“It would be sensible, lord,” Finan came and crouched beside the revived fire, “to have a day of resting. The horses need it. We can dry out. It’s a fine day dawning.”

I nodded. “But I want to send out scouts.”

“East?” he guessed.

I nodded. “To make sure Sköll’s given up his pursuit. Then we continue east, back home.” The word “home” was like ash in my mouth. I remembered Stiorra’s joy when she had first seen Bebbanburg and how she had ridden a horse along the sand, her eyes bright, her laughter loud.

“We’ll go back to the road?” Finan asked.

“It’s probably the quickest way back.”

“Sigtryggr must have learned the news by now,” Finan said. “He could be on his way already.”

“He’ll probably be on the road we were using,” I suggested, then frowned. “If he’s coming.”

“And why wouldn’t he?”

“Maybe the Mercians are threatening?” I hated not knowing. I did not know where we were, I did not know what happened in Mercia, in Cumbraland, or in Eoferwic. I did not even know what happened at Bebbanburg. My son would have heard of his sister’s fate by now, so was he leading men to avenge her?

“Have you thought about Æthelstan?” Finan asked.

“What about him?”

“We’re probably closer to him than to Sigtryggr, and Æthelstan owes you.”

I grimaced. “I like him, but he’s getting to be like his grandfather, drunk on God. And the pompous little bastard wants my oath.”

“He still owes you,” Finan insisted, “and he’s threatened by the Norse just as much as Sigtryggr.”

I thought about that, except it was hard to think. All I could see in my mind was Stiorra dragged from a shield wall, screaming, a sword coming down, and her blood on the street. I prayed she had died fast. I tried to summon a picture of her in my head, but it would not come, any more than I could see her dead mother, Gisela.

“Lord?” Finan said anxiously.

“I’m listening.”

“Sköll threatens Mercia too,” Finan insisted. “He might have failed to capture Eoferwic, but Ceaster would be a good consolation.”

“If we invite Æthelstan into Northumbria,” I said, “it’s a confession of weakness, that we can’t control our own kingdom. Besides, he has to help his father defeat the Mercian rebels first. He might have ended Cynlæf’s hopes, but there were other rebels.”

“Maybe they’re already defeated?”

“Maybe. But if Æthelstan helps us defeat Sköll, what happens to western Northumbria?”

Finan understood what I was suggesting. “Æthelstan keeps hold of Cumbraland?”

“And makes it part of Mercia,” I said, “part of Englaland. And Cumbraland belongs to Northumbria, and my son-in-law is King of Northumbria.” I paused. “And if Æthelstan helps us,” I went on, “then he’ll want my oath.”

“Which he won’t get.”

“Not while I’m alive,” I said grimly. “Damn the Christians,” I added, “and damn Edward’s Englaland. I’m fighting for my own country.”

“So we go east,” Finan said.