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Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise forMATTHEW HARFFY
  3. BY MATTHEW HARFFY
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright
  6. Dedication
  7. Maps
  8. Epigraph
  9. Contents
  10. Place Names
  11. One
  12. Two
  13. Three
  14. Four
  15. Five
  16. Six
  17. Seven
  18. Eight
  19. Nine
  20. Ten
  21. Eleven
  22. Twelve
  23. Thirteen
  24. Fourteen
  25. Fifteen
  26. Sixteen
  27. Seventeen
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Twenty-One
  32. Twenty-Two
  33. Twenty-Three
  34. Twenty-Four
  35. Twenty-Five
  36. Twenty-Six
  37. Twenty-Seven
  38. Twenty-Eight
  39. Twenty-Nine
  40. Thirty
  41. Thirty-One
  42. Thirty-Two
  43. Thirty-Three
  44. Thirty-Four
  45. Thirty-Five
  46. Thirty-Six
  47. Thirty-Seven
  48. Thirty-Eight
  49. Thirty-Nine
  50. Forty
  51. Forty-One
  52. Forty-Two
  53. Forty-Three
  54. Forty-Four
  55. Forty-Five
  56. Forty-Six
  57. Forty-Seven
  58. Forty-Eight
  59. Forty-Nine
  60. Fifty
  61. Fifty-One
  62. Fifty-Two
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Sixty-Two
  73. Author’s Note
  74. Acknowledgements
  75. About the Author
  76. An Invitation from the Publisher

“Would you like me to look for him?” I asked. I did not relish the thought of stumbling upon my friend and my erstwhile lover clinched in an embrace beneath a bush, or in one of the storage buildings down by the river. Perhaps they were even in the hut we used to frequent. Cwenswith had barely spoken to me since the day of the duel and the Norse attack, but she had made it very clear that she considered me to be somehow responsible for Wistan’s death. It was unfair, I knew, but I could not blame her. I blamed myself too. And, even though I felt a small stab of jealousy at seeing her and Gersine slipping away together, I could not be angry at him for being drawn to her very evident appeal. While I cannot deny that I missed our night-time meetings, I did not yearn for Cwenswith. With the duel, her true character had been shown to me. Gersine was welcome to her, but that did not mean I would like to interrupt their tryst.

Mancas scanned the faces of the men and women who were close enough to the fires to be recognised. Many more could be seen milling about outside of the fire-glow, holding cups and trenchers of roast meat. There were yet more people inside the hall, but it was hot and stuffy inside. We had been lucky with the weather and the night was warm, so most of the revellers had made their way outside.

“No, thank you,” said Mancas, shaking his head and taking the smallest nibble from the corner of a piece of bread. “He must be here somewhere. He will probably hear my words from wherever he is seated.”

I nodded, doubting what Mancas said to be true.

The sound of singing came from within the hall. A strong, melodious voice lifted on a tune picked out on the plucked strings of a lyre. Mancas smiled.

“Beorn has started to sing. I must not delay too long now. Once the singing starts in earnest, it is hard to quieten the men.”

The people hushed, listening to the words of the song. A few joined in with the familiar tune, humming, or lending their voices to the words. It was the sorrowful tale of Beobrand and Sunniva and, despite having heard it many times before, I found myself drawn into the story of love and loss by the talented singer. I had seen Beorn, one of Mancas’ hearth-warriors, with a lyre under his arm when he arrived, but I had never heard him sing before. Many men played an instrument and could carry a tune, but few were as gifted as Beorn. He had a wonderful voice that carried out of the hall and into the darkness where it soared, conjuring images from the words and the melody in the minds of the listeners.