“So why did they come?”

Gudrun offered me a smile. Once again, her eyes would not stop moving, her gaze roaming around the clearing. The sweat cooled on my skin and a chill stillness wrapped about me. I wanted to tremble, but held my body in check. I would not show any weakness.

“Why they came here does not concern you, boy,” she said and I stiffened. “Men come to me for all manner of reasons. You have brought a friend for healing. Others come for potions that will revive or cure a loved one. Some come to heal themselves.” Her constantly moving eyes settled on Ingvar for a heartbeat, and he squirmed.

“Ljósberari’s people come to you for healing?”

“Amongst other things.”

“What other things?”

“That is between them, their gods, and me.”

“You will not tell me?” Something in her tone infuriated me.

“No,” she replied simply.

She was taunting me with her answers. Goading me. What did she hope to achieve by it? I could feel my anger at being thwarted building within me. My hand fell to my sword’s hilt. By Christ’s blood, I would make the witch answer me. Leofstan grasped my shoulder, holding me back.

“She has done us no harm, Hunlaf,” he said, his voice quiet and soothing. As one might talk to an animal. Or to a petulant child. Realising how I must appear to the older men surrounding me, I took a deep breath, calming myself.

“If you are not with Ljósberari,” I said, when I had gained control of my anger, “why has he not killed you?”

“I think he meant to,” she said, “when he first passed by this island.”

“But he did not.” I heard the foolishness of my words and felt my face redden. To cover my embarrassment I dropped to my haunches, picked up a piece of wood and prodded the fire.

“No, Hunlaf,” Gudrun replied, with a smile, “he did not kill me. I am no ghost.” Her use of my name both frightened and excited me. There was power in names, she had said.

“Why did he not slay you?” asked Runolf. “You are neither a thrall nor a child.”

Gudrun sat up straight, smoothing her white linen dress. Where she pulled the fabric down, it clung to her breasts. I was too busy staring at her chest to take in what the others were doing, but I would wager a fortune that every man there was looking in the same direction as me in that moment.

“No, Runolf,” she murmured, “I am no child. And I am a slave to no man.”

Runolf cleared his throat.

“And yet you still live.”