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into her brain. Rolf's grip on her arm tightened. Just as she felt her knees turn to water, he bent and put his shoulder into her waist. As her upper body fell over his back, he lifted her, head down, hair hanging. She felt him carrying her roughly until she lost her senses once more.
    The next time she woke it was to find herself lying in dewy grass. She reached to feel her head and found her wrists were bound with a rope of plaited hide thongs. The lump on her head was almost the size of a man's fist. Wincing, she got to her knees and discovered she was on the ancient mound just outside the village. A bearded Viking wearing a conical battle helmet frowned down at her. She looked past him to what could only be the blazing of Hell.
    She moaned. They were burning Fair Hope. Vikings jostled out the splintered doors even as flames licked up from the rushes behind them. Fair Hope, where she was to have fulfilled her womanhood in marriage and maternity. Fair Hope, her future. The manor house seemed to freely, wantonly, yield to the fire. It seemed to long to burn.
    "My lady," a young voice came from behind her, "thank the saints! When he brought you, we thought for sure you must be dead."
    She twisted on her knees to see first a pair of sheep grazing, tied together as if the Vikings meant to take them, then several of her folk, blessedly alive, but bound like herself; and who knew what that meant? She tried to cudgel her tired wits. The voice had come from Arneld, whom she'd last seen chased down in the hall. Beside him was Juliana, the dark-haired servant girl. And there was plump Udith, the cook, and her husband, Lothere, a lank, knuckly man, his neck stretched and his head turning this way and that. There were two field serfs as well, who had nothing on but their linen underpants and short-sleeved linen shirts. One of these inquired, hesitantly, "Lord Cedric?"
    "They —" Her voice broke as memory drenched her. "They murdered him!"
    "Don't cry, my lady." It was the boy again; she felt his small warm hands on her arm.
    When she saw the tears in his eyes, and saw Udith digging her knuckles into her eyes, Edin stopped herself, realizing she must set the example. If she had her way, these Vikings would never see any of them cry. She looked into the faces that were looking back at her so expectantly. "We must be brave."
    Her words brought an exchange of weak, hopeless glances. Then the boy said, "Here they come!"
    Edin heard feet thumping the ground and turned. Tears were forgotten as fear took its place. Her folk huddled behind her. She saw the dull gleam of metal mesh armor in the flamelight, and her eye tallied more than a dozen men with blades and axes. So many of them! Three new captives were being herded along. The Vikings towered above these poor Saxons, laughing and swinging their great axes like shepherds' pipes, so that they hissed with every sweep and kept the gentle folk moving in a trot.
    As the newcomers were tied like the others, more Vikings came to the mound, all laden with stolen valuables. Two of them staggered past with an iron-strapped chest — Cedric's chest, the great coffer he'd kept in his room as Uncle Edward had kept it before him. The lid was split across and wrecked, and the cups and coins inside glimmered in the flickering light.
    Leaving the guard again, the pirates made final forays into the cluster of thatched cottages. By now the sky was all vermillion smoke. In that light, Edin made out two villagers lying lifeless outside their doors, two unfortunates probably caught by the first deadly charge.
    The Vikings dashed in and out of the cottages, yowling. Edin cringed to hear their voices, high and reedy and cruel. More of her people were dragged from their hiding places. More cottages were set ablaze, until flames painted the night the color of copper.
    When all of value had been garnished, the Vikings reassembled. As the red flamelight rose and dwindled, their faces alternately shone, then shadowed,