“I see you have formed a bond with my son,” said Mancas. I felt a flash of anger at the interruption of Beorn’s singing. No doubt Mancas had heard him sing the song before but I wished for nothing more than to be silent and listen.

“Yes, lord,” I said, trying to hide my annoyance.

“Gersine will be coming with us,” Mancas went on.

I nodded, but said nothing. Beorn was singing of Sunniva’s sadness with heart-breaking passion and skill, but it seemed Mancas was not moved by the song, for he continued to speak.

“I expect you to watch over him,” he said. “He is my heir and nothing must happen to him. This voyage was your idea, so I am counting on you to see that Gersine is safe.”

That got my attention. With a sigh I resigned myself that I would not be able to enjoy the rest of the singer’s lament.

“I will of course do my best to keep your son safe, lord,” I said. “Gersine is my friend,” I added. “But your men will guard him well enough, I am sure.”

Mancas had told us that six of his hearth-warriors, including Beorn, with his powerful voice, would accompany us. I wondered whether Beorn would bring his lyre too.

“Hush, husband,” said Aelfgyth, stepping up and taking Mancas’ arm, “can you not see that Hunlaf wishes to listen to Beorn’s singing? You will have time enough to speak of other matters when the song is over.”

Mancas raised his eyebrows, but said nothing more for a time. Aelfgyth smiled at me. She was a matronly woman who seldom ventured out of the great hall. We had barely seen her since arriving at Uuiremutha in the autumn. But clearly she had decided she could not miss this evening’s celebration.

We stood quietly, listening to the final lines of the song. They told of the death of Sunniva and how Beobrand burnt for vengeance. I thought of Cwenswith, Wistan, Gersine, and the meaning of true love. Beorn held his last note longer than I would have imagined possible. There was such sorrow in his voice, such a depth of emotion, that I could scarcely reconcile it as belonging to the heavily muscled warrior, whose nose was twisted and misshapen from some long-ago brawl.

“You smile,” said Aelfgyth, “and yet the song is sad. Did you not find it stirring?”

I squirmed.

“I did, my lady,” I replied. “Beorn has a true talent. I was transported. I could imagine the love between Sunniva and Beobrand, and the anguish he felt at losing her.”

“And yet you were smiling.” Aelfgyth stared into my eyes.

“I was marvelling that God should give such a gift to…” My voice trailed off.

“To?” she asked, smiling now. I sensed she was teasing me. “Do you think it is strange that one who looks like Beorn should be able to create something of beauty?”

My cheeks grew hot.