“Then why have we come here? Why leave Sygbald inside with her?”

Leofstan looked up, watching the highest leaves of the aspens tremble in the light breeze. No wind reached us beneath the trees.

“The mind has a power of its own,” he said. “If Sygbald believes Gudrun has the ability to heal him, he will more likely be cured.”

I was aghast.

“You put great store in the power of Sygbald’s mind.”

“Ah, but I have faith in the Almighty, young Hunlaf. And do not forget that He guided Ahmad’s hand to save Gwawrddur.” Leofstan fixed me with a disapproving glare that reminded me of when I had studied my Latin declensions under his tutelage back at Werceworthe.

“Is it God’s will that has brought us here?” I asked.

“Surely everything is God’s will,” he replied, scratching at the grey stubble that had grown on his shaved pate. “The Lord is all-knowing and all-powerful. Gudrun may be a witch, a seeress, a völva, as Runolf described her, but anyone can be the instrument of the Lord. Ahmad. Even you.” He raised an eyebrow knowingly.

“That was different,” I said, thinking of how God had led me to pick up a blade and fight. Before that moment I had been a monk, praying, singing, studying and writing all day. That single decision had changed my life forever. Surely the hand of God had been responsible. The alternative – that it had been a mere whim on my part, an instant of rage that had seen me snatch up a weapon – was unthinkable.

“Is it really so different?” Leofstan said. “For the Almighty, anything and everything is possible. Even using a cunning woman as His hand to heal one of His faithful. When I looked inside the hut, did I not see vervain and betony?”

I nodded.

“And that bitter smell was fennel, if I am not mistaken,” he went on. “These are all things I would have used to treat Sygbald if I’d had them to hand. Alas, we had no such herbs, so apart from binding his chest to prevent the ribs from moving, there was nothing more I could do.”