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She adjusted her wimple so that her black hair was completely covered as she cast an eye about the hall, searching for things left undone.
The majority of the silver and gold were safe in the cavity. There was no need to check that. She was the only one who knew about it.
The pagan Norsemen were no respecters of churches or monasteries. If anything their wealth attracted the raiders. When her father showed her the hiding place, he recounted the story about the Lindisfarne raid and the countless other raids. However, he boasted about his alliance with Halfdan and confidently predicted she’d never need it.
She had kept a few trinkets to appease the Norsemen, but they had to believe that they were poor and the farm was not well managed so that they would not demand an enormous payment. Her father had drilled that notion into her head since she had first toddled about the yard.
‘The Norsemen never stay long. Raiders rather than settlers. They move swiftly and overlook the well hidden,’ she whispered over and over as she tried to decide where she’d stand. She practised her gestures and decided against kneeling with hands raised in supplication. A bowed head would suffice. Welcoming, but far from subservient.
She could do this. She had to. Everyone in the steading was counting on her to save them from the Norsemen. There were no warriors to fight. No one but a barely bearded boy had returned from the rebellion. And he’d been burning with fever and had only survived a day or two after telling his story of the Norsemen treachery and Egbert’s final heroic stand. He had found his courage far too late, but she was glad that he had found it.
Heavy boots resounded on the stones outside. Edith pressed her fist to her stomach and willed the sick feeling to be gone. Far too soon. She hadn’t even had the chance to move the spindles or the whorls.
Why hadn’t there been more warning? Why hadn’t someone seen the fires that surely must be burning as the Viking horde swept through the countryside? Silently she cursed Egbert for taking every able-bodied man to fight in the rebellion. A pain tugged behind her eyes. Later, she’d investigate ways of improving the warning system.
She motioned towards one of her few remaining manservants to unbar the door. The elderly man shuffled forwards.
Before he could get there, the door fell to the ground. In the doorway stood one of the tallest men Edith had ever seen. Clean-shaven, but with dark blond hair flowing over his shoulders. The very epitome of a Viking warrior, he was dressed in a fur cloak and skin trousers. In his hand he carried a double-headed axe, but it was his piercing blue eyes which drew her attention, swiftly followed by the angry red mark about his neck. A barbarian warrior if ever there was one. A true pagan.
Edith wet her lips, but no sound beyond a shocked gasp rose from her throat. She tried again to mouth the welcome, but her voice refused to work. A sharp stab of fear went through her. Her hands shook as she lifted them.
In her mind’s eye she saw the hall blazing and its people killed with her unable to do anything to prevent the carnage. If she’d been born a man like her parents prayed she’d be, none of this would have happened. All she had were her wits and her tongue and both appeared to have deserted her. Silently Edith prayed for a miracle.
The barbarian advanced forwards, and his men streamed in behind him, filling the hall.
Edith retreated backwards. Her leg hit the wooden trunk, causing the spindle to tumble to the ground. The whorl rolled across the rushes, disappearing. Her favourite one. Worrying about a worthless whorl when her entire life hung in the balance! Typical. She gave a hiccupping laugh.
The sound cut through her panic. She stopped and squared her shoulders. She had an intellect equal to any man and that included this enormous Norseman who glowered at her, fingering his axe.
‘It is customary to wait for an answer before knocking the door down,’ she said. The steadiness of her voice gave her courage. She was this mountain of a Norseman’s equal, not his slave.
‘It is customary for people to greet their new lord with civility and speed. I thought the hall long deserted from my welcome.’ The Norseman’s rich voice thundered through the hall. It surprised Edith that he could speak her language so well. The Norsemen she’d encountered in Eoferwic, if they could speak it at all, spoke with accents so thick that she’d almost considered them to be speaking another language. But this one was different. His voice held only the faintest lilt of Norseman’s accent.
‘We had little warning of your arrival.’ Edith met his fierce gaze. ‘A proper greeting requires proper warning.’
