My mind lurched at the memories that flooded back in. I let out a sobbing cry at my loss and longed once more to be plunged into the hidden land of dreams and not this waking nightmare, where I was sure to find only more blood and death.

“Hunlaf?”

I pushed myself up. Gwawrddur sat close by, his face a pale smudge in the gloom, his anxiety evident in his whispered tone. There was movement, a shuffling and rustling of cloth. Three more faces peered at me from the dark. From their shapes and builds I knew the first two to be Hereward and Drosten. The huge shadow of the third told me it was Runolf. I was pleased to see that he had shaken off his lethargy. With a pang I recalled his shock at Revna’s reaction to him. He had focused on nothing but rescuing her since finding out about Estrid’s murder and she had spurned him. Each one of us was living his own personal hell, it seemed. At least I was not alone.

“Are you well?” asked Hereward.

Well? Mad laughter bubbled up within me at the question. I bit it back and it turned into a choked sob.

“I am not hurt,” I said, my voice bitter and hollow. I stretched my back and rolled my shoulders. I was stiff and bruised, but nothing worse than that.

“Leofstan?”

Tears stung my eyes, his name threatening to unman me. Unprepared for the power of my emotions, I sniffed and shook my head. I could not be sure if they saw my movement, but they must have already suspected the worst, for they did not press me further.

“How long have I been senseless?” I asked.

“They brought you back shortly after nightfall,” said Hereward. “It must be past midnight now.”

“What did they do to you?” asked Runolf, his rumbling in the gloom. “We could find no wound, but we could not awaken you.” I heard real concern in his tone, and it gladdened me, despite everything.