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the woman sooner than you'd like," Acennan continued, "though I wouldn't leave Sunniva for that wizened old hag. But I suppose it is as they say, and any furrow is good to sow when the sapling is ready to plant!" More laughter.
    But Beobrand did not join in the mirth. He looked at the object of Acennan's comment. A woman, old enough to be his mother, head covered and stooped, walked towards him. Recognition gleamed in her eyes.
    She was followed by a young man, who glared at Beobrand, menace evident in his every move.
    They stopped in front of the reclining warriors, their shadows falling over Beobrand.
    "Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, are you hale?"
    Beobrand stood, and to Acennan's surprise, he reached for the woman and pulled her into an embrace. The young man at her side tensed and Acennan sensed violence in his posture. He pulled himself quickly to his feet, one foot bare, ready to defend his friend should it come to that.
    But the man did no more than stare with open hatred at Beobrand.
    Beobrand pushed the woman back gently and held her shoulders. His eyes glistened, wet with unshed tears.
    "Wilda, goodwife of Alric, it is good to see you. But I fear the news you bring is not good."
    "Never mind my story, Beobrand," Wilda said. "That is sad enough, but tell me: where is my elder son? Where is Leofwine?"
    The men around them shifted uncomfortably. They had stood in the shieldwall at Gefrin with Leofwine the scop. He had been a fine bard. His fingers could pluck beauty from the strings of his lyre and his voice was like golden honey, sweet, smooth and healing. He was brave; had taken up shield and spear in defence of the land. Yet the bravery of the blond, youthful teller of tales outmatched his skill in battle. His wyrd had ended his tale on the blood-soaked bank of the river at Gefrin. Many more had fallen that long hot day, but none was a sadder loss.
    The warriors looked down. They could not look upon the mother of the valiant singer of songs.
    Beobrand did not meet Wilda's gaze.
    She needed no more. Her fears were confirmed and she let out a howl of utter dismay. "God has forsaken us!" she screamed. She pulled away from Beobrand and collapsed into the arms of her other son, Wybert, the man standing at her side.
    Wybert held her close. She shuddered and raged against his chest. All the while, he glowered at Beobrand.
    "This is your doing," he said. "You have brought nothing but death and sorrow to us all, Beobrand."
    Beobrand recalled the last time he had seen Wilda and Wybert. Alric, Leofwine and Wybert's father, had told him to protect his son.
    His failure burnt his eyes and throat as he choked back tears. Acennan placed a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.
     
    Beobrand learnt the story of the end of Engelmynster as Oswald and his retinue plotted and schemed. The king thought up strategies to counter the Waelisc threat while Beobrand heard of the death and destruction that had been wrought on the defenceless.
    Beobrand, Acennan and several other warriors sat, listening raptly as Wilda told the tale.
    She began: "That day had dawned like any other. There was nothing of note about it to presage the death, darkness and despair it would bring."
    Those who had listened to Leofwine recounting tales recognised the same spell in the words of his mother. She too had the gift of story-telling and they were enthralled.
    She told of the warning sounds of the horns, echoing around the clearing, shattering the peace of a late summer's morning. The men had quickly gathered together, ready to defend their settlement from one of the bands of brigands who roamed the land. But they had not been prepared for the thicket of spears and armour that descended on the small monastery. This was no small group of miscreants. This was a warhost. Light glinted from shield bosses and helms like the scales of a monstrous dragon. There was nothing they could do to prevent the destruction of Engelmynster.
    Wilda's eyes misted as she spoke