The road leading into King’s Worthy from the west became a tunnel of lush vegetation about two miles before it reached the town. Tall thickets of overhanging trees heavy with late spring foliage bent toward each other and met gently over the dirt track like lovers leaning in for chaste kisses. Late afternoon sun shone lambent and golden, coming down the path like a traveler in a straight course that lit up the alley of trees as if it had been aimed that way, and giving the whole stretch of road the look of a deep well lined with mossy green rocks and filled not with water, but with mead made from the brightest honey. The only sound to be heard under the gently swaying canopy of leaves was the soft plod of a single horse’s hooves coming down the track at a calm and leisurely gait.

Helga Hunlafsdottir rode through the quiet green and golden glow, the sun at her back lighting up her oxlip yellow cloak and setting white fire to her hair. She was floating in a happy sort of trance brought on by the rhythmic rise and fall of the horse beneath her and the idyllic landscape through which she rode. The journey had gone just as her father had instructed, and she’d had no difficulties along the way – just a very pleasant walk in the cool of the early morning, bread and cheese from the smithy’s wife to break her fast, and now a long, quiet ride on a gentle mount and a road that was nearing its conclusion. Ælfric the smithy had been pleased to meet the daughter of his old acquaintance, and had lent her a beautiful palomino palfrey which he must have bred himself; a smithy could hardly have afforded to buy a palfrey, and in any case, Helga had a suspicion that this horse might have been sired by an Abraxan flying horse from Aquitaine. Its coat was too golden, and there was a bold flash in its eyes that one hardly saw in an ordinary horse.

“You’re not an ordinary horse, are you, my darling?” Helga said sweetly, patting the horse on its glimmering wheat-colored mane. The horse snorted and shook its head softly, and Helga laughed. “No, of course not.” She sighed contentedly and leaned back, only faintly aware of the stiffness in her back and hips after a full day of riding. All days should be like this in some measure, she thought. The weather was fine, her stomach was full of the little strawberry cakes her father had packed for her, and she had almost reached her destination. Unbidden, a song came to her lips and she began to sing.

“The charms are many that I know,

Unsung by sons of man;

More power even than a queen

Could have at her command.

The first one is a helping charm

That full of succour be;

In sorrow, pain, or any fault

True aid it renders thee!”

It was an old Norse teaching poem, a memory aid for young witches and wizards learning a basic series of charms – the protective shield, a cure for poison, the revealing charm. Each was described in a verse, and the song was often used as a guide by parents testing their children on these spells before moving them on to more advanced magic. There were eighteen charms in all, and so by the time Helga came to the ending, she could see the tunnel of trees opening into the fringes of the village ahead.

“The sixteenth charm may win the heart

Of maid or young man fair;

The seventeenth makes love wax long

And long shall keep them there.

The eighteenth charm I ne’er shall tell,

Though beast or man may try,

Save to the one I best shall know

And in whose arms shall lie!”

Her voice rang out the final notes as warm and sweet as the honeysuckle scent that infused the air around her, and she beamed with the sheer joy of being hale and young and contented with food and travel. Beneath her, the horse whinnied as if commenting on her song, and she laughed musically. “I’m sorry, was it such a very long song?” she asked, and received a snort in reply. “Well, then I’ll try for a series of shorter songs on the way back, how’s that?” The horse gave no answer, which Helga took as acquiescence.

The tunnel of foliage tapered away as the road turned round a bend, and Helga found herself now riding past open fields of crops on one side and a pasture of sheep on the other. One of the shepherd’s boys in the field looked up at her, his mouth agape, and remained so until his companion knocked him about the shins with a staff to return his attention to their task. Before long Helga arrived in the village proper. A squat little grey-stone church sat off in a churchyard to her right, with moss growing on its warm brown roof tiles, and a score of houses and small buildings stood gathered in clusters that radiated out from it. There was a market in the open space opposite the churchyard, and it was there that Helga directed her horse. She spoke to some villagers as they packed up their wares for the evening, and they told her that the king’s man de Grifondour lived at the eastern edge of the village, past the watermill on the banks of the Icen. She thanked them and rode onward through the town, following a low stone wall that ran parallel to the narrow track until the trees began to thicken around her again. The scattered houses became fewer and set further apart until she saw no more of them at all. Eventually the ground began to trend downward, and Helga thought she could hear the river gurgling placidly somewhere off to her right behind the trees. She passed an offshoot of the road leading down toward the sound of the water, and nodded kindly to the man who was walking up the track toward her carrying a sack of flour. That must be the way to the mill, she reasoned, and that meant she was close. Helga sat up straighter on the horse’s back and prepared herself to meet the wizarding Thegn of Salisberie somewhere around the next bend.

She heard her destination before she saw it. As Helga led the palfrey through the shade of a pear tree in full white blossom, a scattering of sounds began to drift toward her on the warm breeze – the metallic tink! tink! of a horse being shod, the rougher sound of blunted weapons at practice, voices with the local accent raised in amiable conversation, and – quite unexpectedly – the laughter of children. It made her smile without even realizing it, and she began to nudge the horse forward with her knees. The palfrey went imperceptibly faster; this was not a horse for hurrying, and it let her know with a snort. Then the trees Helga had been riding through opened abruptly, and she got her first look at the de Grifondour estate.

To the left of the road waved an expansive field of crops that ran all the way up to the foot of a low ancient burial mound. A wide grassy sward opened up on the right side of the path and was clear all the way down to the river, which she could see glittering behind a series of buildings. In the distance the property was ringed by trees, some of which had the regimented look of an orchard. Closer to her was a long row of small structures built of wood and wattle, all bustling with activity like the pockets in a honeycomb – stables, storehouses, a woodshop, a smith, all the types of work that must go on to keep up the running of a great person’s household. Men and women went about their tasks briskly but smilingly, none seeming discontented with their lot. Rising above this row of outbuildings was the bulk of a round stone tower, a rare thing in these parts, and behind it Helga could make out the square and sturdy outline of a rectangular hall. Oddly enough, the hall was made of stone as well; Helga looked closer at the corners where wall met roof and realized that it must have once been an old Roman building, repurposed to fit de Grifondour’s fancy.

All of a sudden, Helga realized she was not quite sure exactly how to proceed now that she was here. Nobody going about their work seemed to have noticed her on the road, and she did not see anyone among them who looked like they were the master of the house. After watching for a moment, she decided to simply ride toward the tower since it was in the center of the property, and perhaps a stable boy or some other person would stop her and inquire as to what she needed there. Patting the horse gently on the neck, she walked it softly onto the grass and directed it toward the imposing stone structure.

The first thing she saw as she came around the tower’s circumference was the origin of the sounds that had first made her smile on her approach. Three boys were cavorting madly around the wide green yard of the hall, each of them carrying a blunted practice sword and rough facsimile shield. One was clearly older than the other two and was teaching them maneuvers that he had already mastered; he was tall, probably taller than his true age, with hair the color of toasted barley and a face sprinkled with the irregular sprouts of what would soon be his first beard. The second boy was pale and lean, verging on scrawny, and his finely angled brows and cheekbones were framed by a thick fall of black silken curls. He stood straight and held his shoulders in the way Helga had come to recognize from Aluric, and she knew that this boy must be of noble stock. The third boy was a Moor. Helga was taken aback - having lived her whole life in the tiny environs of Witchingham and nearby Norwic, she had never seen an African person before; but she had once seen a picture of St. Maurice in a priest’s book, and this boy was like that picture – dark brown skin and hair thick as moss that stood out wildly from his head like a saint’s halo. Helga grinned widely. Watching children at play always brought her great joy, and the three boys were wholly enveloped in their pretend battle and seemed to be having the time of their lives. She could see immediately that the Moorish boy was the better swordsman – he moved without hesitation or time wasted calculating steps – but she could also see that he held back when engaging the lean, pale boy, as though he didn’t want to hurt the boy’s pride by beating him. The older boy was certainly talented and well trained, but there was something sanctimonious in the way he explained techniques to the other two that Helga didn’t quite like.

She had been watching them for several minutes, almost forgetting why she had come, when the pale boy spun around to counter a blow and saw her.

“Eaderic, look! Ow!” He had put down his shield in surprise, and just as he spoke, the Moorish boy’s sword had slammed into his upper arm.

“Sorry,” his attacker said sheepishly, and all three boys lowered their practice weapons and stared at her. Helga recovered herself and remembered her errand.

“Hello,” she began tentatively. “I am here to speak to Goderic de Grifondour. Is he here today?” She was very aware of her Danish accent when she spoke the Saxon language, and it made her nervous for the first time. The older boy put down his weapons and stepped forward, changing his whole posture to make himself look more like an adult.

“Good day to you, lady,” he said ceremoniously. “I am Eaderic de Grifondour. Goderic de Grifondour is my elder brother. He is at present speaking with our master of horse, as we have had a foal born this morning. If it please you, I can take you to see him, and meanwhile your own horse can be stabled, fed, and watered.” Helga’s palfrey looked up from chomping on de Grifondour’s thick grass and whinnied as if he understood and supported this statement. Helga smiled.

“Yes, of course, thank you. We’ve come from Ambesberie, and I’m sure he could use a good rubbing and a cool drink.” She patted the horse affectionately, and he snorted. Eaderic approached to help her down, but before he could get to her, Helga had swung her leg over and dismounted in a flourish of skirt and cloak. The boy’s eyebrow rose a fraction in appreciation, and then he turned toward the row of outbuildings.

“Boy!” he called indiscriminately to a group of youths gathered near the blacksmith’s fire. One of the boys detached himself and came closer, and Eaderic nodded toward the palfrey. “Take this lady’s horse and see that it gets fed and watered, and has a good brushing. And check its shoes, it’s had a long walk.” The servant nodded and began leading the palfrey away. Eaderic turned back to Helga and offered his arm. “May I escort you, lady?”

Helga restrained herself from grinning at this boy, who couldn’t be older than thirteen, behaving like a man grown. She certainly didn’t want to cut him down by giggling. “Yes, thank you. I should be happy to walk with such a gracious young man.” She laid her hand on his outstretched arm.

“Keep practicing, you two,” Eaderic said to the other boys. “I’ll be back shortly, and I’ll teach you the next technique.”

Helga saw the other two boys give each other the same unimpressed look as soon as Eaderic’s back was turned.

“You are a Dane?” Eaderic said to her matter-of-factly as they began walking down the row of buildings, and she nodded.

“From a village near Norwic,” she elaborated. Eaderic tilted his head back knowingly.

“Ah,” he concurred. “My brother visited Norwic when I was a boy – I plan to go with him the next time he travels there.”

Helga again had to press her lips together to hold back a giggle. He said when I was a boy as though he were not still a boy. She looked at him closely; he had fierce ice-blue eyes ringed with thick, dark lashes, strong brows, and the arm she was holding was already well-muscled for a boy whose voice had only just finished deepening. Bless him, Helga thought. He so wants to be like his brother that he can’t wait to finish being a child. Well, she could make him feel like a grown person if that’s what would make him happy.

They were heading now for a stable building that was set apart from the other barns and shops, and Helga could hear the snorting of a horse and the conversing of voices from within. She turned and smiled at Eaderic. “Do you have many foals each year?” she asked conversationally. Eaderic nodded.

“There’s nothing my brother loves so much, besides swords, as horses. We pride ourselves on breeding only the finest. We even brought in a destrier from Normandy last season to sire some of our stock. That was a fine palfrey you rode,” he added. “Do you know his breeding?”

“No,” Helga admitted. “He was lent me by a friend in Ambesberie. But he is a very special horse, I agree.”

Eaderic stopped. “Is this friend Ælfric the blacksmith, by any chance?” He was looking at her entirely differently now, one thick eyebrow peaked, and Helga smiled at him roguishly.

“He certainly is. An old acquaintance of my father.”

“I see,” Eaderic grinned, and he adjusted his cloak just enough to reveal the wand that was thrust into his belt. Helga did likewise, and when he saw her wand in her girdle, she felt his arm relax suddenly beneath her hand. “So you are not come to see my brother on a… mundane matter, then?”

“No, indeed,” she replied, and they began walking again. “I have business of a very particular nature which might require him to speak with the king on my behalf.”

“Well, you came on a good day,” Eaderic smiled. “When a mare has foaled successfully, he’s in a generous mood for a week. Here we are,” he finished, nodding toward the separated stable. He pushed open the door and led her just over the threshold. “Brother?” he called out, and Helga took a good look at her surroundings.

The stable had only a few stalls and a large, open central area piled with straw. Helga thought it must be a designated birthing stable. At the far end, a middle-aged man in servant’s garb leaned against a stall door cleaning a brush. He was speaking with a blond man in a fine red cloak who was crouched in front of him, nose to nose with a little chestnut foal. The baby horse appeared bright and energetic, and the man was laughing happily as he ruffled the animal’s little mane. In the stall behind him stood a beautiful blood bay mare, and she was snuffling impatiently and nudging his head with her nose, clearly wanting her foal to be put back in with her.

“Alright, Gwen,” Helga heard the man say with a chuckle. “Alright, I’m just examining your fine work, calm down.” He stood and patted the mare’s face kindly, and she shook her head to let him know she would not be seduced by his sweet words. “You can put him back in with her now, Eafa,” he said to the other man, who nodded and put down the brush.

“Brother?” Eaderic tried again, and this time the man’s head turned to look at them. “You have a visitor, brother,” Eaderic announced, and then added, “a lady.” At that word, the man quickly wiped his hands on a cloth that lay nearby and came across the stable to greet them.

Goderic de Grifondour was tall, broad of shoulder and chest, and was the very image of his younger brother in adult form. Helga thought he was perhaps five or six years her senior. His golden-barley hair hung loose to his shoulders, with a section pulled back from his eyes and tied at the back of his head, and his beard was thick and full but was neatly cropped close to his chin. His eyes were a deeper blue than those of his younger brother, but just as fierce. The red cloak he wore was finer than any cloth Helga had ever owned, and she had to resist the urge to touch it, just to see what it felt like on her fingertips.

“Lady,” he said to Helga with a half bow, and his voice was deep and resonant. “I am honored simply to see your beautiful face adorning my home.”

“She’s come from the Danelaw with business for the thegn of Salisberie,” Eaderic said meaningfully behind her, and Helga let him see the wand tucked in her girdle before letting her cloak fall back over it. Goderic nodded.

“Thank you, brother. Would you go and tell the boys to wash before supper? Table will be laid soon.” Eaderic gave Helga a courtly bow and retreated back into the sunshine, walking rigidly until he thought they couldn’t see him and then breaking into a run. Goderic chuckled and took one of Helga’s hands in both of his. “Your name, lady?”

“Helga Hunlafsdottir, sir.”

“Ah, a daughter of the Norwic wandmaker,” Goderic said sagely. “I trust my brother escorted you with all due courtesy?”

“He was well taught,” Helga smiled. “That is a beautiful horse,” she added, looking behind him at the now contented mare. Goderic swelled with pride.

“Isn’t she? That’s Gwynever, dam to three of the best destriers I’ve ever bred, and I’m hoping that little one in there will be the fourth. His sire was an Abraxan half-breed – all the courage and power, but without the wings.” He offered Helga his arm and led her outside. “You know Ælfric of Ambesberie, of course?” he grinned.

“He lent me the palfrey I came here on,” she nodded, and they began walking toward the large rectangular hall. “I did think he had the look of an Abraxan too, but I didn’t want to ask because there were non-magical ears listening. And by the way, are all of your servants witches and wizards, or do you employ úgaldr as well?”

“Only a few magic, the master of horse back there included,” replied Goderic, “but most of the mundani servants are aware of us, and they’ve served this family long enough to know how to keep secrets. None of them want us found out because then they’d have to find work at some other thegn’s house, and they like working for me too much because I’m soft.” He grinned sheepishly at her. “But you didn’t ride all day from Ambesberie just to talk with me about horses and servants, did you?”

“No,” Helga admitted. “I have… an idea that I would like to see brought to reality,” she said carefully. “But I will need support from the king. And my father said you were the man who could make that happen.”

Goderic smiled and paused at the door of the hall. “I am the man who will certainly try.”

*   *   *

Table was laid that evening as the golden light Helga had ridden through began simmering down into the soft pink and purple of a field of catchfly blossoms. A few clouds of deeper blue rolled in from the west, bringing with them a soft, steady rain that pattered rhythmically against the thatch and stone walls. The rectangular hall was bathed in the dim amber light from the central hearth, in which burned a pleasant fire that had been charmed to give out good light with almost no smoke. The few tendrils that did escape floated upward into the vaulted ceiling and disappeared among the rafters; the windows had been shuttered against the rain, but Helga could see triangles of purple sky at each end of the roof where smoke from a non-magical fire would be drawn out. She sat beside Goderic at a handsomely carved table at the far end of the hall, while the children sat at another table on the opposite side of the firebox being entertained by Eafa, the wizard master of horse. Beneath one of the shuttered windows, a young man sat on a stool and strummed a lyre, occasionally singing snatches of ballads between bites of rough bread. Goderic had served his guest mead in his best golden cups, and Helga was staggered by the choice of not one or two but three (three??) meats he placed before her. While Goderic spoke at length about Norwic, and meeting her father, and wandcraft, and horse breeding, she munched on bread and honey and tried to decide if she was supposed to eat the veal, the peafowl, or the venison first. If there was a rule about such things, she didn’t know it.

“So,” Goderic said finally when the food had been reduced to bones and crusts. He leaned back in his chair and pointed a handsome rowan-wood wand at the mead, directing it to refill Helga’s cup. “Now that we have eaten and are comfortable, why don’t you tell me what you came all the way across England to ask of me?”

Helga took the cup and sipped, staring through the mellowing fire at the children across the room. Eafa was animatedly telling a story, and all three boys were leaned forward and laughing. After a few moments gathering her thoughts, she put the cup down and turned to face her host.

“I want to form a school.”

Goderic regarded her for a minute in puzzled silence. “You mean like a cathedral school? For what children? No Saxon churchman will allow a woman teacher, not at any church I’ve been to. Maybe among your people—”

“No, not in a church,” Helga shook her head. “And not like a cathedral school. I want to make a school for orphaned witches and wizards. Magical children who have no parents to help them develop their magic.” Goderic tilted his head back, his eyes narrowing as he worked out what she was saying. Since he said nothing aloud, she went on. “There are so many more of them orphaned now, what with the fighting between your people and the Danes – my father is at home caring for three of them as we speak, and I’m sure you’ve seen your share. They can’t learn what they need on their own. And you know what happens if they smother their abilities.”

“They become Death-Shadows,” Goderic murmured, nodding softly. He looked up from his mead and gazed across the fire at the children’s table, and Helga followed his eyes to the two boys who sat with his brother.

“Who are they?” she asked. “Those boys, I mean.” Goderic put down his cup and crossed his arms.

“For now? My wards. The one who looks like he hasn’t eaten in a week is called Rodolphus,” he said, pointing to the lean, pale boy with the silken black hair. “He comes from a noble family in Duke Richard’s court in Normandy. His father came here as a diplomat to argue with King Æthelræd about the sea routes or some such nonsense, and he died here just before Candle-mass. The other one is Walrand of Brittany,” he went on, indicating the Moorish boy. “His father translates for Richard’s court, and he was made ward to Rodolphus’s father to improve his station and help him make a good marriage. They’re like brothers now. The boys came to England with Rodolphus’s father because they wanted to see another country, and now they’re stranded here because we hadn’t the slightest clue what to do with them or who to send them home to – or if they even had anyone to be sent to.”

“Are they both wizards?” Helga inquired, and Goderic nodded again.

“And first-rate ones, at that – or at least they will be. I offered to take them so they could be in a wizarding home, and I’ve written to the Norman court, but….” He shrugged and took another drink of mead. “It’s been nearly four months, and all I’ve received is one hearth-message from a wizard there saying Rodolphus has nobody except female cousins whose husbands want to kill him and steal his inheritance, and that there is unrest in the court, so they’d both be safer staying with me.” They both fell silent, watching the boys roughhousing over the remnants of dinner. Rodolphus had given Eaderic’s hair a clandestine poke with his wand and had turned it a queer shade of green, and he and Walrand were hard pressed not to dissolve into helpless giggles every time they looked at him. Goderic sighed and wiped his hand over his beard, and Helga saw for the first time that day that he looked tired.

“You were good to take them in,” she said softly. “Most men would find themselves ill-equipped for the task, and you have no nursemaid or wife to help you.”

“Are you applying for the position?” Goderic asked with a roguish grin. “Because I could do worse, even if you are a Dane.” He flicked his eyes over her thick golden braid and milk-white skin, and Helga stared at him in disbelief until she realized that he was at least half-joking. She sighed and gave him a wry smile.

“Oh, I have enough children to take care of at the moment, thank you, without marrying and having thirteen of my own.”

“Wouldn’t have to be thirteen” Goderic said nonchalantly as he finished off his mead cup. “We could keep it to a round seven. Good magical number.” He managed to keep a straight face for about five seconds before the laughter forced its way out of him with a snort. Helga couldn’t help herself and began to laugh with him.

“Between us we’ve already got that many, if we count Eaderic and my little witch’s younger brother!”

“Oh, Jesu, don’t tell Eaderic you’re counting him as a child,” Goderic chuckled. “He’d die of embarrassment.” When they had finally laughed themselves back into a contented silence again, Goderic took a deep breath and put down his empty cup. This time he didn’t refill it. “What would you teach them at your school?” he asked her, and for the first time she saw the look of the serious businessman come over his face. She put her cup down as well and turned slightly toward him in her chair.

“Well… I would make sure they all had the basic spells, for one,” she began. She hadn’t really planned it in detail yet, but now that she was explaining it she found the ideas coming to her to be practical and solid. “Everyday things, like moving objects, basic defense, repairing and preparing charms. I would teach them to travel with magic, to send hearth-messages, and to make basic potions. A few basic forms of divination. How to create their own spells. And I’d teach them about magical plants and animals. You know, the things parents would teach if they had them.”

“And what about more advanced subjects? For instance, if a student had a gift for healing magic? Or for scrying?”

“Well, then once a student had mastered all of my basics, I would try to find someone to place them with who could help them with the subject they were best at. Like an apprenticeship.”

Goderic nodded, pursing his lips behind his barley-colored mustache. “And would you teach them to read?”

This was something Helga hadn’t thought about, and it made her pause. After a slight hesitation, she said, “I can teach runes. Norse, and a good deal of Saxon. I can’t read Latin,” she admitted, and Goderic leaned forward.

“But they will need to,” he said matter-of-factly. “Latin is the one language spoken among all the wizards in what was once the Roman world. I don’t speak Norse, and you don’t speak Welsh, and neither of us knows a word of Greek; but I can go to any country in Christendom and speak Latin, and I will be understood. And if the children want to learn from ancient magical texts, they will need to be lettered in Latin for that as well.”

Helga picked up the empty mead cup and turned it in her hands, tracing the outline of the lion etched into its polished side. Words engraved around the rim read AVDACIA – FORTITVDO – DIGNITAS. They were very pretty, and they meant nothing to her because she could not read them. She squared her shoulders and looked up at Goderic with a smile.

“Well, then I suppose I’ll have to have a fellow teacher who can handle Latin, won’t I?”

Goderic leaned back in his seat, chuckling. “You are undaunted,” he said. “That is what I have always heard about your race, and I see that it’s accurate. So, then – if you have all this planned, what do you need me for?” He asked the question like he already knew but wanted to hear her tell him anyway. Helga put the cup back on the table again and laced her fingers in her lap.

“I plan to find an abandoned settlement or forgotten hill fort somewhere away from non-magical villages to protect the children. I’ll fix it up with magic, make it livable, and I’ll bring in some other witches and wizards to help me. But I can’t conjure food to keep them with, and I can’t conjure coins to buy rarer magical supplies. Cathedral schools operate on endowments from the king – I was hoping to get one for myself.”

“You want King Æthelræd to fund a school for magic?” Goderic sputtered, and she nodded before he could start extricating himself.

“He wouldn’t have to know it was for magic,” she explained. “We – and by that, I mean you – could tell him that we plan to take in many orphans as our wards, and the money would be for their upkeep and education. That would be entirely true.”

“Yes, but there are churchmen who do exactly that. He would ask why the kingdom needs yet another home for orphans, and this one not attached to a church.”

“We could tell him that there are things we would teach that the church cannot,” Helga replied, and Goderic scoffed.

“Like what? And ‘witchcraft’ is not the correct answer.”

“Well…,” Helga paused. She glanced over at Rodolphus, his black hair looking shiny and wet in the firelight, and thought of how he reminded her of Aluric. “Oh!” she exclaimed then, and Goderic raised an eyebrow. “We could tell the king that these orphans are high-born and have nobody to take them as wards in the traditional way, and that we would teach them how to be ladies and thegns of quality, how to run households and behave at court – all things the church does not teach.”

“It wouldn’t be a total lie,” Goderic admitted. “Rodolphus is noble-born.”

“Yes!” Helga grinned, the idea beginning to grow legs. “And I have a boy at home who was son of an eorl! And you could use Rodolphus as an example to the king, because the king knows him. He can’t go home to what little family he has, because they want his inheritance and he would be in danger! So he should be educated here, in safety, until he is of age.”

“The king did rather like Rodolphus,” Goderic pondered, scratching at his beard. “Alright,” he said finally. “Let me think on it tonight. I’ll speak with Eafa after the children are abed, and we’ll look at it from all angles. I make no promises, but if I think it can be presented to the king with any chance of success and with low risk, I’ll let you know in the morning.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Helga smiled accommodatingly, trying not to press dents into her palms with her fingernails. She doubted she would be able to unclench her fists until she had her answer.

That night Helga was shown to a bed tucked into one of the corners of the hall’s loft and helped out of her cloak by an elderly witch who smelled of cooking fires and bread. The triangular smoke hole just above her cast a puddle of moonlight onto Helga’s feet as she climbed in and felt the heather mattress settle around her. This was certainly Goderic’s own bed; a wooden chest which doubtless contained the family’s valuables was locked up near her head, and the wood and iron frame surrounding her had been built for someone tall and broad. Across the hall, in the loft just below the other smoke hole, the three boys were sleeping peacefully on cushioned benches. Below, at the bottom of the ladder she had just come up, Helga could see Goderic and Eafa sitting on the low bench that ran around the walls of the hall. Each man’s arms were crossed, and a murmur of their quiet discussion floated up to her ears. At first, she strained to hear snatches of what they said. But after a few minutes Eafa pointed his wand at the fire in the hearth, turning it a dim, sleepy shade of red. The scent of wildflowers and night air wafted in through the smoke hole, and although Helga had feared she would be awake all night without knowing a verdict, a short while later she drifted off to sleep.

 *   *   *

It was a full hour after sunrise when Helga awoke to find herself in an empty loft in an empty hall. The light coming in through the smoke hole was a pale but radiant yellow like a sheet of gold that had been hammered as thin as parchment. Rising up from the hall below was the scent of fresh bread and strawberries. Helga climbed down the ladder stiffly but eagerly and found the food she had smelled waiting for her on the table, along with a cup of fresh milk. Her cloak lay draped over the table beside it, looking as though someone had given it a smart tap with a cleaning charm and a gentle brushing besides. There was no sign of her host or his wards. She hoped he wasn’t out somewhere gallivanting on a horse, avoiding telling her his decision.

After she had eaten everything that had been on the table – she felt it would be rude to leave any remnants – Helga wandered out of the silent hall into the bright sunshine. The day was going to be glorious and clear, a rare thing in that rainy kingdom, and she resolved to be happy about that regardless of whatever Goderic de Grifondour had to say to her. All around her, servants walked jauntily about their business, going here and there with hands full of wood or cut grasses or wool. A little girl was coming up a path from the stream carrying a basket full of fat raspberries, and when she saw Helga, she offered her a taste with pink-stained hands. Helga grinned at her and took a couple of berries before heading down the path that the child had just come up. It led into the orchard she had glimpsed the day before, and she thought she could hear the sounds of children laughing over the gurgling of the river. Well, she thought – if Goderic wasn’t around to give her his answer, then she would bide her time with his wards until he showed himself.

The first row of trees that marked the beginning of the orchard were apples in full snowy bloom. The air around them was heady with scent, and they buzzed and quivered as hundreds of bees began their day’s work among the white flowers. Helga crept up and peeked between two of the trunks near the end of the row – and immediately had to jump back out of the way as a massive silver leopard bounded past her down the avenue of apple trees. She was so shocked that she nearly cried out – until she realized that the leopard was shimmering and translucent, not a real leopard at all but a glistening illusion. Helga gaped. It was a full-bodied hirð charm, something few wizards could produce without years of practice. Goderic had not been exaggerating; if one of the children had produced this, then they were going to be fine wizards indeed. The silvery cat stopped a few trees away and turned to regard her, twitching its tail pensively, and Helga was amazed at how brightly it shone even in full sunlight. When it began to pad silently away down the lane of trees, she followed it, and found its source standing with his wand still out halfway down the row.

“Come back to me, Jadd,” Walrand was saying, holding out a hand to the translucent leopard as Rodolphus grinned at him with approbation and wonder. They had not yet noticed Helga, so intent were they on the apparition in front of them.

“You named it?” the thin boy questioned, and his friend smirked as the silver cat brought its misty forehead up into the palm of its wizard’s hand.

“Naturelment,” Walrand replied. “The patronus, he is a loyal guardian. Why should he not have a name?”

“Why not, indeed!” Helga agreed, and both boys snapped immediately to attention, adopting a courtly posture as they realized they were in the presence of a lady. Helga noticed that Rodolphus glanced twice at Walrand to assure himself he was doing it correctly. The leopard, its caster’s attention now diverted, swished its tail and wandered off into the rows of trees, fading as it went and eventually disappearing entirely.

“Forgive us, lady,” Walrand began, “but our guardian did not make you an introduction last night.” He spoke as if it were he and not Rodolphus who held authority, and Helga saw that Rodolphus made no eye contact with her at all. He instead watched his friend’s face intently, like a student working at a lesson.

“I am Helga Hunlafsdottir of Little Witchingham, in the Danelaw,” she told them. Spreading her skirts around her, she sat down on the petal-strewn grass to show them they did not have to stand on ceremony with her. “Goderic spoke of the two of you last night,” she explained as the boys relaxed a little. “I was sorry to hear of your father.” She said this directly to Rodolphus, although she did not meet his eyes for very long since he didn’t seem keen on it. The pale boy nodded and glanced again at Walrand, as if he were unsure of the proper response.

“You thank her now,” Walrand whispered, and Rodolphus nodded again to himself.

“Thank you, lady,” he said to the grass. His friend chuckled and sat himself down on an upturned wooden bucket.

“This one, he is like a foreigner no matter who he speaks to, so I am his interpreter.”

“Like your father in the Duke’s court?” Helga smiled. Walrand grinned and spread his arms equivocally. Rodolphus was now staring at a mockingbird that had perched in a nearby tree, but he seemed better able to speak when he was looking at no one.

“They call me l’estrange. My cousins. They say I will not meet their eyes because I am a faierie child.”

“Well, are you?” Helga asked.

“No,” Rodolphus answered matter-of-factly, still staring at the mockingbird; then he seemed to realize that it was not an ordinary question, and he turned to look at her briefly, his dark brows arched high on his milky forehead. Helga laughed warmly, joined by Walrand, and after a few moments even Rodolphus himself began to laugh. He stopped abruptly, though, as soon as Walrand’s chuckles faded into a deep breath.

“You both speak excellent Saxon,” Helga said softly in the quiet that followed. “I suppose you both are lettered in many languages? Norman, Saxon, Latin?” Walrand nodded his head at all three.

“And enough Norse to get home if we are lost,” he added in Norse.

“Walrand speaks more than I,” Rodolphus said flatly, now very interested in a squirrel three trees away. His friend shrugged, but he was smiling.

“Comes with being son of an interpreter. You hear things. You hear them enough….” He poked a finger down through his thick hair and touched his temple. “They go in.”

“That name you called your hirð leopard earlier—”

“Is that what Norse wizards call them?” Walrand interjected, and Rodolphus cocked his head to one side.

“Hirð, a bodyguard, a retainer, that which protects his master with his body.” Having recited this, he went back to stalking the squirrel. Walrand went on.

“Apt word,” he said. “The Latin is patronus.”

“You will have to teach me the Latin incantation later,” Helga smiled. “But that name you called it – Jadd? What language is that? I don’t recognize it.”

“It means grandfather in the Arab tongue,” Walrand explained, and when Helga’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, he looked as though he had expected as much. “My grandsire, my father’s father in Africa, he followed Mohamet, and Arabic was my father’s native tongue. I don’t speak it very well myself, but I like to call my patronus Jadd because he is my guardian, like my grandsire would be if he still lived.”

“You cast it beautifully,” Helga praised, and Walrand beamed proudly. “I have only ever seen a few wizards do it with a result like that – a fully-formed creature that responds to their voice. My father is one. His comes as a reindeer. But you must be a very talented young man, to cast one so completely and you not yet full grown.”

“He tried to teach me but I couldn’t make one,” Rodolphus said, and Helga jumped and squeaked because his voice came from directly behind her. She hadn’t seen him circle around, and she had to press her hand over her heart to stop it beating through her bodice.

“People don’t enjoy it when you speak unexpectedly from behind them,” Walrand instructed his friend as Rodolphus came over and sat in the grass beside him. The lean boy blinked placidly as he processed this information; then he nodded softly to himself. Walrand turned back to Helga.

“Can you cast one?” he asked her, beginning to twirl his wand deftly between his fingers. It was a lovely wand made of some reddish wood with a strong, dark grain. Helga tilted her head.

“You know, I’ve never tried!” she said, a little surprised at herself. “I suppose I’ve just never needed to cast one, so I just didn’t bother. I know the spell, of course. I’ve just never used it.”

“You should try it here,” Rodolphus suggested, and this time he actually looked at her for a moment before dropping his eyes back to the grass he was braiding. “That way if you fail, you’ve only failed in front of children and your pride is intact.” Helga laughed at him merrily.

“Rodolphus,” she grinned, picking herself up off the grass, “in my opinion, pride is highly overrated.” She dusted off her skirts and pulled her wand from her girdle as Walrand got off his bucket to come watch her more closely.

“Say the spell in Norse,” he encouraged. “We’ve only ever heard the Latin.”

“All right,” Helga acquiesced. Walrand crossed his arms and watched her expectantly, and even Rodolphus looked up from his grass, though he kept plaiting it without watching his fingers. Helga breathed deeply and held her wand out in front of her. She closed her eyes, remembering what her father had said about casting this particular spell – that one must go back to the happiest day of one’s life, because the hirð breathed the happiness like people breathed air. Helga let herself go back to a bright spring day in the Norwic market, the feeling of sun and mild air and her father’s calloused hands securely wrapped around her tiny seven-year-old legs so she wouldn’t fall off his shoulders. It had been her first sight of a real town, and her mother’s hair had shone red-gold as she had walked ahead of them. Helga remembered watching her mother’s braids bouncing against the back of her pale blue dress and loving her with the fierceness and bright white joy that only a child can muster. She breathed in the memory like sweet air.

“Bíð hirð!” she called out suddenly, and swirled her wand in a powerful circle. A jet of silver-white cloud burst out of the wand’s tip and turned on itself for a moment, like oil floating in water; then it collected itself into a round mass and, after a moment or two, took the unmistakable shape of a badger. Helga’s whole face split into a grin.

“Look at her!” she breathed. Rodolphus tossed his hair out of his eyes.

“It’s not fully formed,” he said matter-of-factly. “Blurry around the edges.” He was right, of course; Helga could see that. The silvery badger lifted its head toward her and sniffed the air with its blunt nose, but the image was wavery, and it didn’t shine as Walrand’s leopard had done.

“Rodolphus,” Walrand cringed, “do you remember what we discussed about when to be honest?” Rodolphus started to shrug, but Helga waved nonchalantly at them both.

“Oh, it’s alright, dear. It is never wrong to be honest. Unless, of course, you’re speaking to an angry man with a large sword, and then perhaps it’s best to be silent.” Helga watched her blurry badger trundle around in the grass for a few steps, growing fainter as it did. “At least I know I can do it,” she reasoned. “They get stronger and more solid with practice, right?”

Walrand nodded. “You got an animal on your first try. That is more than most.”

“I got white smoke,” Rodolphus added. They all watched the badger quietly then, until finally it ceased sniffing the air and began to waddle away down the lane of trees. As its waddle became faster and more pronounced, Helga suddenly heard the sound of hooves clopping the dirt of the orchard path. Before she had time to wonder why her badger sounded like it had hooves, a horse came round the end of the row of apple trees and trotted toward them. Its feet swept through the misty apparition of the badger until it dissipated into wisps of silver vapor. Helga sighed as it disappeared; then she turned her attention to the rider.

Goderic de Grifondour was mounted on an exquisite blood bay stallion which must have been a brother to the mare she had seen yesterday in the stable. It had a look in its eyes that said it understood itself to be no less than a king of horses, and Helga pitied the man who ever faced that horse in battle. Behind Goderic and his stallion trotted Helga’s palomino palfrey, who promptly stooped to munch on the thick orchard grass as soon as Goderic loosened his grip on its halter. Goderic grinned down at them.

“There you are,” he laughed. “Naturally, you would be with the children. Was that a ghost badger?” He pointed over his shoulder at the spot where the silver badger had vanished. Walrand beamed up at his guardian.

“Her patronus,” he supplied. “Can we keep her around for a while so she can teach us more Norse magic?”

Goderic snorted. “Be careful what you wish for,” he muttered under his breath. Aloud, he said simply, “Well? Are you ready?”

“R… ready for what?” Helga stammered. By way of reply, Goderic tugged gently on the palfrey’s lead so that it stepped out of his stallion’s shadow. Helga saw that her cloak had been draped over the leather pack behind the saddle, and that the pack looked to have been refilled. She gasped. “You mean… you’ve decided?”

Goderic nodded, chuckling at himself as he did. “I spent the morning leaving instructions for Eafa and my brother so they can take care of things here. Come on.” He tossed her the lead to her palfrey. Helga could barely contain herself.

“You mean …we’re going to Lundenburh to see the king??” She went up on her tiptoes in excitement, and Goderic sighed.

“Helga Hunlafsdottir, we are going to Lundenburh to see the king.”