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own, she knew again the fierce stab of hot maternal love she always felt for this, her only child. His dark eyes looked into hers for a brief, wordless minute, then he gave her back the horn.
    With great dignity Guthfrid completed the rest of the ceremony, bearing the drinking horn from one man to the next all around the great hall. The women she passed by, not sparing them a glance. When she reached Edric her heart skipped a beat, but her outward semblance showed no more emotion than she had displayed for any other of the thanes. His pale blue eyes looked back at her with the same cool distance that hers showed to him. Watching them, no one would ever know that they had been lovers for more than a year.
    She passed by Fara and her women with arrogant disdain. Let the friedlehe sit there, in her lesser seat, and watch the queen bestow the cup honors, Guthfrid thought viciously. Her eyes flicked to the side only once, to catch a glimpse of the British princess.
    A little thing, she thought. Edwin would soon break her to his will.
    Finally she had reached the last of the tables, where sat Cutha and his family. First she gave the horn to the eldest son, Cuthwulf, who drank more deeply than he should before he returned the horn to her. Then Sigurd, the second son, whom she disliked intensely because he was Ceawlin’s friend. Then Cutha himself: so close to her husband, so enigmatic to her. And then Ceawlin.
    She hesitated for a fraction of a second before handing him the horn. I wish it was poison, she thought.
    His eyes, an even more brilliant blue-green than Cynric’s, returned her look. He had always hated her fully as much as she hated him. He took the cup, being careful not to touch her fingers, drank, and gave it back to her. With head held high, Guthfrid returned to her place. Once she was seated, Cynric rose.
    It was the time for the king to reward his men. The hall thanes stirred eagerly. The silence was intense. “Warriors of Wessex,” Cynric began. His voice was perhaps not as strong as it had once been, but it filled the hall nevertheless. “You have upheld the glory of your nation. From this time forward, the borders of Wessex will stretch as far as the Aildon hills. The British have been defeated.” A cheer went up from the hall and Cynric waited for silence to descend once again. “There is little in the way of treasure of gold among the Britons, but there is richness of land. Henceforth the West Saxon eorls will be no less than the great eorls of the Franks. This I, Cynric, your king, promise. Lands for my eorls, and lands too for the thanes who have followed me so bravely into battle. From this day forth, the name of the West Saxons will be great in this land.”
    A roar of approval burst from the hall men and Cynric sat down. After a minute he gestured to the scop, who was supping at the table next to Edwin’s. The scop picked up his wooden harp and advanced to the hearthplace. As soon as he plucked a string, silence fell.
    He gave them the song he had written for Cynric when the West Saxon army had taken Venta and they had seen for the first time a city of the Romans:
     
    Firmly the builder set the foundations,
    Cleverly bound them with iron bands;
    Stately the palaces, splendid the baths,
    Towers and pinnacles pointing on high;
    Many a mead-hall rang with their revelry,
    Many a court with the clang of their arms,
    Till Fate the all-leveling laid them low.
     
    I too have a reverence for harpers. The words of the Saxon king sounded once again in Niniane’s brain. She could not understand what the harper was singing, but she was spellbound by the sound of his voice. It was not singing, precisely, she thought; it was more like chanting. It was also profoundly moving. Every note was plangent with sorrow. She looked around and saw that the hallful of pagan barbarians was listening with riveted attention.
    The voice died away and a great sigh ran through the hall, as if everyone listening had been holding