text: Aedwen could see the tidings of the reeve's death had rocked Dunston. Tears welled in her own eyes. She was angry that he had not chosen to do her bidding and seek revenge on her father's killers, but in that very act of defiance to her, Dunston had shown her he was in control. He had a plan and she had fallen into step with him, allowing him to lead. She had argued at first and then shown him her displeasure with her stubborn silence, and yet she had been comforted by his commanding presence. In response to her ill temper, the old man had ignored her, marking a fast pace through the forest without offering her a word. She could cope with his brooding silence. But now, she saw his face contorted in confusion and grief and this show of weakness frightened her.
  
  The sun was touching the top of the trees across the river now. The thatch of the buildings was aglow with the golden light, stark shadows heightening the details in everything in the last rays of the day.
  
  "How?" Dunston asked.
  
  "It was the damnedest thing," Ceolwald said, seemingly torn between the need to maintain a dour expression at the dire news he was imparting, and wishing to grin at bearing that most compelling of gossip: a death. "He was drowned."
  
  "Drowned?" asked Dunston, his tone incredulous.
  
  "Yes, sir," Ceolwald said, again tugging off his cap and screwing it up in his bony hands. "They found him in the river, down by the mill. White as a fish, he was. Nobody saw what happened, but there had been a frost that morning. It seems he must have slipped, maybe banged his head. Still, when God calls your name, it's your time, and that's that."
  
  Dunston frowned and Aedwen could see him thinking hard, pushing the dismay at his friend's death to one side and fighting to understand what had happened; regaining control.
  
  "When did this happen?" he asked.
  
  "Not two months ago."
  
  "And he was alone? Nobody saw him fall?"
  
  "No. But it was just his time. Bad luck, that's all. We held a hall-moot with the new reeve and all these questions were asked, and answered."
  
  "New reeve?"
  
  "Oh yes, Lord Ælfgar appointed one not a week after Rutholf's passing. Can't be long without someone to uphold the law, he said."
  
  Dunston, face devoid of emotion now, started pushing the cart again. After a moment, Ceolwald joined him and they continued along the path in the last warm rays of sunshine.
  
  Aedwen was silent. Odin padded close to her and she placed a hand on his head, running her fingers through the warm fur of his neck and ears. Despite the warmth of the sun on her skin, and the peaceful gold-licked beauty of the village before them, she pulled her cloak about her and shivered. The river flowed deep and fast beside the road. Its dark waters were high, lapping halfway up the trunks of some sallows that grew on the river's banks. In the distance she could make out a watermill, its great wheel still now, but able to revolve with the power of the water alone. To think that those same chill waters could grind corn for life-giving bread and also drown a man, pulling him down away from the air and the light until he was forced to take in great lungfuls of liquid, slaying him as surely as a knife to the heart. For a moment, she fancied that she had been caught in the swirl of some invisible river's flow. Her life had careened away from all she had known and now, here she was, in a village she barely knew, surrounded by strangers.
  
  "What of Rutholf's goodwife, Gytha?" Dunston enquired. "And the children?"
  
  "They are back at Gytha's family's farm. Up Ceorleah Hill way."
  
  Dunston nodded absently.
  
  "The new reeve has taken up in the hall then?"
  
  "Yes, sir." They were almost at the first buildings of Briuuetone now. As Ceolwald had predicted, his cattle knew the way and they were trotting towards a gap between two thatched houses. Beyond the houses, cloaked in the smoke of the cooking fires, loomed the shingled roof of a stone building. A crucifix projected from the apex of the roof. A group of horsemen came into sight, trotting their mounts between the cows.
  
  "There were many in the village," Ceolwald went on, "who were not happy with the treatment of Widow Gytha and her daughters. Rothulf was barely in the ground and they were turfed out and sent packing to make way for the new reeve and his household."
  
  Dunston said nothing. He stopped pushing the cart, and stepped to the left, all the while watching the approaching riders with his cool blue eyes. Aedwen noted that his right hand rested on the haft of the great axe that was hidden beside her father's body amongst the sacks on the cart. Ceolwald watched Dunston in confusion for a moment before following his gaze and finally noticing the riders. He gripped his cap tightly before him, fidgeting uncomfortably.
  
  The horsemen had almost reached them now. There were five of them. They came on fine horses, the animals' Harnesses clanking and jangling, gleaming in the fiery light of the setting sun. The men wore colourful, expensive clothes and boots of supple leather. Their jackets were trimmed with intricate embroidery and their cloaks were held in place with large silver brooches. At the head of the band rode a young, handsome man. His cheeks were shaven and his fair hair was brushed so that it glimmered in the ruddy sunlight like metal heated on a forge. His mouth was partially hidden by a lustrous moustache. He reined in his mount, a well-muscled, dappled grey stallion, and stared down at them for a moment.
  
  Odin growled, low and deep, like distant thunder.
  
  "Odin, hush," said Dunston, his tone quiet but firm. The hound grew silent, and sat protectively beside Aedwen.
  
  The lead rider raised an eyebrow at the dog's name.
  
  "So, what have we here, Ceolwald?" he asked, his voice smooth and friendly.
  
  "This… this is Dunston," stammered Ceolwald. "He lives nearabouts. I was just bringing my cows down from the pasture for milking when I came across them on the road." After a pause he added, "We are not together." He looked longingly to where the last of the cattle had disappeared between the buildings. Their lowing came to them faintly on the breeze. "I really must be after the foolish beasts. They will make a terrible fuss if they are not milked soon." The rider looked down at the drover imperiously. "If it please you, lord," Ceolwald said, dipping his head and twisting his hat so much Aedwen thought he might rip it. The horseman waved his hand. Without looking back, Ceolwald scampered past the riders and ran after his cows.
  
  "Well, well, well," said the horseman, shifting his attention to Dunston, "so you are the famous Dunston."
  
  "Dunston is my name," the old man said. He stood, legs apart and shoulders set. His hand yet rested in the cart's bed. Aedwen did not think she had seen him standing so tall and straight since she had met him.
  
  To Aedwen's eyes there was more communication going on between the men than the words spoken. They were weighing each other up, assessing and gauging the threat posed by the other.
  
  "You are modest," the rider said, smiling beneath his moustache. "Are you not the one known as Dunston the Bold?"
  
  "I have not been called that for many years."
  
  "No. I can see many years have passed since you were a bold man. Not so much bold now, as old, eh?"
  
  One of his men, a swarthy-skinned fellow, gaudy in blue jacket and red breeches, laughed. The others took up the laughter dutifully. Dunston did not laugh.
  
  "Well, you have me at a loss," Dunston said, his voice cutting through the riders' mirth like an axe through soft flesh. "You know my name, and I know not yours."
  
  The rider's nostrils flared and he glowered down at Dunston for a moment before replying.
  
  "Ah, yes. I am Hunfrith, and I am the new reeve of the Briuuetone Hundred."