River of Destiny. Barbara Erskine

      The blade was finished. He gave it a final loving polish and laid it down on the rests. Now for the hilt. Normally he sent his blades away to be finished at a workshop in the next village, but this one was different. This one was imbued with magic, carved with sacred runes and intricate designs, the hilt inset with jewels, every stage fabricated by himself alone. Even the scabbard he planned to make himself.

      He glanced up from the work table. Was that a footstep outside? He threw a cloth over the table, hiding the blade from view, and walked over to stand listening behind the door. He could hear nothing but the whine of the wind in the crannies of the workshop, the rustle as the ash bed stirred in the furnace. Grabbing the latch he pulled the door open and looked round. It was growing dark; the sun had set stormily into a bank of black cloud. He could hear the trees thrashing down in the woods. He took a step outside and looked round again. The village seemed deserted. He could see no one but there was someone there, he could sense it. He stared round again, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stir. ‘Hello?’ His voice was lost in the sound of the wind. ‘Who’s there?’ There was no reply.

      He retreated into the workshop and pulled the door closed, barring it against the night, then he lit another lantern and, pulling off the cloth, drew a stool up to the table. Even in the poor light he could make a start.

      In their house in the village his wife, Edith, was listening to the same wind. She shivered, drawing her cloak around her shoulders. She should be up at the hall even now. All the women would be there, her neighbours, her sister, her cousins, her friends, joining in the evening’s entertainment. They had been there from early morning, cooking then eventually serving the food, clearing the tables and benches, and by now settling down to listen to the singers and the travelling bard who had arrived in the village just that day. Any newcomer was an excitement, a treat not to be missed. Lord Egbert would not be there; he was still confined to his sickbed, but his brother, Oswald, led the men now. He would lift the great drinking horn to give the toast and invite the scop to recite, and lead the singers far into the night. At his side, his brother’s reeve, Hrotgar – the man who had told Eric that his lord had need of a very special sword, the man who had threatened Eric if it were not finished on time, the man whose eyes followed her as she walked to the spring, or to the bake house, or the workshop or to and from the hall – would be waiting and watching every person in the hall.

      She sighed. She had not joined the others because she had been feeling sick again this morning. It had taken her a long time to rise from her bed. She stood looking down at the hearth thoughtfully and on impulse stooped to pick up one of the statues of the goddess Frige Eric had made for the Lady Hilda. Pagan. And powerful. She bit her lip, then slowly leaned down and let it fall back in the basket. Could it be that after all this time she was pregnant? She rested her hand lightly on her flat belly, trying to remember when she had last bled. Surely, two full moons had passed.

      There it was again, the sound of scratching at the door. She moved across the floor, straining her ears. Behind her an extra gust of wind sent sparks and ashes blowing across the room from the fire and she turned, stamping them out, clutching her cloak to her. There were shutters over the windows and the door was firmly barred. She was safe, but she couldn’t help the tremors of fear which were running up and down her spine. Someone was out there, she knew it.

      ‘Eric?’ It was a whisper. ‘Is that you?’

      He wouldn’t be able to hear her against the storm and she didn’t dare call out loud. Whoever it was knew she was in there. They would be able to see the light from her candles through the chinks in the shutters, but if she made no sound, then maybe they would go away.

      The scratching sound came again, louder this time, then a soft knock. Three times in rapid succession, softly, near the bottom of the door. It was their secret sign. With a whimper of relief she grappled with the bar and lifted it from its socket, pulling the door open, filling the room with the scent of the river and dust and pine needles and a fresh blast of wind to stir the fire. It wasn’t Eric. Hrotgar stepped inside, wrestled the door shut and slammed the bar back in place. All but one of the candles had blown out and the room was nearly dark.

      ‘Get out!’ she cried. ‘How did you know our knock?’

      He gave a low laugh. ‘I have heard him do it often enough. It is hardly secret. The whole village knows.’

      ‘I don’t want you here.’

      ‘Oh, but you do. I’ve seen you watch me, lust after me. I’ve heard no complaints when I have come to visit you and keep you company.’ He made no move towards her now that he was inside. He folded his arms, staring at her, shadowed as she was in the small room. ‘Your husband is in the service of Lord Egbert. While he slaves over this precious sword it is for me to make sure that his wife is content.’

      ‘No.’ She shook her head, backing away from him. She placed herself behind the table and leaned forward, her arms braced. ‘You get out of here, Hrotgar. I need no visits from you. I have never needed visits from you. I am a faithful wife.’

      ‘You are an obedient wife.’ He smiled at her. ‘One he can be proud of. But, you see, he needs to know that you are not missing him. He needs to know that he has as much time as he needs. If he hurries in his work because he worries about you, then all is lost.’

      ‘But he told me the Lord Egbert needs him to hurry.’

      ‘The Lord Egbert has all the time in the world, my dear.’ He paused.

      ‘What do you mean?’ She was studying his face, trying to understand his expression. ‘Is something wrong? Is he worse?’

      ‘Your husband needs a hair from your head to put in with the molten metal of the sword.’ He spoke slowly, almost dreamily, ignoring her questions. ‘Unbind your hair, Edith.’

      She shook her head. ‘If he needed something from me he would come home and tell me.’

      ‘But he cannot come home. That is part of the magic.’

      ‘No. This is all wrong. It makes no sense. The sword is nearly finished.’

      ‘Magic is not bound by reason, my dear. Nor is it to be spoken of. He trusted me with the message and me alone as go-between, between him and the Lord Egbert.’

      She hesitated. ‘And you have given me the message.’

      ‘So you need to unbind your hair.’

      She was watching his face in the half-light of the single candle flame and she saw him run his tongue across his lips, a quick feral movement which frightened her even more than his words had done. She could feel the deep frozen terror of the rabbit confronted by a weasel. ‘If my hair is needed Eric can take a strand with his own hands,’ she said at last.

      ‘It is Eric who has demanded it. At the forge. And he has forbidden you to set foot there. It is for me to take it to him.’

      She shook her head uncomfortably. ‘Then I will pull one out myself,