“He was?” She sounded surprised.

“He preferred the squirrel’s tits to a life of prayer.”

“A lot of monks enjoy both,” Mus said bleakly. “I want you to talk to Wynflæd, lord.”

“Me?”

“You know what happened to her?”

“She was raped.”

“Over and over,” Mus said.

Rorik appeared at the inner door and looked confused by Mus’s presence. “I have bread and cheese, lord,” he stammered, “and ale.”

“On the table,” I told him, “then go and wash Tintreg.” He looked at Mus and hesitated. “Go!” I said. He went. “Have some cheese,” I told Mus.

She shook her head. “They hurt her, lord.”

“She’s not the first, she won’t be the last.”

“She cries at night.”

“And Brother Beadwulf can’t comfort her?”

“He’s a weak man, lord.”

I grunted at that. “So you want me to comfort her?” I asked scornfully.

“No.” She spoke with a deal of force. She looked so beautiful and delicate, but there was a backbone of steel inside her small body.

“So what do you want?”

“Do you know what men say about you?”

I gave a snort of laughter. “That I’m old. They also call me Uhtredærwe,” that meant Uhtred the Wicked, “they call me priest-killer and Ealdordeofol.” The last meant chief of the devils.

“They also say that you’re kind, that you’re generous, and that you punish any man who rapes a woman.”

I grunted. “The last thing you said is true.”

“You won’t even let your men beat their wives.”

“I do sometimes.” Rarely, though. I watched my father beat my stepmother, and it was not pretty. As for rape, I had seen what that had done to Ragnar’s daughter, and to Hild, and few crimes angered me more. “So you’re saying I’m soft,” I challenged Mus.

“No, I’m saying Wynflæd needs to know that not all men are rapists or weaklings.”

“And I can persuade her of that?” I asked dubiously.

“You’re Uhtred of Bebbanburg. Everyone fears you.”

I gave another snort. “You too, Mus?”

“I’m terrified of you, lord,” she said with a smile. “Will you talk to her?”

“The last time I saw you, Mus,” I said, “at least the last time before this year, I threatened to have the skin whipped off your back.”

“I didn’t believe you. Have you ever whipped a woman?”

“No.”

“So I was right,” she said. “Now will you talk to Wynflæd?”

I took a drink of the sour wine. “We’re leaving in two days, Mus,” I said, “and I’ll be busy.” The truth was that I had nothing particular to do before we left except give our horses time to recover, but I could not imagine anything I would say could help the squirrel, nor did I want to talk to her. What could I tell her? “She’s a Christian, isn’t she?” I asked. “So why doesn’t she talk to a priest?” Mus responded to that with a scornful noise. “Or talk to you?” I suggested.

“She has talked to me; I think you’d be good for her.”