Turning his shoulder to Melcorka, the priest spoke only to Bradan.

“I am Bradan the Wanderer,” Bradan said.

“You are a man of peace,” the priest said sadly. “But you have many trials before you,” He dipped his fingers into the font and worked on Bradan”s staff until he ended by plunging the top end, with the Celtic cross, into the font and praying. “May God go with you, Bradan the Wanderer.”

“Thank you, holy man,” Bradan said. Even as he clutched his staff, Bradan knew he would need that blessing. He had never experienced such a feeling of foreboding.

When they left the church, the rain was hammering down on them, easing the thirst of the sobbing wounded. Busy on their task of tearing at the bodies of the dead, the rooks ignored the weather. “God is weeping tears of joy at our success,” Owen said as thunder echoed from the distant Cheviot Hills.

“Aye.” Bradan swung his staff at one of the human predators who emerged from their dens after every battle to strip the wounded and dead of clothing and anything valuable. “Ugh, I hate these people much more than I ever disliked the Norse or the Northumbrian warriors.”

Owen nodded agreement. “Every land has its quota of these wolfish creatures, but there appear to be more this last year or so. It is as if the world was disgorging its most unpleasant creations on to us.”

Despite the weather, the victorious army had built huge fires, around which the warriors, returning from their pursuit of the fleeing Northumbrians, clustered to boast of their exploits, show their trophies or nurse their wounds. A few score Northumbrian prisoners sat in gloomy thought, tied together as they contemplated a bleak and possibly short future. Harpers and bards sang recently composed songs while women mourned their dead or searched for a fresh man among the victors.

“Somebody's been busy.” Owen gestured to the centre of the camp, where willing hands had set up a large tent for the king and his entourage, which now included Melcorka. She swaggered in as if by right and spoke directly to Mael Coluim as he sat on a carved wooden chair drinking from a horn and listening to his champions' boasts.

“Your Grace, where can I find this ferocious Butcher? I know he has been watching us the last few days, but does he have a castle, a dun, or even a cave where he lives when he is not butchering your men?”

“I do not know.” The High King looked up from his horn of ale. “Yesterday he was here, last week he was in Lothian. He could be anywhere.”

“Then I shall begin my hunt in Lothian.” Melcorka looked up as a violent gust of wind nearly lifted the tent into the air. “Unless the gale blows me there first.”

“It's going to be a stormy night,” Black Duncan said.

“It's going to be a royal storm,” MacBain agreed. “Stay close to us, your Grace. The Northumbrians might seek revenge on you for your victory.”

Mael Coluim smiled. “I doubt there are many male Northumbrians left alive. Our army slaughtered them by the hundred.”

“Then Cnut the Dane may try,” MacBain said. “He has long wished to add your Grace's realm to his empire.”

“He already failed to do that,” Mael Coluim said. “As long as I have men such as you, MacBain, and Duncan and Finleac, I have no fear of the Danish king.”

“That's a royal storm all right,” Finleac said. “The sort of storm that comes for a king.” He grinned as if at a colossal joke.

“It's not my time yet,” Mael Coluim said comfortably. He raised his voice. “Harper! Where is my harper?”

“Here, your Grace.” The harper was an elderly man, bald on top of his head and with long grey hair descending to his shoulders.

“Play your music, harper,” Mel Coluim ordered. “Something suitable to celebrate our victory over the Northumbrians.”

The harp's sweet tones sounded over the coarser celebration of the warriors, the laughter of the camp followers and the screams and groans of the wounded and dying. Blocking the less pleasant sounds from her mind, Melcorka listened to the harp. As the storm increased in intensity, she ate and drank at the royal table. MacBain was opposite her, laughing with his colleagues.

“You fought well, Swordswoman,” he said.

“As did you, MacBain.”

They nodded to each other in mutual appreciation, while others at the table wondered if either would issue a challenge to see who the better fighter was. Black Duncan said nothing but listened to everything while Finleac drifted from table to table, talking to everybody and picking up women without any effort.

“Come on, warriors,” Owen passed over a jug of mead. “The battle is won. You can relax a little.” His crooked teeth when he grinned made him all the more likeable. “Melcorka; entertain us with tales of your travels.”

“May Bradan join us?” Melcorka asked, knowing Bradan would be waiting outside, leaning on his staff and watching everything that happened. “He is better at talking than I am.”

“He may, and welcome,” Owen allowed. “And if anybody objects say that MacBain will be angry.” He grinned again. “Nobody will argue with MacBain.”

“My wife does,” MacBain said, and everybody laughed.

Bradan was diffident when he entered the tent, looking around the company before he joined Melcorka. He watched as a slender man slid into the king's tent, to crawl into a secluded corner. As he carried no weapon and was dressed in dull grey, Bradan presumed he was a servant. As the man lay down, he met Bradan's gaze and gave a smile. It was a small gesture, but one that disturbed Bradan, although he could not say why.

“Bradan!” Owen greeted him like a long-lost friend. “Tell us about your adventures.”

“Go on, Bradan!” Melcorka encouraged. “You are a man of words.”

“I am not good in company.” Bradan wished he had remained outside.

“Bradan!” The assembled warriors chanted. “Bradan!”

Owen passed over a brimming horn and slapped Bradan on the shoulder while Melcorka smiled at him. “Go on, Brad.”

Red-faced but fortified

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