“I am sorry.” I remembered the stench of burning and decay at Werceworthe, the bloated corpses, oozing with ichor. “I understand.”

And I did. There could be no certainty, but Aelfwyn might still live! I clung to that thought, pushing darker possibilities aside. I wanted to shout for the joy of it, but I thought of Runolf out there in the night, surrounded by the charred remains of his childhood home, certain of his wife’s fate. This last year had been hard for him, far from his homeland, abandoned by his kin and surrounded by Englisc who neither understood him or his people. To return, only to find death and destruction was devastating.

And yet, if what Audun said was true, Runolf’s daughter lived. A daughter he had never spoken of to me. But Runolf rarely talked of himself, or his past.

I thought back to the battle at Werceworthe and Runolf’s duel with Skorri. The moment they had faced each other in battle had been the instant I had learnt they were brothers. Runolf never spoke of that fight, or of what drove his terrible enmity with Skorri, and I had learnt not to ask. But Audun had known them both since they were boys, and, much like Leofstan, I have always had an insatiable appetite for knowledge and I could sense I might find answers to my questions that night.

I poured more mead. There were only a few drops left, but Audun smiled appreciatively. He appeared to have forgiven my previous pushing, so I decided to direct the conversation in a different direction.

“You have known Runolf since he was a boy?” I asked.

“Yes. I served his father before Skorri was jarl.”

“Runolf is a good man,” I said.

Audun nodded and narrowed his eyes, perhaps wondering where this was leading.

“And Skorri was a good jarl, truth be told,” he said, then looked at me askance. “Were you there, at the end?”

“I was,” I said, and he leaned forward. “They fought like gods. Blow after blow of axe and sword until their shields were tatters.”

Audun’s eyes gleamed in the firelight, imagining the great clash between such powerful warrior brothers.

“I would wager it was a fight worthy of a skald’s saga,” he said, sucking his teeth. “I would have liked to have been there.” He removed his cap and scrubbed at the wispy hair beneath. “How did Runolf slay Skorri in the end? Did he use some trickery? He always was a clever one. Strong too, of course, like his father, and Skorri. But truth be told, I would have placed my silver on Skorri winning in a fight to the death.”