text: "Look at that," said Aedwen, awe in her voice.
  
  The River Exe was a wide thread of silver before them. Wherries and cogs dotted the water as fishermen and merchants plied their trades. To either side of the river were broad flat meadows of lush grass and summer flowers. Butterflies and insects fluttered and droned in the air. Nearer the water, the muddy banks were festooned with birds. Dunlins, sandpipers and redshanks dipped their slender bills into the dark muck in search of food. In the distance, to the northwest of their position, reared the walls of Exanceaster. They were crumbling in places, having been built many centuries ago by the long-vanished Romans, but the city was still an imposing sight to behold. And yet this was not what had excited Aedwen so. The sky above Exanceaster was a muddle of grey clouds, still heavy with rain, and before that drab backdrop, in a brilliant display of God's power, there arced a perfect rainbow. It reached high into the sky with one end seeming to touch the ground within the city's walls.
  
  Dunston paused for a moment, but seemed unimpressed by the spectacle. He took the opportunity to scan the horizon for sign of any of their pursuers. Across the river, on the hills that rose there, sheep and goats grazed the slopes. All appeared calm. Aedwen sighed.
  
  "It must be a sign that God is watching over us," Aedwen said, gazing raptly at the rainbow. It was so beautiful. After all the ugliness of these last days, it almost hurt to look at it. Her eyes prickled with tears and the vision of the vibrant colours swam.
  
  Dunston grunted, he pressed on, walking determinedly along the meadow, the wet grasses soaking his leg bindings.
  
  They had started the day dry. The rain had held off for much of the night and after her initial fear of the wolf-heads, Dunston's presence, the warmth from the outlaws' fire, and the drone of voices as the men spoke had lulled her to sleep. She had thought she would never be able to rest, with the hungry gaze of Strælbora and the others on her, but to her surprise sleep had found her quickly enough. As she had closed her eyes, her head resting on Dunston's thigh, Aedwen had begun to feel less frightened of what the future might hold. The rumble of his voice soothed her nerves. The way he had fought the wolf-heads filled her with awe. Dunston still frightened her, but she knew he would do anything, even risk his own life, to protect her.
  
  She had awoken with a sense of wellbeing she had not felt for days. But that was as nothing when compared to the rapturous feeling she had now, looking upon the colourful arch of light in the sky.
  
  Aedwen hurried to keep up with Dunston. She knew that he was nervous, more so now that they had left the cover of the forest and their destination was so close. The outlaws had led them to the river and then, with the briefest of farewells, they had vanished back into the gloom of the forest, like so much smoke.
  
  Fear still scratched its fingers along her back and neck when she thought of the men who chased them, but she could not believe that the rainbow was not a good omen.
  
  "The tale of Noah is my favourite story," she said. "Father Osbern told it often and he told it well."
  
  Dunston said nothing.
  
  "I always liked to think of all those animals in that great ship," she said. "I would picture the horses, cows, dogs, cats, chickens and such, but Osbern also spoke of other creatures. Lions and camels and other things I can't recall. Do you know what they look like?"
  
  Dunston shook his head.
  
  "I've never seen a lion or a camel," he answered gruffly.
  
  They walked on. The clouds had once again drifted over the sun and the land was suddenly darker and cooler. Aedwen shivered.
  
  "You know what the best part of the story is?" she asked.
  
  Again, Dunston shook his head. His attention was elsewhere, and he reminded her of a sheepdog watching the land about its flock for wolves.
  
  "It's when God placed a rainbow in the sky and promised never to send another great flood to kill His people."
  
  "There are many other ways to die," Dunston said, his tone flat.
  
  She did not know what to say to that. The old man had grown morose and looked more tired than ever.
  
  "You know what the Norse call the rainbow?" he asked.
  
  Now it was her turn to shake her head.
  
  "I spoke to a captured raider once," he said. "I don't remember his name now." He snorted derisively at his bad memory. "How can I not remember his name? Anyway, it is no matter. Most of the Norse we captured shouted and spat at us until they were beaten senseless. This one, a great red-bearded giant of a man, was talkative. He'd sailed from Dyfelin with two shiploads of Vikingrs. They made the mistake of landing at Tweoxneam."
  
  He fell silent for a moment, clearly remembering the events of years past.
  
  "Mistake?" she said.
  
  "Well, Tweoxneam is a rich port, with a wealthy church, so it was a good place to attack. But what the red-bearded bastard and his crews didn't know is that the king was there with his hearth warriors to celebrate the wedding of the son of Tweoxneam's ealdorman. Bad luck for the Norsemen. Good luck for the king."
  
  "Or perhaps God helped the Christian king of Wessex to defend the land against the heathen."
  
  Dunston gave her a strange look that she could not interpret.
  
  "We met them on the beach, shieldwall to shieldwall." He grimaced at the memory. "It was a bloody business."
  
  "You were in the shieldwall?"
  
  "Oh yes, I was there all right. Got this scar on that beach." He pulled back the stained sleeve of his kirtle to show a long, thin white line running down the corded muscle of his right forearm. "It bled like a stuck pig," he said. "Looked worse than it was really. It stung like the Devil himself though. Funny that I can remember that so clearly but still cannot recall the name of that Norseman."
  
  He scratched at his head, as if that might help him to remember. They were covering the ground leading to Exanceaster more quickly than she had expected. After the days of threading around trees, brambles and bushes, to walk in the open, with the wind and sun on her face, was a relief.
  
  "Was Aculf there too?"
  
  Dunston shook his head.
  
  "No, he had left us before that." He paused, turning to face her. "When we reach Exanceaster, you are not to mention Aculf or the others. I gave my word." As if he needed to explain himself, he added, "We were friends, once."
  
  She nodded, uncertain of what had been said in the night; what bonds connected the two old warriors.
  
  "You have my word too," she said. Whatever Aculf had done to see him cast out from the law, he had helped them and he was a friend to Dunston. She thought he probably didn't have many. He held her gaze for a moment, then, seemingly satisfied, he continued walking through the long wet grass.
  
  "Tell me of the Vikingr and the rainbow," she said.
  
  Dunston looked up at the colourful arch of light against the rain-laden clouds, adjusting his huge axe on his shoulder.
  
  "We drank ale together the night after that battle, that red-bearded warrior and I. As the sun went down, there was a rainbow over the Narrow Sea and he told me that his people called it Bifröst." Dunston let out a guffaw. "By God, I can remember that! What was the man's name? I should remember. Ah, it will come to me, I'm sure. I haven't thought of him for years. He said that Bifröst was the bridge that led to the afterlife, or to the kingdom of their gods, or some such nonsense."
  
  They walked on, and Aedwen noted that Dunston had grown grim once more.
  
  "He said that seeing the bridge was an omen that he would die and that his spirit would depart and travel to the feasting hall of the gods."
  
  "What happened to him?"
  
  Dunston sighed.
  
  "The following morning, the king came to where we held the captives." Dunston stared up at the sky.
  
  "What did the king do to the Vikingrs?" she asked, unsure whether she truly wished to hear the answer.
  
  "He ordered them all hanged." Dunston spat. "They begged to be allowed to hold a weapon as they were killed. They said otherwise they would not go to the feasting hall of Valhalla."
  
  "Did the king allow them their request?"
  
  Dunston glanced at her.
  
  "No," he said.
  
  She pondered what he had told her as they continued across the meadow.
  
  The men the king had ordered to be killed had attacked Wessex, had sailed intent on murder and theft. Was it not right they should be hanged? And yet she could sense Dunston's sadness at the memory of the death of the red-bearded Norseman and his Vikingr crews.
  
  The rainbow had gone now, vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She watched Dunston stomping across the meadow, his great axe on his shoulder and his beard bristling from his jutting jaw. He looked more marauding Norseman than Christian. She would never look upon a rainbow with unbridled happiness again.
  
  In the distance, a flock of green plovers burst from the grassland, filling the sky with flapping and squawking cries.
  
  Dunston halted, raising his hand to shade his eyes, peering to see what had disturbed the birds.
  
  And then, beneath the angry screeches of the birds, she heard something deep and resonant, like a far off peel of thunder. But this thunder did not dissipate, it grew until it was a thrumming rumble. She could feel it in her feet. The earth was shaking.
  
  Dunston grabbed her shoulder.
  
  "Run!" he shouted.
  
  She could not make sense of what was happening. And then, in an instant of crashing terror, she saw what was making the thunderous roar. From beneath the swarming birds in flight came a line of some ten horsemen. Her eyes were young and keen and she picked out the glint of buckles on the mounts' bridles, the shine of sword blades slicing through the air. They came at a gallop and great clods of soft earth flew up behind them as they trampled the flowers and grass of the meadow. In an instant she recognised Raegnold, his sharp face mottled and swollen from where Dunston's axe had smashed into his jaw. At the sight of him she knew these men had only one purpose: to slay them; to silence them before they could deliver the message and its secrets to Exanceaster.
  
  Dunston was shaking her, pointing away from the river. A copse of alder stood a spear's throw away.
  
  "Run!" he repeated, thrusting his bag into her hands and shoving her towards the trees. "Climb a tree. I will fight these bastards."
  
  "But… they are so many."
  
  "Enough!" he bellowed and the strength of his voice alone spurred her into action. "Do as I say, or it has all been for nought."
  
  She sprinted towards the trees, not looking back until she was in the shade beneath them. Her blood roared in her ears. As she ran she slung Dunston's bag over her shoulder. When she reached the trees, she leapt for the first low branch she saw and swung herself up. She could not carry her staff, so she let it fall. She still had the knife at her belt though. She prayed the horsemen did not have bows, and climbed as fast as she could, scrambling higher and higher. Her hands were raw and cut from scrabbling at the rough bark. Lichen and moss stained her pale soft skin.
  
  When she was more than two men's height above the ground, she looked back at the meadow. She stifled a scream at what she saw.
  
  The wall of horsemen were almost upon Dunston. They had not slowed and they bore down on him with weapons raised. Some carried spears, others swords, two wielded axes. The men screamed and shouted.
  
  Before them, alone in the meadow, damp grass hiding his feet, stood Dunston. As immobile and resolute as a rock awaiting the incoming tide. His legs were set apart and in his strong hands he held DeaÞangenga. How could one old man stand before so many mounted warriors? It was folly. But what else could he do?
  
  She offered up a prayer to the Blessed Virgin.
  
  "Mother of God, please protect him," she implored.
  
  And then the riders were upon him with bone-crunching force and Aedwen's tears prevented her from seeing clearly any more.