“Your fight? Ljósberari cut Leofstan’s throat as if he were a kine. He…” It was all I could do to keep my voice low, but my words trembled with the force of my wrath. “He drank Leofstan’s blood while I watched. I must see him slain.” I had never been so certain of anything in my life. Now, decades later, I can recall the power of that terrible emotion as it coursed through my veins like molten iron. Vengeance is a sin, and Leofstan would have wanted me to turn away from that path, but Leofstan was dead and revenge is the warrior’s way. And I had chosen the life of a warrior.

After a moment, Runolf patted my shoulder.

“Very well,” he said, understanding my need. “You come, but no others.”

“Father,” whispered Revna, moving close. For a moment I thought she was going to implore Runolf not to go, to instead go with them to the boats without delay. But she grasped her father’s arm tightly and her words again reminded me that she was Runolf’s daughter. “Chlotar sleeps in the chamber at the rear of the great hall,” she hissed. “Avenge my mother.”

Runolf nodded.

Aelfwyn reached out in the darkness and took my hand in hers, sending a shiver through me at her touch.

“There are other women and girls there, Hunlaf,” she said. “They are not your enemy. Cause them no harm.”

“My fight is not with the womenfolk,” I said, giving her hand a squeeze. “Eadmaer,” I whispered, “look after her.”

“There’s no more time for talk,” said Runolf, interrupting us. “If we dawdle here, we will lose our chance and I do not think Óðinn, or Christ for that matter, will provide us with another. Ljósberari’s folk still think we are prisoners. Let us not make them aware of our escape by standing here talking until we are discovered.”

He embraced Revna, and then, one by one, the warriors gripped first Runolf’s forearm, and then mine.

“Hurry back,” said Gwawrddur, his grasp firm in the warrior’s grip. “And remember all I have taught you.”

I swallowed down the emotion that lumped in my throat.

“I’ll see you soon,” I said, and I prayed it was true.

For a few heartbeats, we stood in silence and watched the group of them move along the river’s edge towards the timber jetties where the log boats and other vessels were moored.

“Come on, then,” said Runolf at last, his whispered voice gruff. “Let’s kill that accursed Ljósberari and his fucking Frank lackey.”

Fifty-Five