text: Dunston awoke slowly. With each passing moment, as he clawed his way back to consciousness, he wished that death had claimed him. For as his senses returned, so did the pain. His chest was a dull throb, then stabbing in agony with each breath. He raised his arm to touch gingerly at his ribs and found them bound tightly. His arm, too, was bandaged, and the sharp pain there as the skin stretched reminded him of the deep cut he had received from Bealowin. He let his arm drop back to the bed. He was so weak. That one motion made him gasp with the effort, sending fresh waves of pain through his chest.
  
  Turning his head slightly, he observed his surroundings. He was in a small, plain room. The walls were whitewashed and blue sky gleamed through a single narrow window. Sitting on a stool by his bed was Aedwen. Despite the torment of his body, Dunston smiled. The girl's head was slumped forward to lean on her arms which rested on the mattress beside him. Her hair tumbled over her face and arms, leaving only one smooth, pale cheek visible. Relief and a strange calm came over him at the sight of her. So young. So alone. Brave and resourceful. He fought the urge to reach out and caress her face.
  
  With a stifled grunt, he shifted his position a little and saw the shape of Odin, stretched out on the floor beside the bed.
  
  Dunston sighed, as the memories of the journey south and then the confrontation on the water meadows came back to him. Images and thoughts flooded his mind and, as he lay there, staring at the pale sky outside the window, he tried to make sense of what had transpired. But his thoughts were muddled and all he knew for certain was that he had not broken his promise to Eawynn. And he had seen Aedwen to safety. With those thoughts bringing a contented smile to his lips, sleep engulfed him once more.
  
  When he next awoke, the room was darker and the sky outside was the hue of fresh blood.
  
  "Thank the Virgin and her holy son," breathed Aedwen, as Dunston opened his eyes. "I had started to think you would not live."
  
  Dunston offered her a smile.
  
  "It takes more than a dozen mounted men to slay me," he said. His words rasped, dry and cracking in his throat.
  
  "There were but ten of them, I recall," Aedwen answered with a smirk.
  
  He chuckled, but quickly his laughter changed to coughing. He grimaced at the pain as each cough felt as though a seax was being thrust between his ribs.
  
  "Sorry," said Aedwen, lifting his head and offering him some water. He drank a few sips. The cool water tasted better than the finest wine, such was his thirst. The liquid trickled down his throat and he could feel it running down inside him, replenishing him like rainfall soaking into a field of barley after a drought.
  
  "How long have I been here?" he whispered. He didn't attempt speaking normally for fear of starting the cough again.
  
  "Four days." Aedwen offered him more water, and he drank again. "Not too much," Aedwen said after he had taken several mouthfuls. "Abbess Bebbe says you must drink and eat sparingly to build up the balance of your humours."
  
  "We are in a nunnery?"
  
  Aedwen nodded.
  
  "The monastery in Exanceaster. Both nuns and monks live and worship here. The abbess has tended to your wounds. She is very skilled."
  
  Dunston touched the wrappings about his chest and winced.
  
  "I must thank her," he said. He knew he owed his life to this Abbess Bebbe whom Aedwen spoke of and yet all he wanted was to be whole again, to leave Exanceaster and return to his home. He was as weak as a newborn lamb, but he longed to be able to stride away up the path and into the forest. He was done with the lies and conspiracies of nobles. He frowned. He had ever been thus. Eawynn had said he was a dreadful patient, always keen to undo what those nursing him had done to make him well. He supposed some things never changed. Just like the mendacity of some ealdormen and the ever-present plots that swirled around kings.
  
  "You can thank the abbess soon enough," said Aedwen. "I will fetch her and bring you some broth too. You must be terribly hungry."
  
  Odin rose from the rushes, stretched with a whining yawn, then nuzzled at Dunston's face. Dunston pushed Odin's snout away and scratched the hound's ears.
  
  "I missed you too, boy," he said.
  
  Dunston's stomach grumbled and he realised that he was ravenous. His belly felt drawn and painfully empty.
  
  "Food would be good," he said, but, as Aedwen made to leave the room, he called her back. "But first, I would know of the message. What was in it, and what has our lord, King Ecgberht, done in these four days I have been abed? We carried that message for so long without knowing its meaning, and so many died to keep it secret, I must know. I wonder if I didn't die so that I wouldn't go to my grave without discovering the truth."
  
  Aedwen's expression darkened, but she sat once more on the stool.
  
  "It would seem that the message was from one Ealhstan to Ealdorman Ælfgar."
  
  "The Ealhstan? Bishop of Scirburne?"
  
  "The same."
  
  Dunston whistled softly.
  
  "But what of the message itself? What did it say?"
  
  "I do not know exactly, but from what I have heard from the novices and the guards at the gate, the bishop and the ealdorman were discussing ways in which Ecgberht could be distracted away from the southwest of the kingdom."
  
  "To what end?"
  
  "So that a combined attacked between Norsemen and Wéalas could strike from Cornwalum."
  
  "The Westwalas of Cornwalum have allied with the Norse?" Dunston asked, amazement in his tone.
  
  Aedwen nodded.
  
  "Such a thing goes against God," she said. "I know the Westwalas are our enemies, but I believed they were good Christian folk all the same."
  
  "Greed has no honour and prays to no god. Both the Norse and the Westwalas are our enemies and they have their eyes set on the rich lands of Wessex. Together, a well-organised host could take Defnascire and Somersæte, especially if the king's forces were weakened in some way."
  
  He scratched at his beard. It felt greasy and matted.
  
  "Where is the king now?" he asked.
  
  "Gone. He gathered his hearth warriors and the warbands of the ealdormen from these parts and sent out riders to call the fyrd. They have ridden west into Defnascire. The letter gave the date of the attack as the feast of Saint John the Baptist." When she saw Dunston's blank expression, she added, "Only a week ago."
  
  Dunston's head was spinning. Ecgberht had been right. The men must have been fools to write such treason.
  
  "What of Ealdorman Ælfgar?"
  
  "Imprisoned, along with his men. They will face the king's justice when he returns."
  
  If he returns, thought Dunston, but he merely nodded. Even now the king and his men might be facing a horde of Norsemen and Wéalas. Dunston could well imagine the scene, the fluttering banners and standards, the thickets of spears. He could almost hear the screams of anger and pain and the clash of the boards in the shieldwall. Men would be slaughtered and their blood would turn the earth to a quagmire, and for what? If the bishop and the ealdorman had succeeded in their treachery, the host of Wessex's enemies would have marched into the land unimpeded, plunging them into war and chaos. And all in the name of greed. For surely it must have been gold and power that they had been promised should Wessex fall and a new Norse or Wéalas king be seated on the throne of Witanceastre. Dunston sighed. Sadly, the men's avarice did not surprise him, but their lack of guile did. Ecgberht had governed Wessex for well over thirty years. He had expanded the borders of the kingdom and repelled enemies from all sides. While he lived, Wessex would remain strong. But even as he thought this, he recalled hearing of Ecgberht's defeat at Carrum two years previously. And the king was old now. He had seen as much with his own eyes. And an old, weakened king opened the doors to plots and emboldened the kingdom's enemies.
  
  The room had grown silent, and with a start, Dunston opened his eyes. Slumber had sneaked up on him, stealthy as any hunter.
  
  The sky was dark now, and the room was lit with guttering rush lights. The warm glow caught in Aedwen's eyes, softened the lines of worry that had formed on her brow. She smiled to see him awake once more.
  
  "I have some soup. It will be cold now, but I did not wish to wake you. The abbess said it was best to let you rest. She is pleased with your progress."
  
  "I will have to thank her tomorrow, it seems," he said, returning her smile.
  
  He longed to snatch the spoon from her hand, to sit up and feed himself, but he allowed her to prop pillows beneath his head and then to spoon the cold broth into his mouth. It was thin, with the vaguest taste of meat and a hint of salt, but he could feel it restoring his strength by moments.
  
  When the bowl was empty, Dunston belched and was glad that action did not hurt his ribs.
  
  "Where is Odin?" he asked, noticing that the dog was not at his side.
  
  "The abbess does not allow him to sleep inside at night."
  
  He raised an eyebrow.
  
  "How is he?" he said. "His wound had been tended by someone. Stitched and burnt, it looked to me."
  
  "Yes," she said, and he noticed her eyes gleaming as tears welled there. "He seems well enough. Though he will be scarred there forever, and no hair grows now around the wound."
  
  "Poor boy," said Dunston. "It must have been agony. I can think of few people Odin would allow near him when injured and fewer still he would let treat him so. And two of them are in this room." He felt his own eyes prickle with the threat of tears at the thought of the dog's suffering. He blinked them back. "Perhaps one day we will find out who patched him up. I would like to reward them somehow. Kindness is all too often accepted and not repaid. Whoever they were, they might not have done a pretty job, but they did a good one. The boy can still hunt." Dunston grinned wolfishly, recalling how Odin had leapt out of the grass and slain Raegnold. "And he can fight."
  
  For a time, they were quiet, each lost in their memories. Finally, the pressure in his bladder made Dunston break the silence.
  
  "I need a pot," he said.
  
  Aedwen looked embarrassed.
  
  "There is one beneath the bed," she said. She rose. "I'll leave you to relieve yourself."
  
  "Aedwen, I do not think I can climb from the bed unaided."
  
  She hesitated, then moved to help him up. He groaned as his ribs twisted, but he thought the pain was less than it had been earlier that day. After a few moments, he had his feet on the floor. Aedwen pulled out the earthenware pot and placed it beside the bed.
  
  "Can you manage?" she asked.
  
  "Yes, Aedwen," he answered, and smiled at her sigh of relief. "Thank you. I will call you when I am done."
  
  She left the room and Dunston soon realised he was not certain he could cope unaided. His body ached and he felt so weak he was worried that he might fall. Grunting with the effort, he was at last able to position himself in such a way that he could piss into the bowl while half-sitting on the bed. The liquid gushed from him, foul-smelling and dark, and he wondered how he could have so much piss in him when he had barely drunk in four days. When he was done, he fell back into the bed, too tired to worry about the jolt to his ribs.
  
  "I am finished," he called out. His voice was feeble, the weakness of it filled him with dismay and shame. He might be younger than the king, but by God, he was old and weak.
  
  Aedwen came in and took the bowl away without comment.
  
  "Sorry," he muttered as she carried it carefully from the room. Though what he was sorry for, he was not sure.
  
  When she returned a short while later, replacing the empty bowl beneath his bed, Dunston had regained his breath and was as comfortable as he could be.
  
  "You never told me you knew the king," Aedwen said, as she sat on the stool once more.
  
  "You never asked," he said.
  
  "He likes you."
  
  Dunston grunted.
  
  "I don't know if I would go that far."
  
  "Was it the king who gave you the name of 'Bold'?"
  
  Dunston cast his thoughts back all those years. He could barely remember the events that had led to the title he was famous for. The tale had been told so many times, first by those who were there, and later by men who claimed to have been there, and then just by anyone wanting to tell a good yarn. He himself had heard the story many times and with each telling the story was different. And as the years went by, his memories became blurred and confused, as if the weft of the truth had been woven with the warp of the fanciful tales, so that it was impossible to tell which was which.
  
  "I never liked the name. I was just a warrior, like any other. I did my duty, nothing more."
  
  "But for the king to name you 'Dunston the Bold'," she said, her tone full of awe. "It is an honour."
  
  "It does not feel like an honour." He gazed at the flickering flame of the rush light. Sometimes, the name the king had given him that day, all those long years before, felt more like a curse.
  
  "But why did he call you that?" she asked. "What did you do?"
  
  Dunston remembered the man he had been: strong, reckless, hungry for battle-glory and fame. And then he recalled how, moments before, he had trembled and moaned to fill a pot with stinking piss.
  
  "Perhaps you should ask the king," he said. "I am tired now. I must sleep."
  
  "Of course," she replied, and the sound of her disappointment stung him.
  
  He closed his eyes and listened to her blow out the flame of one of the rush lights and then, carrying the other for guidance, leaving the room. With Aedwen gone, the room felt cold and lonely and Dunston lay awake for a long while, looking at the darkening sky outside the small window.
  
  He listened to the sounds of the town and the monastery that came to him through the window. A dog barked from the distance, and he wondered whether it might be Odin. Somewhere far off a baby wailed. A bell rang and soon after came the thin voices of the holy men and women of the monastery singing Compline.
  
  Dunston lay there, willing himself to find the solace and peace of sleep, but it refused to come for a long time. He thought of Ealdorman Ælfgar and Bishop Ealhstan, of Hunfrith, Raegnold and Bealowin, who had tortured and slain all those people. Who would bring themselves to do such things? To betray their people for greed, to torture and kill? What manner of men were they?
  
  And a small voice within him whispered a question that had often kept him awake in the darkest reaches of so many nights throughout his life.
  
  What manner of man was he?