Ealdgyð was undoubtedly not amused to be woken up.

She likewise took exception to my nakedness, my Celtishness, my name, and to … well, pretty much every single thing about me.

My only crumb of comfort was that, as the women accompanying me were not spared the whip of her tongue, this seemed to be her usual state of being rather than anything particularly personal.

I eventually managed to quell the flow of invective coming my way long enough to mention the rapidly approaching army. Ealdgyð paused shouting for long enough to blink at me for a few seconds in silence.

“Don’t be stupid, girl. The fyrd will meet with them long before they reach us.”

“The fyrd has been defeated.” I felt the older woman behind me sag a little at the knees at that. I half turned so that I could look at her. “I’m afraid there were no survivors.” Considering I’ve been known to fall into a puddle of tears when I’d run out of cookies, I felt Leofflæd took that double body blow like a champ.

Ealdgyð was shouting at me again, so I turned back. “A cow raid defeats two hundred spearmen? I see tales of Celtish naivety are well made.”

“I can only tell you what I saw. I come from a field of battle on which men painted blue were looting hundreds of corpses.”

“Did truly no one escape? My son and husband –”

I did not turn around this time. I could hear the tears in her voice. I drew on Wulfnoð’s memories to try to explain what had occurred as fully as possible. The woman deserved that. “The enemy forces were present in far greater numbers than a mere cow raid. As well as spearmen, I saw archers, horsemen, and even signs of a wizard. It looked to me that the presence of the horsemen pinned down your men, and despite holding bravely throughout the day, the shield wall eventually broke under the pressure.”

“You watched them clash throughout the day?”

Shit. Ealdgyð was a sharp one. “I am adept at reading the signs of war.” Bloody hell, I was properly embracing my role as a mysterious stranger. I’d be offering prophecies next.

The angry woman stared at me for a long moment as if deciding whether to believe me or have me drowned as a witch. It was not clear she cared much either way. Eventually, she broke the silence, her voice heavy with exhaustion. “An invasion. From those who have not crossed the river in such numbers for decades. For them to have driven horses across the water stands not within the prospect of belief—no more than they would have access to a wizard. And, on top of that, you speak of the slaughter of all our men. That’s four times our doom you pronounce, fire hair.”

“She says her name’s Morgan.” Hild’s voice came from the back of the hut; she had moved to comfort the older woman.

“You came to us to spin your tale, Morgan. What would you have from us? What boon do you seek from a people to whom you bring such news?”

I feared a drowning was looming increasingly prominent in my future. “I followed the path of the fyrd back to you. The invaders will soon be doing the same. I came with a warning. I would have you run.”

Her eyes flashed, and she glanced around at Hild and Leofflæd. “Thoughts?”

“I see no benefit for her in treachery. If the fyrd still lives, they will return soon. Our men are not so hopeless as to fall apart because the village is temporarily empty. We can soon return if all she says is a fantasy. But, if what the Celt says is true, she gives us a chance to escape capture or worse.” Leofflæd spoke softly. Something in me urged me to turn and hug her tightly.

“I see no downside in taking to the hills.” Hild chimed in.

Ealdgyð came to a decision. “We leave. Spread the word of what this one has shared. Put out the fires, gather up the children, take what provisions can be carried, and everyone is to head for the Dark Stone.” She turned to glare at me. “And get the Celt some clothes. All that white skin will be like a beacon to our position. You do realise you are coming with us?”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“I wouldn’t want to be a burden. It seems like you have a lot to organise. I’m happy to slip off on my merry way.” I started to back away until I hit the solid body of Hild.

Ealdgyð’s eyes were hard. “No burden. I want you close to hand in case this turns out to be a trick. It’s been a while since there was a blood sacrifice at the Dark Stone. Might be the time for us to renew the tradition.”

Awesome.

***

I might be being sexist here, but I couldn’t help but feel a touch of feminist pride at the efficiency with which the village emptied into the surrounding hills and woods.

Having seen how my father coped with the challenges of taking us camping every summer, I could not help but draw some fairly uncharitable comparisons.

Ealdgyð, it turned out, was the wife of the village’s headman, Hrothgar, and therefore had quite some pull. If I’d had my wits about me when we spoke, I’d have realised she’d likely lost someone close in the battle.

Wulfnoð’s memories had Hrothgar fall in the first of the charges of the shield wall. He’d seemed a decent enough leader, but once it became clear how many men they were facing, there was not much to do but hunker down and pray for a miracle. The gods did not seem to be listening. All of Ealdgyð’s sons had been with the fyrd, too. In one day, her entire family had been killed.

And yet, here she was, forcing slow-moving oxen into the trees whilst castigating scurrying women who ‘need to set a fire up their arse.’ The remaining people in the village needed her to lead them to safety, and she would carry that burden with her head held high.

This was a tough woman.

Of course, my appreciation for her strength would have been even more profound should she not be dragging me behind her, hands tied roughly together by a coil of rope.

On the plus side, though, they had found me some sort of rough tunic, so I was no longer flashing all and sundry. You win some; you lose some.

Basically, what I’m saying is that the evacuation was a bit more ‘The Great Escape’ than ‘Dunkirk’.

In no time, the majority of the village had vanished into the woods on their way to the not-in-any-manner-ominously-named Dark Stone. Ealdgyð and I were the last two left at the tree line, looking down at now deserted huts.

We'd been doing that for some time - I kind of felt she was dragging out the tableaux a little - when she finally spoke. “If this was all a tale, you’ll live to regret it.” Even though we weren’t moving, Ealdgyð tugged on the rope, and I stumbled forward. She kept doing that. I was beginning to suspect she didn’t like me.

“If it helps, I’m pretty much regretting it already. Don’t you people have some sort of code about how you treat visitors to your hearth? Like, you’re not allowed to hurt them once they’ve eaten your food or something like that?”

Ealdgyð just carried on staring below.

Never knowingly turning down the opportunity to start a fight, I tried again. “I mean, my learning point from all this is basically that I should have carried on my merry way and let you be slaughtered. Are you sure that’s what you want me to tell people on my travels? Did you know people share bad experiences with four or five others? Once this gets out, it could really hit your tourism numbers.”

“You sure there were no survivors?” Ealdgyð’s voice was steady, but I could sense its sorrow, locked down tight.

Okay. So, it was probably time to dial down the banter. “No, I'm afraid not. They killed all of them.”

She nodded softly, then turned to look me in the eyes. I was utterly flummoxed to see that her own were filled with tears. “You ever lost anyone, Celt?”

I nodded back, suddenly not trusting myself to speak. It was one thing to chatter on to fill an awkward silence; it was quite another to intrude on such overwhelming grief. Ealdgyð regarded me steadily for a few moments as if sizing me up.

“Aye, you have done, haven’t you? It's writ all over you. You’re all bent out of shape around the pain. That doesn’t help, does it?”

I shook my head.

Ealdgyð sighed and turned back to the empty village. “No. It certainly does not.” We were silent for a good few minutes before she started to speak again. “There’s five of my babies buried down there. Not one of them lasted that first night. I’d given up thinking I’d ever see one grow up to hold a spear. Then we had Stilwell, then Sinley and finally Brecc. One a year, each after another. It was a miracle. And they just flourished. Each the spit of their father, but with my fire. You should have seen them. Glorious they were. Thought they would be running the world in a few more seasons." She rubbed a hand across her face, displacing the tears. "Ah, well. No more of that."

More silence.

Then a voice. I was astonished to realise it was mine. "My sister's not dead. Not like that. At least not yet. But I haven't seen her in years. Growing up, she was really the only one that ever got 'me', or at least the 'me' I thought I was. But as we got older, I felt her step away. Not that I blamed her. You don't hug a skip-fire closer to yourself, do you? We didn't exactly drift apart, but it gets to be that there's so much water under the bridge you drown if you think on it. But it doesn't stop the space she used to fill from feeling empty."

"But she's still alive, you say?"

I nodded.

"Then I think we're talking about two different types of grief. You can still fix yours."

I had a pithy answer to that when a bunch of horns sounded, and a group of blue-painted spearmen appeared on the road beneath us.