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a woman who could so unsettle one of his men, even if it was one who still had his feet wet from the crossing. He tried to remember the warrior's name. He was one of the newcomers, come to find his place in this green land so rich in soil and plunder. He watched as the warrior fidgeted with his single, dull metal armband, after finally returning his wandering gaze.
    'A woman has ridden in, Lord. She wears the black robes of the Christians and stands like a crow waiting to pluck the eyes from my face. Lord… she has no escort and rides past our guards demanding to speak with you. We turned her away, yet she will not leave and insists upon an audience without delay. She contends that you will speak with her. She talks of aiding you with a wergild, a debt of blood for which she knows you seek payment.'
    Octa smiled, now even more intrigued by the distraction of this visitor. 'A woman that dresses like a crow and speaks of wergild? I shall keep my eyes covered, to be sure. However, if she is one of the Christians, I doubt she carries weapons, and if she does, then I'm sure my boys will defend their father.' He laughed, opened his arms and the boys came charging over and leapt into their father's lap. 'Bid her enter.'
    The warrior ducked out, pulling the wooden door closed behind him with a bang. Octa hugged his boys and then sent them to play back in their corner, the dog wagging its tail enthusiastically at their boisterous return to its company. He smiled, watching them as they giggled happily, the dog trying to lick at their faces, its huge tattered head, nuzzling them affectionately.
    The doorway creaked open again, and a slim figure, covered from head to foot in folds of black cloth ducked low to enter.
This truly is a crow that has come to visit me,
thought Octa as he made the sign of protection, the description was not unwarranted; a shiver of superstitious fear ran through him at the simile. He studied her as the crow-woman slowly stood straight, squinting slightly as her sight became accustomed to the light within the hall, quickly scanning the space about her as she threw back the hood of her cloak.
    The woman's skin was pale, made almost white by the contrast of her long black hair and lips shown red from the cold of the early winter evening even in the gloom, she was quite beautiful he realised, but in an unsettling way. Before either she or Octa could say anything, the old war-hound stood and took a pace towards her, hackles rising as it gave a low, threatening growl, the ageing pet once more the hound of war as it readied to protect its charges from the intruder. For a moment the people in the hall became silent, and then the animal took another step towards her, its growl growing louder. She cast a quick glance in his direction, before raising a hand towards the dog; the index and little fingers extended while the rest of her hand clenched into a fist. Her head tipped forward and, as she stared at the dog, she made a small keening sound and slowly lowered her hand. The dog responded immediately, tail dropping, it slowly sank to the ground and lowered its head between its paws and then whimpering, it shuffled back to the protective embrace of the three boys.
    One of the women working the loom hissed and made a sign of protection while her companion picked up a knife and made to rise, but Octa was already on his feet.
    'Witchcraft? You bring dark magic to my hearth?' He advanced towards the visitor, the long blade of his seax held before him, but as he got closer, he saw she was smiling.
    'I bring no magic into your home, Lord Octa. A simple trick to confound an old dog. I apologise, I do not wish you, nor your kin, any insult or injury; I am at your mercy.' She bowed her head and spread her arms wide in formal supplicancy. 'The fact of the matter is that this evening, after travelling almost all of the day, I come to you tired and unprotected, seeking only to bring honour and victory to you and your people.' Octa