“We are here now,” he said. “If you fear her magic, do not enter. But how many warriors could that shack hold?” He did not wait for an answer, but he was right. The hut was too small for even all of us to enter. “Not enough to stop me, that’s for certain,” growled Runolf, answering his own question and stooping beneath the sagging timber lintel. He disappeared inside. There was no sudden crash of fighting, so, taking a deep breath, I offered a silent prayer to the Lord for protection, made the sign of the cross, and entered the hut after him.

It was warm inside and pungent scents assailed my nostrils. My eyes took some time to adjust after the bright sunlight. When I began to see clearly in the gloom, my breath caught in my throat. Skulls adorned every surface of the building. They dangled from the beams, rested on boards, or were balanced in niches. I shuddered and scanned the bones for signs of human remains, but I saw none. They were of all manner of God’s creatures, from the tiniest vole on a table, to what looked like a wolf skull, nestled on the ground beside the hearth. But the skulls that drew my attention most were flimsy things, with beaks and great gaping eye sockets. I have always been interested in birds, and loved to spend days walking the coast and fields of Northumbria, observing them and listening to their calls. It is one of the small pleasures I can still enjoy, even now, as my bones ache with age. I can sit and look out from the window of my cell and watch the moorhens, coots and ducks down by the river. There, in Gudrun’s hut, as I grew accustomed to the dark, I became distracted for a time with those skulls. Most I had never seen before and I tried to imagine which one belonged to which species. Was that a kestrel, with its dainty arched beak? That must surely be a curlew, with the curving bill. That one was a puffin, there could be no doubt. The distinctive beak was faded in death, but the colours were still visible.

“You like my friends, I see?” Gudrun said, her sharp tone cutting through my fixation. She stirred something thick and glutinous that simmered in a small pot hanging over the fire. “You are not like the others, are you?” Frowning, I stared at her. Had she somehow seen through the thin veil of the warrior I wore. Was it so clear that I was a monk in a warrior’s clothing?

“Never mind the boy,” said Runolf. I bridled at his dismissive description of me, but I was glad that Gudrun’s sunset gaze of blue and pink shifted away from me. “What about Sygbald?”