A raven croaked at the edge of the glade. The same big brute we had first seen in the forest, I thought. The harsh sound of its cry startled a flock of wood pigeons that must have been roosting on the far side of the hut’s roof, for several of the grey birds flapped up into the sky with a great flutter, flashing their white wing feathers. They circled, dark against the pale blue of the cloudless sky, before flying northward and out of sight behind the trees, no doubt to settle somewhere more peaceful. The raven called again and I looked up. It was perched on the gnarled branch of an ash. The black creature was staring at me, and I wondered whether its skull would decorate Gudrun’s hut one day.

“I do not believe Gudrun has magic that will heal our friend,” Leofstan said, his voice barely more than a whisper, so that only I would hear. “But I do believe she has knowledge of healing and that God has brought us here that she might apply her skills to Sygbald.”

By the time the sun was lowering in the west, we had all fallen into a doze. The glade was in shade now, and the warmth had quickly fled, so Hereward shook himself awake and went about lighting a fire.

He struck a spark with a small flint he carried in a pouch filled with shavings and strips of hoof fungus. It would have been easier to fetch a burning brand from Gudrun’s hearth, but none of us wanted to venture into her home, or to distract her while she worked on Sygbald. Luckily, we were sheltered in the glade, and the tinder was dry. In moments, Hereward had a smoking ember caught in a piece of birch bark. To this he added some dry grass, wrapping it in a ball around the glowing tinder and blowing into it gently. Smoke billowed from the grass and an instant later, a flame appeared. Hereward added some twigs from the wood that Gersine had collected and soon we had a warming blaze.

We were staring into the flames, each lost to his own thoughts when Gudrun startled us all.

“Am I welcome at your fire?” she said.

Ulf started barking, its sharp yapping cries sending the raven flapping away. Gwawrddur half-rose, his hand already drawing his sword from its scabbard. Gudrun laughed, holding out her hands to show she was not armed. Not one of us had heard or seen her approach.

Ingvar hushed his dog.

“You are of course, well come, lady,” he said, a strange quiver in his voice.

She laughed again at that. Then, smoothing her linen dress, she lowered herself down to sit beside him. Ingvar watched her all the while, his eyes filled with some unspoken emotion.

“How does Sygbald fare?” Runolf asked.