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understand,’ she said. She longed to speak to someone, but Etheldreda was too young.
    ‘I understand more than people think,’ Etheldreda said.
    Tears began to form in Eanfleda’s blue eyes and well over to fall down her pale cheeks.
    ‘I am ashamed to tell,’ she whispered.
    They were away from the crowds now, hidden from the other wedding guests by the trunk of a huge old tree.
    Etheldreda squeezed her arm and looked at her with such compassion that Eanfleda broke down.
    ‘I had hoped,’ she said with a sob, ‘that my cousin Eorconbert… and I…’ Her voice faded away.
    ‘You wanted to be his bride?’
    ‘Hush, not so loud. I should not have said it.’
    ‘Your cousin is most handsome, most brave. I am not surprised that you love him.’
    Eanfleda sobbed freely now, the relief she felt for having told half her guilt encouraging her to blurt out the rest.
    ‘Do you know what I have done?’ she whispered, clutching Etheldreda’s arm and staring wildly at her. Etheldreda shook her head, beginning to feel very uneasy at the intensity of the older girl’s expression.
    ‘I went to the witch woman of the pagans,’ Eanfleda whispered. ‘I asked for a love potion to make him come to me.’
    Etheldreda gasped.
    ‘You must tell no one. I shall be cursed as long as I live.’ The Northumbrian princess gripped Etheldreda’s arms tighter with her thin fingers.
    Etheldreda shook her head dumbly.
    ‘Vow,’ hissed Eanfleda.
    Etheldreda could not bring the words out. She continued to stare at Eanfleda, not so much shocked at what she said, but at the expression on the girl’s face.
    ‘Vow,’ sobbed Eanfleda, starting to shake her, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Chapter 3
    The attack on Oswald AD 641
    ‘Are you not satisfied, my lord, with the blood that you’ve already shed?’ Cynewise, the Mercian queen, was looking angrily at the fighting men gathering, the horses riding in from the hills, the wagons being loaded.
    Penda was standing with arms crossed on his broad chest, his eyes gleaming. This was more like it! No country would stand against this force. He had killed Edwin and purged his country of the false faith of the Nazarene god, but in his place had come another cursed Christian, Oswald of the Bernician royal line, brought up on Iona, an island of monks. There was surely not a good swordsman or axeman among them to have taught the prince how to fight. Northumbria was practically his.
    Penda took a deep breath, almost smelling the wild places of the hills and the heather wind sweeping across the high moors. His men were happier with this type of terrain, no sticky marshland and narrow bottle-necks guarded by dykes. Wide open spaces and rocks to hide behind, heights to reach and hold.
    ‘Did you hear me, lord?’ Cynewise persisted, long years of marriage and the bearing of five children having given her confidence to speak her mind.
    ‘I heard you woman. I heard you,’ he muttered, then raised his voice and pointed with one stubby fierce finger at some boys who were struggling to load a wagon with some huge barrels.
    ‘Take it from the other side, fools! Do you want your fathers to sleep thirsty after a day of fighting?’
    He moved away and Cynewise was left alone, to be joined by her second eldest son, Wulfhere, a moment later.
    ‘Can I go with him this time, mother? Can I?’
    She looked down at his thin, fine face, eager for adventure.
    ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not this time.’ Not this time, her heart echoed, but soon there would be a time when she would have to let him go.
    ‘Peada goes.’
    ‘Peada is blooded. He has years on you, my son.’
    ‘I am strong and my horse is faster than Peada’s. His is made of lead.’
    ‘You are needed here. If all the men go, who will guard the women?’
    Wulfhere’s face wrinkled with disgust and he moved away, but he was glad she had called him a man. When all the men were mustering it was frustrating to be a child. A king’s son could not afford