Nobody spoke for a long while. I wept as quietly as I could, but as the tears rolled down my face, the pain of my grief and self-pity swelled like a tide. I thought of all I had lost and all the mistakes that had led us to this point. Cwenswith and the hólmgang with Wistan. Thurid. Now Leofstan and Os were dead. All because I had been desperate to chase after Aelfwyn. And I didn’t even know if she yet lived. It was a simple thing to say I should not blame myself, but I wondered how much of the blame for our ills could truly be laid at my feet? As I wept, Runolf never let go of my shoulder, and I drew comfort from the strength of his grasp. At last my tears were spent and I cuffed at my cheeks.

Runolf squeezed my shoulder.

“Better?” he asked.

I wanted to scream that I would never be well again. My mentor and friend was dead, and we were all doomed to follow him. But as I opened my mouth, I realised with a shock that Runolf was right. My tears had gone some way to washing away my sorrow. In its place I could feel the beginnings of a different emotion: anger. Hard and obdurate, deep within me nestled the ore of my fury that over time the heat of my grief would forge into a blade of righteous vengeance. I recalled Leofstan’s last words to Scomric and knew he would disapprove of my desire for blood to pay for his murder. Christ taught that we should love our enemies and turn the other cheek when smitten. But Leofstan was no longer there to rebuke me, and I could pray for forgiveness for my sins later. If I survived. I shook my head at my foolishness. I would not live long enough to seek revenge. My hatred and anger would be of no more use than my weeping and self-pity. We were still captives and I could see no way out of this place with our lives.

“When they come for us again,” said Drosten, speaking for the first time, “we must be ready. I would rather die rushing at their spears, than be burnt alive with my eyes put out by that Frankish bastard.”