River of Destiny by Barbara Erskine

They both stood watching the horse listlessly sniff at the food. She didn’t touch it.
    ‘You’d best keep out of her ladyship’s sight,’ Susan said softly. She leaned back against the wall, her arms crossed over her belly. ‘That woman is trouble.’
    ‘But why?’
    Susan gave a fond smile. ‘Because you are a handsome man and she expected you to show you like her.’
    ‘But I don’t like her.’
    ‘Oh, Dan, you duzzy old thing, don’t you see?’ She reached up and ruffled his hair. ‘There’s a certain type of woman who wants every man she sees to fall at her feet.’
    ‘But I’m just the blacksmith.’
    ‘You’re a man!’
    ‘And if I laid a finger on her she would run screaming to her husband.’
    ‘Probably. That’s the way such folk are.’
    ‘And I love you, Mrs Smith. I’d never look at another woman.’
    ‘I know.’ Susan glanced over her shoulder into the shadows of the great barn and shivered. Several other horses stood quietly in their stalls, their great haunches shadowy in the fading light. There was no one else there, but somehow she had felt a breath of cold air touch her face.
     

     
    There was a small stone church on the hill near the great hall of the thegn. The priest was a good man of some seventy summers; the people of the village liked him and so did the Lady Hilda. She was with him now, sitting on a stool in the cool shadows of the nave. ‘My husband is dying, father, we both know it,’ she said, speaking quietly even in the privacy of the empty building. ‘I need you to bring him the sacrament.’
    ‘I can’t do that, my lady.’ Father Wulfric shook his head sadly. ‘He has refused baptism yet again.’ He sighed. ‘His father was a good Christian and so is his brother, but the Lord Egbert is adamant in his apostasy. He cleaves to the old gods in his despair.’
    ‘My husband is a superstitious fool!’ she retorted with spirit. ‘He has found himself a sorcerer from the forest and reveres him as though he were a priest! The man gabbles spells and charms, and scatters runes like spring seed, and promises him a place at the side of Woden and Thunor. And,’ she added bitterly, ‘Egbert keeps on calling for the swordsmith. All that matters to him is that that wretched sword is finished before he dies.’
    ‘And his brother? What says he to that?’ Father Wulfric tightened his lips in disapproval. He was holding a small beautifully illuminated book of Gospels in his hand. It was the church’s most treasured possession, presented by Lord Egbert’s mother. Kissing it reverently he laid it on the altar.
    ‘He is preoccupied with raising men for the fyrd. King Edmund is calling warriors to his standard at Thetford. They are expecting more attacks from the Danish host.’
    ‘So we will soon be left unprotected.’ Father Wulfric turned back to her and sighed again.
    She glanced at him, alarmed. ‘The Danes won’t come near us, surely? What would they want with a small settlement like ours?’
    Father Wulfric didn’t answer for several breaths. They both knew what befell any settlement in the path of the Viking horde. ‘Please God they will not even know we are here,’ he said at last.
    He stood and watched Lady Hilda walking slowly back towards the Hall, her blue cloak clutched closely round her against the sharp autumn wind. Her shoulders were slumped, her whole stance defeated. He shook his head sadly as he turned towards his own house, then he stopped. The swordsmith was standing watching him from the door of the smithy, his arms folded, his face thoughtful. For a moment Father Wulfric considered walking over to join him, but already the other man was turning away into the darkness of his workshop. The door slammed and the old priest heard the bar fall into its slot.
     

     
    At first she thought Leo wasn’t going to ask her in, but after a moment’s hesitation he stood back and ushered her into a small cluttered living room. Zoë glanced at once towards