cold detachment in Leofrith's voice as he told Ceolbert that he deserved to die.

He clenched one hand at his chest, attempting to slow his pounding heart—to no avail. The near darkness of the meadhall pressed heavily on him, and every little sound made him jump, as if enemies were hiding in the longhouse, ready to spring out of every dark corner to slit his throat. You're safe, you're safe, you're safe, Ceolbert told himself in a maddened mantra. That usually managed to calm him down, even though he rarely found sleep afterwards.

This time, however, sheer panic overwhelmed him.

Ceolbert sat up, making a loud, choked noise; it was as if someone had pinned him under water, and he could no longer breathe. What is happening to me? the thought cut through his distraught mind, bringing unshed tears to his eyes.

The darkness seemed to encroach upon him, even though the light of the hearthfire had not dimmed. Pathetic, Ceolbert could almost hear. What sort of man could not even vanquish the imaginary enemies invading his dreams?

Ceolbert snapped his eyes shut, hand going to his throat. Breathe, breathe, breathe. A pained wheeze escaped his mouth instead. He was drowning—and the only thing he could see behind the dark of his eyelids was the memory of Leofrith bearing down at him, all pretenses of humanity gone.

The enemies of Mercia must die

And then a hand was on his back, stroking him, and a familiar voice was saying, "Breathe, Ceolbert, breathe. Take your time. You are safe, here. You are among friends."

Ceolbert opened his eyes with another gasp. Randvi was peering down at him; she was clad in her night shift, he noted with some embarrassment. Still, the darkness seemed to recede slightly as he held her blue gaze.

"You are safe in Ravensthorpe," Randvi continued. "Remember to breathe, Ceolbert."

Ceolbert managed—with great difficulty—to wrest out one breath. Then another. The third was the easiest to take so far. Finally, he looked upon Randvi with bleary eyes, his heart no longer thumping in his ears.

"Th-Thank you," he uttered. "I… I don't know what came over me…"

"You were having a nightmare," Randvi said, matter-of-factly. "It's not the first time, is it?"

"How… how do you know?"

"Eivor told me before she left for Grantebridge," she answered. "She knew you were having difficult nights, but she did not want to hurt your pride by prying into a personal matter. She was waiting until you would her ask for help."

Ceolbert looked away. God, what a sight he must have made, sweat-drenched and trembling like a child. "I'm fine. It's fine. I will get over it. I must."

Randvi stood, holding out her hand. "Come with me. Perhaps you will feel better once you drink and eat a little."

His cheeks warmed a little. "I… I should get dressed. You're a married woman and—"

"—you are my ally's offspring, and one who has been placed under my protection." Randvi seemed exasperated—and even a little amused. "Sigurd will not care—and even if he did, I would ignore him. Come, Ceolbert. And tell me of those dreams plaguing you."

A few moments later, Ceolbert was sitting in the war room with a cup of chamomile tea warming his hand, the drink sweetened by honey. Quietly, he told Randvi of his recurring nightmares, and of that night where he had narrowly evaded death at the hand of Leofrith when the latter had attacked Repton upon Ceolwulf's coronation. Randvi listened without saying a word; Ceolbert could not think of the last time someone had let him speak for so long without interruption.

"Leofrith is…" Ceolbert said, straining to say the words, "well, I've known him since I was a lad, you see? Growing up, he was everything that I wanted to be. Strong. Brave. Honourable. I did not want to fight against Burgred because I did not want to fight people such as him. Everyone warned me that he would not think as I did, that to his eyes I had become a traitor first and foremost, but…" He looked up from his mug, feeling small and weak, the stupid boy who was happier holding a quill than swinging a sword, the strange child who smiled and laughed so little, the thegn's son who did not enjoy to scuffle and fight like the other lads his age. "He was always so kind to me, even when others were not. I thought he cared about me."

"He must have," Randvi said, softly. "I'm sure he was glad to have you as his pupil. But his oath to his king stood above his own feelings on the matter."

"But Burgred is a terrible king!" For so long, Ceolbert had wanted to say these words, for so long he has doubted this obvious truth. This was what Sunngifu had mean what she had said their father was biding his time. For more than a decade Ceolwulf had waited for a moment to deal with Burgred's incompetence and cruelty—and the Ragnarssons' invasion, as costly as it had been, had given him such an occasion. "Burgred ran and left men such as Leofrith to die in his stead. Why would Leofrith fight for a ruler who does not even care about his people?"

"For duty," Randvi answered. "Any Norse warrior would have acted the same as your Leofrith."

Ceolbert hung down his head, mulling over these words. They felt hollow, even though they rang of truth. "You know," he began, "our scops extol the feats of warriors who embody our sacred virtues. Strength and bravery. Honour, perseverance and hospitality." He sighed, feeling even wearier than before. "Duty…"

In response, Randvi gave a dismissive shrug. "Norse skalds sing no such song in our sagas. Duty does not bring you lands, or riches, or fame." Now she could not even hide the bitterness twisting her mouth. "It doesn't warm your bed at night…"

She looks so sad, Ceolbert thought with a pang. It wasn't right that her accomplishments were ignored simply because they hadn't been achieved on the battlefield. The people of the Raven clan spoke highly of their Jarl, even though the man had not returned to Ravensthorpe in the two moons Ceolbert had spent in the village. But without Randvi, Ravensthorpe would not be the thriving settlement that it was. He furrowed his brows, wondering how he could make this right…

"Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus," Ceolbert said, rather abruptly.

Randvi raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"I-I mean…" Ceolbert coughed awkwardly, putting down his mug. "Cincinnatus was a Roman dictator."

"Dictator? I don't know the word."

"It's Latin. Dictators are magistrates who are given full authority over the government to resolve a specific issue. They were more powerful than a king. Cincinnatus was made dictator when Rome was under siege by a rival tribe. He assembled a force to deal with the enemy, but showed them mercy when they pled for peace instead."

"And? Why are you telling me this?"

"When he was done with this task, Cincinnatus resigned from his post, giving power back to the Senate. He then retired to tend to his farm." Ceolbert managed a fleeting smile, taking up a quill and a piece of parchment he'd found on the map table. "You see? Cincinnatus died more than a thousand years ago, but some boy from half a world away know his name and story because he placed duty above all else. Because the Roman chroniclers thought important to note his devotion to the Republic."

"So," Randvi said, "you think that I…"

Ceolbert began to write. "In the year 873 of our Lord," he read out loud, "the village of Ravensthorpe was founded on the shore of the river Nene by Jarl Sigurd…"

"Styrbjornsson," Randvi supplied.

"By Jarl Sigurd Styrbjornsson of the Raven clan, and by his sister Eivor—"

"Varinsdóttir."

So Sigurd and Eivor did not share the same father? Interesting. "By his sister Eivor Varinsdóttir, known as the Wolf-Kissed. The settlement has grown prosperous under the careful hand of the Jarl's wife, Randvi…"

By now, she was openly smiling. "Asgeirsdóttir."

"Randvi Asgeirsdóttir. Great friendships have been fostered with the native tribes of Britannia because of the diligent efforts of the one fondly called the 'Table-Maiden' by her people." He looked up from his parchment, meeting Randvi's eyes from across the room. "So. What do you think? Perhaps in a few generations' time, some curious soul will find this text and learn your name. And thus the people who will live in this land well after our deaths will know of the sacrifices you have made in the name of duty."

Was it a trick of the light or were her eyes slightly glistening? "Perhaps," Randvi said. "Or perhaps not. But it's a sweet gesture nonetheless. Thank you, Ceolbert."

God, his cheeks were heating up. How foolish he must have looked to her eyes, a silly boy who blushed at every compliment sent his way. "It's nothing," Ceolbert said, a bit bashfully.

They spoke quietly afterwards, exchanging stories and memories, about Randvi's past travels, about Ceolbert's favourite readings. He was happy to see the smile on her face. She was lonely as well, though she could not show it. He wondered how many women such as her—such as his sister Sunngifu—had struggled in obscurity when burdened with duties they had not truly wanted. He suspected the number was rather high. Ceolbert was glad to have recorded Randvi's voice for posterity, even if the gesture remained rather small in the grand scheme of things.

Eventually, each of his words were followed by yawns, and Randvi ordered him to go back to sleep, holding back a laugh all the while. As Ceolbert lay in his cot, drowsiness overtaking him, he began to wonder how he would be remembered in the years following his death. Before, Ceolbert could only have hoped to be a footnote in the annals of Mercian lineages. Wigmund son of Wiglaf married Aelflaed of the Iclingas, daughter of King Ceolwulf, and they begat Wigstan, who begat Ceolwulf, who begat Ceolbert, who begat… well, it was still a bit too early to consider that topic, Ceolbert thought, cheeks reddening.

But now history had its eyes on Ceolbert, and his accomplishments—and failures—would be closely examined by his contemporaries and by future generations.

That thought should have left him anxious and glum-hearted. But no fear found him as the realization swept over him. Ceolbert simply greeted it with calm acceptance, finally closing his eyes.

Sleep came to him easily that night.