Garulf was a big lad, densely muscled, but Wynstan was strong, and not yet forty years old. He carried Garulf without undue effort, but he could not move fast with such a weight, and he broke into a stumble that was half walking, half running. He headed up the ravine.

He glanced back and saw one of the newly arrived Vikings break away from the battle on the beach and run after him.

He found the strength to move faster, and began to breathe hard as the upward slope became steeper. He could hear the pounding footsteps of his pursuer. He kept glancing back, and the man was closer every time.

At the last possible moment he turned, went down on one knee, slid Garulf off his shoulder onto the ground, and sprang forward with his spear uptilted. The Viking raised his ax over his head for the fatal blow, but Wynstan got under his guard. He thrust the sharpened iron point of his spear into the Viking’s throat and pushed with all his might. The blade penetrated the soft flesh, sliced through muscles and tendons, passed through the brain, and came out at the back of the head. The man died without a sound.

Wynstan picked Garulf up and went on up the ravine. At the top he turned and looked back. Now the English were surrounded, and the beach was carpeted with their dead. A few had broken away and fled along the bank in the downstream direction. They might be the only other survivors.

No one was looking at Wynstan.

He crossed the ridge, went downhill until he felt sure he was out of sight, then turned and trudged along the hillside toward the woods where the horses waited.

During one of Wilf’s lucid moments, Ragna told him about the battle. “Wynstan brought Garulf home, without serious injuries,” she said in conclusion. “But almost the entire army of Shiring was wiped out.”

Wilf said: “Garulf is a brave lad, but he’s no leader. He should never have been put in command.”

“It was Wynstan’s idea. He’s virtually admitted he was wrong.”

“You should have stopped it.”

“I tried, but the men wanted Garulf.”

“They like him.”

This was just like old times, Ragna thought; Wilf and her talking as equals, each interested in the other’s opinion. They were together more than they had ever been. She was with him day and night, taking care of every need, and she ruled the ealdormanry in his place. He seemed grateful for everything. His injury had made them close again.

This had happened against her deepest wishes. She would never feel about him as she once had. But suppose he wanted to resume their former passionate relationship? How would she react?

She did not have to decide just yet. They could not have sex now—Hildi had stressed that any sudden movement could be harmful—but when he was recovered he might want to go back to the passionate lovemaking of their early years. His brush with death might have brought him to his senses. Perhaps he would forget Carwen and Inge and cling to the woman who had nursed him back to health.