Elmenham, 888

Eivor shot another arrow. It missed its target miserably.

She had to keep herself from stomping her feet and throwing a tantrum like a child. At least there was no one to watch her humiliation. Even outside of the village, it had been hard to find a quiet corner all for herself. The thing—the yearly assembly of clans—had brought people from all across the Danelaw to Elmenham, and the town and its outskirts were bustling with visitors. She had barely seen her parents over the last few days; they were busy hosting the king's party, not to mention all the Jarls, ealdormen and thegns of East Anglia and Northumbria.

Their families had accompanied them—and it had been expected of Eivor and her siblings to mingle among their peers. Fourteen-year-old Eohric had found himself the head of a group of rowdy adolescents; they were a loud and annoying bunch, roaming about the village, quarrelling among each other and laughing at the unfortunate losers of their sparring bouts. Eadith had befriended a few girls her own age. They chatted and giggled as they sat among older women—mothers, aunts, grandmothers—to learn to spin and weave—typical feminine arts.

Eivor had been left to join a third group, made up of boys and girls alike. Their unofficial leader was a rich Jarl's daughter who strutted about Elmenham as if the whole village belonged to her. She sneered at the farmers working in their fields, laughed at the roughspun clothes of the huscarls' children, complained about the smell of sheep…

"In Jorvik," she'd said, loftily, "at least the animals live outside the walls. I hear the peasants let them inside of their own homes at night. Gods, but their hovels must stink!"

Some of the children laughed at this. Another girl, clad in a simple, unadorned tunic, just rolled her eyes. Eivor dragged her feet behind them, hating the promise she had made her father this morning. "Don't be so glum, dear!" Oswald had told her with a chuckle. "I'm certain you will make friends today. Surely there are other children who would be happy to get to know you better."

That girl kept glancing back at Eivor, eyes gleaming. She'd begun to whisper something to her cronies, and they shared a snicker. Eivor only caught bits of their conversation. Silent and stinky. Like a dog. Look at those clothes. So dirty. You wouldn't think her folks were nobly born.

Eivor stopped suddenly, heart pounding in her ears. They're talking about me. The girl's eyes were squinted in a scornful smile. The others were chuckling, hiding their mouths with their hands. Eivor's blood boiled.

With a snarl, she lunged at the girl. She shrieked as Eivor tackled her, shoving her to the ground. Eivor struck the girl across the face, but before she could land another hit, she felt a pair of hands grabbing at her. Eivor turned to bite the boy's arm, and he released her with a yowl. Another boy screamed, running for help.

Finally, a man pried Eivor off her victim. The moment the other girl was on her feet, she surged forward to slap Eivor's face. The ring she wore bit the skin of Eivor's cheek, drawing blood. The other girl, the one who wore boy's clothes, shouted, "Róta! Stop it! Stop!"

Eivor kicked and screamed like a wildcat, fighting with all the strength she had. With a curse, the man let go of her. Eivor hit the ground running, not turning back even once, even as the other children shouted curses at her. Mangy mutt. Dirty mongrel. Mad bitch. She ought to be put down.

Eivor tightened her grip around her bow, scowling at the memory. She had run out of the village, only stopping at the longhouse to grab her bow and arrows. Then, she had gone to the small hill overlooking Elmenham from the north. There she'd placed a small bale of hay against a tree to serve as a target. Now the sun was setting, and she had not touched the middle once. This failure only added to the fury still coursing through her veins.

Eivor was about to snap her bow across her knee when she heard a familiar voice exclaiming, "Whoa! I thought you liked that bow!"

Eivor stifled a curse, throwing it at the ground instead. To her great horror, tears filled her eyes. She wiped them angrily with her sleeve, turning to find her father's kind smile beaming at her.

"Ah, my dear," said Oswald of Elmenham, "you gave your mother and I quite a fright! We looked for you everywhere in the village!"

Eivor's anger dimmed, replaced by guilt. Oswald only wore a slight frown, yet that was enough to make her face grow hot from shame. He had taken precious time he should have spent with the king and the other Jarls to look for her. He surely had to deal with the girl's angry father as well, placating him with degrading apologies. Eivor was not sorry to have defended herself—but she was horribly ashamed that her father had to deal with her messes. As he always did.

Oswald sighed, sitting on a log and patting the space next to him. Eivor took place beside him, unable to meet his eyes.

"What happened, love?" he asked. "They say you attacked another girl. She kept screaming at her father that you ought to be punished. I'd hear your side of the story first."

"She was horrible," Eivor muttered. "She kept insulting everyone. Old Alvi because she uses a cane. Ealhmund's children because they were barefoot and 'filthy'. Leofgyth because she was bringing her sheep into town to sell them at the thing."

"And what did she say to you?"

Eivor scrunched up her nose. "She said I was smelly. And dumb. That I was more like a dog than a person."

Oswald's frown deepened. "Hm. I see." He lightly touched Eivor's cheek. "That's quite the bruise there, love. Does it hurt?"

"I'm fine," she said, brusquely. "It's fine."

"You should have your mother look at it. Just to be sure."

Eivor felt a sob trying to break out of her mouth, but she kept it in. She would not cry, no, she wouldn't. "I know I should watch my temper. I know. It's just… I wish I could be like Eadith, o-or you, but, but…"

He wrapped his arm around her. "But you're you, and that's fine. You don't need to be anybody else."

"But I should be. I always end up in trouble. I make you look bad, because I get angry all the time and—"

"You shouldn't have to apologize when people hurt you. It's normal to be angry when you're made to feel small, insignificant. When I was your age, I just smiled and pretended I was all right when people pushed me around. And that wasn't any better. Sometimes, I look back at those times, and I wish I would have fought back, just like you did today. Remember when you defended Bernhard's boy from these bullies at the last turn of the moon?"

Eivor nodded. "They kept stealing Helgi's things because he's so small. And they say he's stupid because he's got a stutter. But it's not true. He's nice, just shy."

"You see? There are times when you should fight back. And there are times when instead you have to strike back without violence. Because once you hurt someone, you must be ready to face the consequences. And sometimes these consequences won't be fair. It's unjust, but we live in an unjust world. Until we make things change for the better, that's how it will always go."

Eivor bowed down her head. Her eyes filled with tears again.

"At least another child interceded in your favour today," Oswald continued. "She said the other girl provoked you. There won't be any need for a harsher punishment. But the girl's father is asking for a public apology from you tomorrow. Do you think you can manage that, sweetling?"

Eivor nodded, slightly. She was sure that if she opened her mouth, the dam would break and the tears would fall. She forced her face to form a scowl to mask her sadness.

Oswald squeezed her shoulders. "Ah, my sweet pup… just let it all out, love. No one's here but me. And you know I won't ever judge you."

Eivor hiccuped and sniffed. She could not stop shaking. Tears streamed down grimy cheeks. Oswald lay his head over hers. She let herself cry, silently, for a moment.

"I f-failed," she said, voice dripping with self-hatred. "Eohric and Eadith have it easy. They're nice and funny and everyone likes them. But me… I keep messing it up. Again and again and again. There's no reason to keep trying. No one will ever like me, and you know it."

"I like you."

"But you have to. You're my father."

"I love you because you are whip-smart and strong-hearted. I love you because you bend but never break. I love you because you are devoted to the ones you care about." He lifted her chin with one hand so she would look him in the eye. "There are people in this world who would be happy to know your true self just like I do. Open your heart to them. You deserve to be loved and cherished as the treasure you are."

Slowly, a smile emerged on her lips. Oswald chuckled, wiping the tears from her cheeks and kissing her brow.

"Come now, my little wolf," he said, standing up and holding out his hand. "Your mother must be dreadfully worried. Let's put her mind at ease, shall we?"

The next morning, Eivor searched for the girl who had spoken in her favour. Eivor found her at the training grounds, swatting a wooden dummy with a blunted sword. She was the only child present among the warriors practising the fighting arts. The girl was taller than Eivor, with well-toned arms despite her youth. She grinned as she saw Eivor approaching.

"That's a mean punch you throw," was all the girl said in greetings. "Gods, but you should have seen Róta's face this morning! She's got a bruise the size and colour of a prune!"

"You know her?" asked Eivor.

"She's my cousin." The girl spat on the ground. "Prissy bitch she is, always lording over me and my sisters because her dad's the Jarl, while mine is only a second son. She keeps saying her father will soon be chosen as the king's heir, that she'll be a king's daughter one day, that she'll marry a high lord and rule over his holdings." She scoffed. "I was glad to see her knocked down a peg or two!"

Eivor found herself returning the girl's grin. "Glad to be of service."

The other girl let out a loud bark of laughter, holding out her hand. "Name's Thorunn. What's yours?"

Eivor eagerly shook it. "Eivor Oswaldsdóttir. Thanks for speaking out for me yesterday."

"No trouble. Oswaldsdóttir, eh? You know, I beat your brother at arm wrestling yesterday."

This time, Eivor could not help it; she laughed out loud. "You did?! Gods, I would have given good money to see that!"

Thorunn bounced her eyebrows. "Poor idiot kept telling everyone who cared to listen that he would have me as a raider for his crew once he's old enough for a longship."

"And? Would you ever join his crew?"

Thorunn looked a little smug. "Oh, I would… if he ever manages to put some meat on these stick-thin arms of his, that is!"

Eivor did the unthinkable; she laughed again.

Beodoricsworth, 902

As soon as they heard the shouts, not to mention the dull but all-too-recognizable sound of a body falling on the ground, Sister Wulfhilda grabbed Sigrún's arm, crooked fingers digging into her sleeve. The nun's young assistant—Cynewise—looked at them in horror, backing slowly away from the stairs. More muffled noises came from above ground. A group of men were speaking—and then came Aelfswith's voice, loud and pleading, "She's bleeding, let me look at the—"

"We need to go," one man's voice interrupted her in a sharp rebuke. "We're losing light. The Pathfinder asked—"

"Shut your mouth!" growled another man. Sigrún's eyebrows shot up her forehead. That was Brother Ceadda's voice! "Don't speak his title out loud. You want your tongue torn out, is that it?"

"R-Right, lord. You there! Hold her down so—"

The rest of his words were drowned out by the sounds of a scuffle. Then, things grew very quiet. Young Cynewise approached her mistress, holding her arm for support. The old nun seemed to be holding her breath. Sigrún herself did not dare make a sound. Finally, her shock wore off, and she whispered, "We need to help them!"

"We cannot," said Sister Wulfhilda. "Be sensible, child."

Sigrún blinked away her tears. The nun was right. A blind woman, a mute girl… and a cripple. What use would they have against a group of armed men? Eivor could have fought them off. So could have Randvi. Sigrún made for a poor substitution.

They waited in the dying light of the torch, huddled together to keep their warmth. Finally, Sister Wulfhilda deemed it safe enough to climb out of the cellar. The horses were gone. A bright spot of red darkened the snow; Sigrún felt her throat tighten at the sight of it. The men left a clear trail to follow—but Sigrún was no tracker, she would not be able to catch up with them in time. And evening was falling.

Sigrún wanted to drop to her knees and weep. A warm hand came to rest over her shoulder.

"Do not despair, child," said Sister Wulfhilda. "That will not help your companions."

"But what can I do? Even if we were to find them, we would never be able to mount a rescue. There's too little of us!"

"Are you sure about that? Think, girl. Are you really as alone as you think you are?"

Sigrún frowned at those words. The sister's voice did not quiver in fear, and her aged face was set in quiet determination. Wulfhilda had not given in to despair just yet. Sigrún relaxed slightly, feeling some of that hope for herself. Her mind was clearing, and the beat of her heart slowed down. "Wait," she said. "I think I have an idea."

"There you go." Sister Wulfhilda patted her arm. "A mind's a weapon as sharp as any… if only you remember to use it. Let's hear it, child. What are you suggesting?"

Eivor woke up with the taste of vomit in her mouth.

Her head felt as if it had been split open, and her whole body was frozen from the cold. Ropes dug into her wrists with each of her movements, making her wince. Her feet were bound as well. She was lying on the bare ground of a barn; she could smell the hay and the faint stench of manure. Everything else was a blur.

"Eivor?" said a soft voice beside her. She raised her gaze with some effort, finding a figure crouched next to her. Aelfswith's hands were tied behind her back. Her face was pale, and her lips were slightly blue. "Oh, thank God. You're alive. I thought—I feared—"

Eivor tried to speak, but she was struck by nausea. All she could let out was a low, "Ohh… what… what's…"

"Be still. You've lost a lot of blood. They allowed me to tend to your wound, but…" Aelfswith glanced to the side. The door was open, and Eivor could spy the form of a man guarding the entrance. "You've woven in and out of consciousness these last few days. You're still very weak."

"Where… are…"

"I don't know where they took us," Aelfswith murmured. "At least they didn't find Sigrún and the others. A small mercy, but one I'll take regardless."

"They… didn't…?" Eivor managed. In spite of the pain, she felt… relief. The girl had been out of her depth since the beginning of this adventure. It was better that she headed home, back to her peaceful village and beloved texts. A land soon to be torn apart by war was no place for a soul as innocent—as naïve—as hers.

Eivor grit her teeth. She tried to move again, but her stomach rolled, sending the bitter taste of bile back to her mouth. She strained against her bonds—to no avail. The rope only burned the thin skin of her wrists.

"Eivor, stop," said Aelfswith. "You'll alert the guards!"

"What, you'd rather…" Eivor snapped her eyes shut, taking a shaky breath to settle her stomach. "You'd rather we… we stay here?"

"Sigrún might have come up with—"

Eivor wanted to laugh, but it was too painful. "If she's… she's got the wits to go… with those smarts, she'd run far… far from here…"

Aelfswith's face softened. "Ah, well… that's true."

At the door, the man startled. Voices flared from outside the barn. Then followed shouts and curses, and the clamour Eivor recognized all too easily as the noises of battle. Aelfswith managed to stand on shaking legs. Eivor crawled after her, trying to make sense of the limited information sent by her dimmed and dulled senses. Aelfswith gasped as she reached the open door. The village where they had been taken seemed to have been long abandoned; half-destroyed buildings stood in the snowy fields like the beached carcasses of whales on a sandy coast. Outside, a group of armed men were fighting—Eivor squinted her eyes, not quite believing what she was seeing—a group of men were fighting women and monks, their frocks quite visible under their cloaks. The motley band of fighters used unconventional weapons—farming implements and wood axes and even a pilgrim's staff—but they outnumbered their opponents five to one.

"What on God's earth—" Aelfswith said as they watched one young monk striking the man guarding their door with a shovel. Behind him, two women tackled another brigand, who fell and cracked his head open.

Eivor struggled to stand. Her legs felt weak, and her head swam, blurring the world in front of her eyes. She heard, but did not see the brown figure rushing toward her. Aelfswith gasped—and a hand roughly grabbed Eivor by the hair. Pain exploded in her temple, and her vision speckled with white spots. One arm was wrapped around Eivor to hold her in place. The sharp edge of a knife pressed at her throat.

"Stop!" she heard Brother Ceadda shouting, his voice ringing in her ears. "Stop, or I'll cut her throat!"

Eivor was only dimly aware that the fighting had come to an end. Ceadda's companions lay on the ground, dead or dying. Above them, the monks—of Beodoricsworth Abbey, she realized with a start—and the women—the villagers of Caestre—stood very still.

"All of you, drop your weapon," Ceadda commanded. "That's right, that's it…" He backed away, Eivor weak and limp in his hold. "Good, good… now, fetch me a horse. Quickly!"

"Ceadda…" Among the fighters stood Abbot Ealric. Sigrún was beside him, her pale face gone white with shock and horror. "You are making a grave mistake, Ceadda. Release the poor girl."

Ceadda scoffed. "There is so much of which you are not aware, my good abbot. These three women are lying snakes. They are agents of the false king, seeking to oppose the true protectors of our proud Saxon kingdoms."

"I know enough," Abbot Ealric said, rather gently. "I know about the friends you made outside the abbey, the correspondence you kept. What is it they call you? The 'Herald'?"

Ceadda flinched, and Aelfswith looked upon him with widening eyes. The monk nervously swallowed. His knife pressed closer to Eivor's skin, drawing blood.

"It doesn't matter. You," Ceadda motioned over to one of the women of Caestre, "fetch me that horse. I won't ask a third time."

The abbot lay down the axe he was holding. He raised both hands in a show of surrender, walking toward Ceadda. "Brother, please. You do not want to go down this path, you don't—"

"How would you know?" Ceadda spat. His whole body was trembling. He made a sound as if he was swallowing back sobs. "You preach peace and forgiveness, as if… as if an entire generation of Saxons had not seen their villages burned to ashes, as if we had not all seen our families cut down or carried off in chains. I was a child. My brother tried to fight them off. The man who killed him laughed as he did the deed. Deorstan's skull was caved in, I could see… I could see…" Ceadda shook his head, body wrecked by another sob. "I ran while they led my mother and sisters away to be slaves. I ran even as I heard them scream behind me. I ran until my feet bled."

"I understand your pain, my friend," the abbot said, kindly. "But this child is not one of the monsters who destroyed your life, she is innocent of those crimes—"

"She and the rest of her ilk feasted on the spoils of stolen Saxon lands. The Danes' children played on Saxon graves, they were raised in homes built on fields gorged with Saxon blood. And you wish for me to forgive them? I would sooner sup with the devil!"

"If you have to take someone," Abbot Ealric said, "then take me. I know much more than this child does. After all, that's why King Aelfred sent me to East Anglia. To seek and gather knowledge. Your masters would be glad to hear what I have to say…"

"Then, it's true…" Ceadda released his hold on Eivor, ever so slightly. "You really were…"

Eivor lunged to bite his hand, hard. Blood flooded her mouth, and the man screamed and screamed. As he let go of her, she stumbled forward. Ceadda had dropped his knife, and he reached to grab it. Eivor summoned all the strength left in her body to aim a kick at his face. With a satisfying crunch, she felt his nose breaking under the sole of her boot. Ceadda collapsed, holding his face and cursing.

A broad-shouldered female villager and a monk came to hold the still-groaning Ceadda on the ground, pinning his hands behind his back. Eivor was dizzy from the effort she'd spent. Someone came to help her stay upright: Aelfswith, who was now free of her bonds. Sigrún followed after her.

"Oh, thank goodness!" she cried. "Oh, I'm ever so glad Abbot Ealric was right! He's the one who suggested that the men who captured you could be hiding here."

"Where are we, exactly?" asked Aelfswith.

"This village was destroyed by Geat raiders some thirty years ago," said Sigrún. She moved to free Eivor as well. The latter let out a deep sigh, leaning on Aelfswith for support as she rubbed her sore wrists. "The abbot said it was never rebuilt. People thought the area was cursed…"

"Some said they saw the Black Shuck roaming about this land," said the woman holding Ceadda. "There's a foul omen if I ever saw one."

"Then, we shouldn't tarry," said the abbot. "We have wounded to tend to, and a long road ahead of us to return to Beodoricsworth."

"You're right," said Sigrún. "Let's go."

It was a motley crew that returned to Beodoricsworth in the evening. The abbot offered a seat at his table and a place to stay for the night for all of his guests. There was an air of camaraderie and triumph hanging in the air tonight; the women of Caestre and the monks of Beodoricsworth prepared the evening meal together, while others saw to the wounded. Ceadda was placed under guard somewhere in the abbey. Abbot Ealric assured Æthelflaed that he would be questioned, though not harshly. "He is still my responsibility," the abbot had said. "I won't ever let any undue harm come to one of my men."

As they ate a hearty supper alongside Sister Wulfhilda and her young charge, Sigrún explained how she had gone for help at Beodoricsworth after Æthelflaed and Eivor had been captured. "Afterwards," Sigrún said, "we made for Caestre. The women remembered how we had saved them from those brigands, a week past. They gladly wanted to repay that debt."

"But monks, fighting?" Æthelflaed said with some incredulity.

Sister Wulfhilda cackled. "Oh, they've learned their lesson from thirty years ago. The raids have abated, but memories linger. The Lord's servants will not be caught unaware as they were in the days of the Great Heathen Army."

Æthelflaed had been troubled at these words. An army made of God's most fervent devotees… She did not know if the idea comforted or terrified her.

After the evening meal, Abbot Ealric asked that Æthelflaed and the others meet him in private. "Will you join me to interrogate Brother Ceadda?" he asked. "I'm sure you must have quite a number of questions to ask him."

"I have a few choice words to say to him, yes," Eivor said, grimly. "Lead on."

Brother Ceadda had been confined to his quarters, with one of the taller and larger monks guarding his door. The darkened room was bare, save for a pallet on the ground and a bucket serving as chamber pot in the corner. Ceadda looked upon them with a hateful gaze as they stepped into his makeshift cell.

"This is a disgrace," Brother Ceadda said with a pursed mouth. Æthelflaed noted how he held his bandaged hand close against his chest; she imagined he must have been in terrible pain from the wound Eivor had inflicted on him. The monk's eyes fixed on Abbot Ealric as he added, "You do not deserve that position. The kingdoms of England grew weak enough to be plundered because of men such as you."

Abbot Ealric rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Save your insults, Brother Ceadda. I believe our guests have had enough of your vitriol."

Æthelflaed took the lead; the time for minced words and veiled threats had long gone past. "Brother Ceadda, are you a member of the Order of the Ancients?"

"What would I gain from answer—" His eyes widened perceptibly as he saw Abbot Ealric take a roll of parchment out of his sleeve. Ceadda sputtered, "W-Where did you find this?"

"I searched your room when you disappeared," Abbot Ealric said. His voice had the chiding tone of a disappointed father. "It was not hidden well. You've a lot to learn still, my friend."

Ealric handed the letter over to Æthelflaed. A careful hand had penned, To the Herald: The West Saxon woman travels with two other female companions. Report on her actions: where she goes, what she is seeking. She should not be harmed. She is more useful alive than dead. It was signed, The Pathfinder.

Æthelflaed's heart was pounding. The Order was real—it was a true, tangible threat. The Order was real—and her father had once led them. He had manipulated Eivor of the Raven clan to act as his knife in the shadows, ordering a purge of the men and women under his command. God, Æthelflaed felt sick to her stomach. She inhaled deeply to settle her nerves. Not now, she thought. She had to be strong—just a little longer. Just a little longer…

"That could be a forgery!" Ceadda cried out. "Anyone could have written that letter!"

"What purpose would it serve?" Eivor said with a scowl. "You've already incriminated yourself plenty by going after us."

"The 'Pathfinder'?" said Sigrún, reading over Æthelflaed's shoulder. "Who could it be?"

"Can you describe him?" Æthelflaed asked. "This Pathfinder fellow?"

Ceadda scoffed, but Abbot Ealric glared at him. The younger monk seemed to shrink into himself. "It's strange," he muttered, after a moment of silence. "I know I saw him, but I cannot quite remember what he looked like. He was tall, I think? Brown hair… no, black…"

"No distinctive mark? No scars, no distinguishing features?"

"He just looked like anyone else. Like a man you'd meet at the market, or at mass." Ceadda's brows furrowed in a show of distress. "He was… polite. Exceedingly so. Never raised his voice, never…" He shook his head. "No, he wasn't right. His voice was flat. His eyes were cold as a snake's. I know that if… if he ever finds me again…"

"He won't," Abbot Ealric assured. "You have sinned, my child, but you are under my protection." Eivor seemed about to say something, but Sigrún lay a hand over her arm, silencing the huntress with a shake of her head. "I won't let this man hurt any of my flock, even the errant sheep."

"Father…" Ceadda croaked, looking up. The abbot's expression softened. Then Ceadda dipped down his head. Æthelflaed knew they would get no more out of him.

Abbot Ealric let out a long and weary sigh when they left the confines of Ceadda's room. "His life should be left to the king's judgement," Eivor told him. "You know this as well as I do."

"I know," he murmured in response. "Will you follow me to my chambers? There is something else I must tell you."

Despite his prestigious position, the abbot's quarters were small and sparsely furnished: a bed, a chest, and a desk covered in books and rolled parchment. Abbot Ealric invited Sigrún and Eivor to take a seat on his cot. His soft, kind smile was ever present—but there was a tightness to his gentle features now.

"What is it that you meant to tell us?" asked Æthelflaed.

The abbot sighed again, passing a hand over the shiny dome of the bald patch on his head. "Our conversation with Brother Ceadda proved a theory that I had been entertaining for some time," he said. "I believe he is a member of a splinter group of the Order of the Ancients."

Sigrún gasped. "You know about the Order?"

"A splinter group?" said Æthelflaed. Once again, her heart was beating fast. She was close to the answers to many mysteries she had been pursuing over the last three years. But her chest felt tight; did she really want to know the truth, after all, if the price was more blood on her hands?

"Yes. I have been investigating them for quite a while. It was naïve of me to think they would not be spying on me as well. This 'Pathfinder' fellow seems a crafty sort."

"How do you know all of this?" asked Eivor.

Æthelflaed held her breath. The huntress had spoken the words that Æthelflaed and Sigrún had been too fearful to say. There was only one answer to that question—and Æthelflaed dreaded to hear it.

Abbot Ealric kept smiling. "Ceadda didn't tell those men about Venta Icenorum. I did." Sigrún held a hand over her mouth. Eivor's eyes filled with coldness. The abbot opened a drawer of his desk, putting a small object on the wooden surface: a silver medallion depicting a leafless tree. "I know all of this because I am part of the Order as well. My fellow Poor Soldiers know me under the title of 'the Messenger'. "

In a flash, Eivor was on her feet, her dagger pointed at Ealric's throat. "Keep speaking," she growled. "Depending on what you say, you might earn yourself a quick, clean death."

"Eivor!" exclaimed Sigrún.

Ealric's smile was sad. Wistful. "Oh, do not worry, child. Once I understood who you were, what purpose you sought, I decided to aid you in your quest. Would you, at least, give me the time I need to explain the situation?"

"Please do," said Sigrún. She tugged on Eivor's arm. The huntress did not move. The light of the candles danced in the silver reflection of her dagger. Despite Eivor's injuries, the blade did not waver.

"After Ely burned down, I found refuge in Wessex," Abbot Ealric said. The knob in his throat bobbed slightly, but he seemed otherwise unafraid of Eivor's dagger. "I was glad to enter King Aelfred's service. He had a vision for the future of Britannia—all of the Saxon kingdoms living together in peace and harmony, worshipping at the altar of knowledge." He paused, then added, "And united under the light of Christ."

Eivor bared her teeth in a hateful scowl. Again, Abbot Ealric paid her no mind.

"The Order would serve as his eyes and ears, as the carriers of God's message of love, as the enforcers of His will on earth. Once I was indicted as a member, my king sent me to East Anglia. Here, I preached the good word and provided for my fellow men."

"And you sent information back to Wessex," Eivor growled.

"And I sent information back to Wessex," the abbot admitted. "King Aelfred did not want another war with the pagans. God gave us free will, my king always said. To persecute others for their faith would go against what God has planned for His children. But then…"

He was silent for a moment. Æthelflaed gently prompted him, "But then…?"

"Then, King Aelfred died. And another Great Maegester took his place."

"Do you know who it is?" Æthelflaed asked. She was not surprised when the abbot shook his head. "What happened afterwards?"

"The first two years, I heard nothing from the man. In truth, I was relieved. I am happy here. This is the place of peace that I've been seeking ever since I've fled the burning remains of my childhood home of Ely. I'd grown weary of this charade. Then, two moons ago, I received words from King Aelfred's successor. My new master sought knowledge about ancient Roman sites. It was an odd request, but I obeyed without question and provided the information the Great Maegester demanded of me." He leaned against his desk, holding his head with one hand. "I did not know—I could never have expected—"

"What," said Eivor with great disgust, "you couldn't predict that your new master would use violence to get what he wanted? The thought never occurred to you?"

"King Aelfred sought to create God's kingdom in earth, he never would have—" Abbot Ealric stopped, exhaling through his nose. The lines at his brows had deepened, and the bags under his eyes were dark as bruises. In the dim, dying light of the candles, he seemed far much older than the man they had met a few days ago. "It was an honest mistake. And it led to suffering for the poor people of Caestre. I talked to them tonight. I tended to their wounds and fed their children. I will perform the funerary rites of those unlucky few who paid the heaviest price for my folly." Abbot Ealric kneeled, his ageing knees wobbling at the gesture. "I know who you are, Eivor of Elmenham. I am ready to face the king's judgement on Earth. Just as I am ready to face God's judgement in Heaven."

Eivor took a deep breath. Her blade hovered above the white, exposed skin of Ealric's bent neck. The man's hand was clasped in prayer, passing the beads of a rosary between his index and thumb.

Eivor raised her blade. "Eivor, no!" Sigrún cried, reaching out—but Æthelflaed grabbed her hands, lowering them. She shook her head even as the younger woman looked at her in dismay. Eivor sucked in another shaky breath, and she took her blade with both hands to steady it. Abbot Ealric mouthed the words of a Pater Noster; Æthelflaed had never seen one who looked more at peace with himself.

Eivor's blade dropped to the ground with a clatter and a curse. She told the abbot roughly, "Get up! Before I change my mind!"

He did so, on shaking limbs. "My child—"

"How are you supposed to repent if you're dead? Go to the people of Caestre. Do something with your useless carcass. Pay them back the debt you owe. You don't deserve an easy way out."

The abbot smiled slightly. "I thought right, then. You were raised a Christian. It is plain to see."

Eivor looked away. To Æthelflaed's great shock, tears were brimming in her eyes.