His words pierced my grief-stricken mind, and it was as though a spell had been broken. I drew in a shuddering breath. Sounds rushed back, and I rubbed the tears away from my cheeks. Leofstan placed a hand on my shoulder and, ashamed of my weakness, I shook him off.

Could it be that Aelfwyn yet lived? Dare I hope that God had listened to my prayers for her?

“Tell me of this Chlotar, the Frank,” Runolf said.

“He is a thrall, like Ljósberari. I only saw him in the distance, but there can be no doubt it was him, from the stories I have heard since.”

“Stories?”

“Of his cruelty. All true, I would say, after what I saw…” He faltered, as if only then realising that to continue on this path would lead him to describe the atrocities he had witnessed.

“What did you see him do?” asked Runolf.

Audun held out his cup with a shaking hand. Gwawrddur took the flask of mead and filled the old man’s cup. The goatherd drank, holding the vessel with both hands to avoid spilling the precious sweet liquid. He took a deep breath, like a man preparing against the agony of having a broken limb reset, or a wound sealed with a red-hot blade.

“He said those to whom they show the mercy of the light were not worthy to see its glory.” He bit his lip, then forged ahead. “So he put out their eyes.” He winced, as if uttering the words had caused him pain. “I can still hear their screams in the night.”

Runolf grew very still. Though he did not stand, he seemed to grow in stature in the gloom.

“This Chlotar did this to my wife?”

Audun could not speak now, but his eyes were answer enough.

“But the children and the thralls were spared?” I asked, grasping for some sliver of chance.

Audun nodded.

“Revna?” said Runolf, his voice questioning and desolate. I stared at him over the fire, wondering at his meaning.

Audun clearly understood, for he drew in a deep breath and met Runolf’s angry gaze.

“They took her.”

“You are sure?”

Audun hesitated.

“As sure as I can be, dróttinn minn. She was not amongst the dead.”

I looked from one man to the other, trying to make sense of this exchange. After a moment, Runolf turned to face me. His eyes gleamed like gems in the dark.

“Revna is my daughter, Hunlaf,” he said.

“Your daughter?”

Runolf sighed, and where his anger had seemed to make him grow, now his shoulders slumped.

“Yes,” he said. “My daughter.”

My head was filled with questions, but I snapped my mouth shut. Young and foolish as I was, I could see that Runolf was in no mood to speak to me now.

He shifted his dark gaze to Audun once more.

“You saw to the dead?” Runolf asked.