THIRTY-FIVE

Leif awoke at first light to find a spear at his throat. Well, that settled it: the witch had been right. His third choice had been wrong as well …

From somewhere nearby, Astrid was groaning as she came to, her head throbbing. Leif sighed. ‘He didn’t choose to turn the other cheek,’ he muttered, as two mail-clad men hauled him to his feet.

He was dragged before a bleary-eyed Haralt. Few other people were about so early; the dawn was grey, cheerless, muted.

‘Where’s Folkmar?’ said Leif.

‘Bishop Folkmar,’ replied Haralt, ‘is dead.’

Leif’s eyes widened. ‘Dead?’

‘Silence! A thrall found his body when he carried in his breakfast. The bishop likes – liked – to be woken early, with a cooked meal.’

‘I’ll bet he did,’ came a low snigger nearby, and Haralt glared.

‘He was found slumped upon the altar – upon the altar! – with his hands clutching at his chest and throat, and an expression of supreme pain upon his face. The body was quite cold. And you –’ Here the king stood, and pointed a damning finger, apoplectic with rage. ‘You were seen in the dead of night, breaking into the church, and by God you will pay with your life!’

For the first time, Leif noticed the two thralls, Feima and Fala, cowering, avoiding his eye. And then Astrid exploded.

‘I killed him, King Haralt,’ she shouted, stepping between Leif and her brother.

Even in the heat of the moment, she had wits enough to stamp down on Leif’s foot, turning his protest into a yowl of pain. She’d have to be quick, if this was to work.

‘I killed him, not Leif, and I’ll swear it on … on the Cross, or his old book, or a silver ring or clod of earth or whatever poxy thing you want me to, I’ll swear it. And you’ll take my word above that of a pair of thralls. You have to. That’s the law.’

‘But how …?’ said Haralt, sinking back into his throne.

‘I …’ She snatched at a stray memory. ‘I took henbane from the garden, back at midsummer! I’ve been saving it up, in case you ever asked me to marry Folkmar. I put it in his wine!’

She was on the edge of tears. Behind her, Leif tried to speak again. Without looking, she drove an elbow back into his ribs.

Her head felt like Thor had hit it with his hammer. And that was Leif’s fault. He’d betrayed her trust for the sake of revenge – but what did that matter, against everything else he’d done? She could forgive him that.

They could hang her if they liked. But at least, this time, she had been there for him. She would not let him down.

Haralt mopped his brow. ‘Astrid, Astrid. You are all the kin I have left …’

He stood once more. ‘I cannot send my own flesh and blood to the gallows. I, who have lost father, mother and brother in so cruel and swift a fashion, cannot condemn to death all that remains of my family.’

The tension sagged loose in the hall.

‘But,’ Haralt went on, ‘I cannot let so foul a crime go unpunished. Astrid Gormsdottir, you are found guilty of murder by your own admission. As punishment, you are banished from my kingdom.

‘You have one month to leave the land of the Danes. After that time, if ever you set foot inside my realm, your life will be forfeit, and any man may kill or enslave you without fear of censure from the law. Now get out of my sight.’

She bowed her head, heart still racing.

‘Oh, and, Leif,’ Haralt added, as he turned to leave the hall.

‘Yes, my liege?’

‘You’re banished too.’