Apparating had always been Helga’s least favorite activity, and this on a list that included things like pulling dead animals out of a crup’s mouth. The press of the wind against her eardrums, the sickening tightness around her chest and stomach, the swirling feeling of disorientation – give her a good healthy walk or ride any day. Apparition, she had always felt, was for people who lacked patience and, in her opinion, a sense of self-preservation. Goderic de Grifondour, however, had no such qualms. And of course, for a journey that could take several days on horseback, being able to simply appear there within seconds did have its merit.

“Where will we be apparating to?” Helga had asked him as they rode out of the orchard toward the stream. If she had to apparate with someone else pulling her, she at least wanted to know where she would be landing.

“An inn,” Goderic had replied, “just inside the walls of Lundenburh on the west side, near the Ludd Gate. The innkeep is a wizard. He keeps an empty courtyard at the back of the place specifically for wizards coming into and leaving the city so they can apparate without being seen by the mundani.” Helga had nodded as though “Ludd Gate” and “walls on the west side” meant anything to her at all, which they didn’t. She had never been to Lundenburh – in fact, the largest town she had ever seen was Norwic, and even that place had more street names than she cared to try and remember. She would just have to hold tight to Goderic’s arm and let him do all the apparating for both of them.

There was a clear, flat space by the stream bank that de Grifondour clearly used often for a disapparating point the way her father always used the big oak tree in the barley field, and Goderic led both their horses into the center of it and waited until both animals had stopped their nervous prancing. He moved the mounts close together, until his right leg pressed against Helga’s left, and then reached out for her arm.

“Will the horses be alright?” Helga asked anxiously. Goderic squeezed her wrist reassuringly.

“As long as we keep tight hold with our legs so they don’t try to bolt. Ready?”

“I hate apparating,” she said by way of answer, and Goderic just chuckled. The next moment, Helga felt a slap of cold, dry air against her face as the stream and the trees and Goderic disappeared into a swirling haze. She felt a little shriek squeeze out of her as the pressure around her lungs surged and then abated, and her palfrey whinnied frantically beneath her – and she could have sworn she heard Goderic laughing hysterically. Then it all stopped at once. Helga swayed on the horse as the air around her came to a dead halt and the rushing sound of wind abruptly quieted. The palfrey did a shuffling little dance of disgruntlement and snorted his disapproval. Helga’s ears felt like they had water in them, and she shook her head until the sensation subsided. Beside her, Goderic was laughing.

“You really don’t like that, do you? Sorry,” he grinned, clearly not at all sorry. Helga pressed a hand against her bodice until her equilibrium returned.

“I keep waiting for someone to invent a better way of getting places quickly, and they keep disappointing me,” she replied. Goderic laughed aloud and swung himself down off his stallion, who apparently was unfazed by the whole operation.

“Well, cheer up,” he said, straightening his cloak. “I heard that some wizards in Saxony have started enchanting broomsticks so you can ride them through the air. I’ll buy one and let you try it, see if you like that any better.” He held out his arms to help her down, and since she was still unsteady from the apparating, she let him.

Once her feet were back on the earth, she was actually able to give some attention to her surroundings. They had arrived in the middle of an empty square courtyard with no apparent outlet save a heavy wooden door in the crumbling wall straight ahead. The brick showing through the gapped plaster was the color of pale red sandstone, giving the building away as a leftover of the old Roman city. High on their left rose what could only be the outer wall of Lundenburh; beyond it, Helga could hear the soft splashing of the Fleta as it tumbled south to join the wide Tames somewhere behind them. Now that her heart had stopped rushing blood to her ears, she realized that the flood of sound she had been hearing hadn’t been her own pulse at all. The air here was positively thick with sounds – the flow of the rivers, the honking of geese and chickens in nearby pens, the plod of numerous horses passing to and fro outside the courtyard, the stomping of many feet on a wooden bridge, and a cacophony of voices buying and selling and calling out greetings or curses. Helga supposed that she had known academically that a city like Lundenburh contained a great many people; but hearing them now, all going about their business at the same time all around her, it was almost like apparating. There was a low hiss of constant noise that seemed to go on even beneath the individual sounds she could distinguish, and she wondered how anyone ever became accustomed to living in such a noisy place.

“Is it always like this?” she asked Goderic, gazing around as if she could see over the courtyard walls. Goderic shook his head.

“Oh, no. Of course not. It’s much quieter today than usual. You should be here on market days. Much more exciting.” Helga stared at him, wondering if he was being serious or if he was answering like that on purpose to tease her.

While Helga stared, Goderic crossed the cobbled space between their horses and the big door. A little bell hung from a hook beside it, and Goderic pulled out his wand and gave the bell two sharp taps. It rang out a pair of silvery little chiming notes that echoed musically in the walled yard. They only had to wait a few moments before the heavy door in front of them creaked open and a young woman came out backward, pushing the door open with her backside. She had sharp, quick eyes and a strong square jaw, and her black hair was a rat’s nest of curls tied up with a rag. She took one look at Goderic and sighed.

“Didn’ yew just leave ‘ere, Grifondour? Thought we was rid of yew til midsummer.”

Goderic grinned at her. “Lovely to see you as well, Finela.”

“Want the lady’s ‘orse in the stall beside yours?” she asked, chocking the door open with a stone and reaching for the horses’ leads. Beyond her, Helga saw not the inside of an inn as she had expected, but a stable. Goderic held up a hand to Finela.

“No stalls at the moment, Lady Pyk,” he said. “My friend and I will be leaving straight from here on our business in the city after we say hello to your father. You can just lead them through to the street entrance of the stable and have the groom’s boy wait with them there.”

“Oo-oo-oh,” Finela simpered teasingly. She turned to Helga. “Thinks if he calls me lady enough, I’ll be nicer to his ‘orse. Great flatterer, that one. Don’t let ‘im kiss yer hand. No tellin’ what he wants when he does that.” And before Helga could say anything in return, the woman had taken the two horses by their leads and pulled them through the door into the stable. Goderic waited a few moments in amused silence after she had closed the door behind her, and Helga began to wonder exactly how they were supposed to get into the inn itself. Then Goderic took out his wand again. Instead of ringing the bell this time, he placed the tip of the wand at eye level in the center of the door and drew it downward along the grain of the wood in a straight line.

“Nos admitte,” he commanded, and the line he had traced with his wand emitted a pale glow. The door opened again, this time of its own accord, and Helga saw with pleasant surprise that there was no stable behind it now. The entrance now gave onto a dim interior space, and the hum of conversation and clanking objects leaked out into the courtyard from within. Goderic stepped back and waved Helga through first, giving her a little courtly bow. “Helga Hunlafsdottir, welcome to the inn of Gwydion Pyk.”

Helga stepped inside and was immediately greeted by the scent of bread being taken from ovens and porridge scorching in a cauldron. They had entered what looked like a small storage room full of sacks of flour, and she lifted the hem of her skirt to keep it from collecting the pale dust as they crossed to the small door that stood cracked open beyond a stack of buckets. The door was low and asymmetrical, and as she came out of it Helga saw that it was positioned beneath a crude staircase tucked in the corner of a large main room. The inn was built of an amalgam of dark stone and ancient Roman bricks held together with thick oak timbers (and, Helga mused, probably a little magic). The walls were dark, the ceiling low, and only the front of the building facing the street had windows; but these were unshuttered and the door flung open to admit light, and there was a merry fire burning in a wide hearth in the corner. This close to the hour of Terce, most travelers had either already broken their fast and gone, or had not yet come in to escape midday heat, and so only a couple of customers sat at the scattering of tables. Helga didn’t know if the usual clientele were mostly wizards or úgaldr; but the man closest to her was heating his drink with a wand. The other man seemed to be asleep next to a half-loaf of bread and an empty cup. Helga relaxed a little as Goderic followed her out of the storage room into the light.

“GODeric, ye mangy excuse fer a graphorn’s balls, wha’ are ye doin’ back in mah inn??” Helga jumped as a man appeared from behind what she had thought to be only a stack of drink barrels, but which apparently hid a door to another room. His hair flowed down to his shoulders in waves, a shade of white that said perhaps it had once been red-gold long ago. His beard and mustache were darker than the rest of his hair, pointed like a goat’s, and he wore a sweeping cloak covered in wild scribbles of embroidery that made it look as though he were wearing a tapestry he had stolen from someone’s wall. Actually, the closer he came, the more certain Helga felt that that’s exactly what he was wearing. In fact, she thought she could see one of the wall hanging brackets still attached to a dragging corner. The man’s voice was brash, but he was grinning merrily, and Goderic threw out an arm and gripped his wrist in friendship.

“Well, nobody else will buy what you’re selling, you great wart off a niffler’s arse,” Goderic laughed, and the man guffawed along with him.

“Didnae think I’d see you again fer a month or more,” he said, dragging his tapestry robe over to a tall table where several pitchers sat beside empty drinking vessels. His voice had the sound of the Cumbrian peoples from that vague, mysterious part of the island between Yorvic, Alba, and the West, and Helga smiled at the musical lilt as she and Goderic followed him to the table. “I thought ye went home tae cutch wi’ those wee babbies ye’ve adopted?”

“Yes, well,” Goderic snorted, accepting the cup of cider he was handed. “The wee babbies are part of the reason I’m here.”

“Tryin’ tae unload them on some other poor wretch already?” the old man chuckled, and Goderic grinned.

“Not exactly. Helga,” he said, turning around to her and holding out an arm in presentation, “this is my old friend Gwydion Pyk. Gwyd, this is Helga Hunlafsdottir.”

“Pleased to meet you, master Inkeeper,” Helga said – because she had no idea what the proper address for innkeeps would be. Gwydion Pyk threw back his head and laughed.

“Oh, Goderic,” he chortled, “I like this one. Think I’ll have that stitched on some cloth an’ sewn on mah robe. Master Inkeeper?? Oi, Muire, d’ye hear that?” he yelled over his shoulder in the vague direction of what must have been a kitchen. “I’m Master Innkeeper now, an’ don’ ye ferget!”

Helga heard a muffled but obviously derisory reply from a woman somewhere out of sight, and both men laughed again. When they had settled, Goderic accepted another cup of cider, and this time Helga took one as well. Gwydion leaned on the tall table and eyed Goderic with interest. “Right. So. What are you and this lovely Norsewoman here to do wi’ those babbies of yours?”

“Well,” Goderic began, staring into his cup for a moment as he decided how to explain. “Helga has found herself in a similar situation to mine – she’s got three orphans knocking about her home in the Danelaw and not a clue how to handle them, because they’re all wizards.”

“Got enough to start your own war band, between ye,” Gwydion chuckled. “So what scheme are ye cookin’ up?”

“We’re going to ask the king for an endowment so we can start a school for orphaned witches and wizards,” Helga said bluntly. Gwydion Pyk stared at her for a moment open-mouthed; then he turned, took a much larger drinking vessel from a shelf behind him, and plunked it down in front of Goderic before beginning to fill it.

“Here,” he said. “Keep drinkin’ til ye’re thinkin’ straight, Goderic. Fionn’s balls, man!” He kept filling the vessel until Goderic patted his hand wryly.

“It’s not a joke, Gwyd. We’re on our way to the King’s Hall now.” He looked like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. Pyk laughed brokenly.

“Just goin’ tae …march right intae the Hall and say, ‘Och, great King Æthelræd, d’ye mind if we take a wee bit o’ the treasury to train up a score of tiny witches??’ Oh, aye, the Bishop’ll love that, won’t he?”

“Well obviously we’re not going to tell him it’s for witchcraft,” Helga said over the rim of her cider cup. It really was very good cider. Goderic chuckled into his cup at her temerity.

“Obviously not,” Gwydion concurred, but there was laughter beneath his sarcasm. Helga could see this was a man for whom laughter was a natural state of being. He turned to the shelf behind him and pulled down a wooden tray that held some bread and a small pot of honey, plunking it down in front of them and slicing it with his wand. “Well, if you’re goin’ intae the snake pit, ye might as well go wi’ a full stomach. Eat up an’ tell me the plan while ye do.”

*   *   *

The morning mists from the river had dissipated by the time Helga and Goderic received their horses from Finela and rode out into the street in front of Pyk’s Inn. Helga glanced up at the front of the building as they rode away from it and saw that the bush over the door, symbolic of alehouses, had been lashed to a pike instead of an ordinary pole, a cheeky nod to the proprietor’s name. Around them the street teemed with people coming in and out of the Ludd Gate just to their left, where a large man with a sword stood guard under the crumbling Roman arch, on the lookout for troublemakers. Beyond the gate, Helga caught a glimpse of sunlight glinting off the waters of the Fleta as it ran down to join the Tames. Just across the road from the inn stood a small wooden chapel with a stone cross planted in the dirt by its door. The cross was carved with a rough picture of a man who seemed to be slicing his own cloak with his sword.

“Who is that?” Helga asked Goderic, pointing to the picture as they rode past it. Goderic didn’t need to look to answer her.

“Saint Martin,” he said, edging his stallion around a mud puddle. “That chapel is dedicated to him.”

“And… he is… a hero? In one of your Christian sagas?” Helga asked, knowing those were not the correct words but having no other context for her question. Goderic looked at her with raised eyebrows, apparently realizing for the first time that she was not a Christian Dane, but a true Norsewoman. Then he chuckled.

“I suppose it’s like that,” he allowed. “He’s a holy man, a saint. We look to saints as examples of how we should practice our faith.”

“I see,” Helga nodded. “Why is he cutting up his cloak?”

“That’s part of the story,” Goderic explained. “He was travelling in the winter, and saw a poor man with no cloak, so he cut his own in half and gave the piece to the poor man to keep warm.”

“Ah, and his story is an admonition to the hearer to be generous and care for the poor?” Helga smiled. “Oh, I like that. I shall read about him when I start learning Latin.”

“You’re going to learn along with the children?” Goderic laughed. The road now began to trend uphill as they wove the horses in and out of clusters of pedestrians. A few children stared at them, and more than one adult dipped their head in Goderic’s direction as he passed. Helga shrugged.

“Why not? We all can learn, no matter how old we grow. The children should be taught that, and I shall be proud to learn with them.”

“You’re an unusual person, Helga Hunlafsdottir,” Goderic chuckled, “but I won’t hold it against you.”

Up ahead, the narrow street broke abruptly into open ground as they reached the summit of the hill they had been climbing. Helga beamed with delight as she took in the view. The green cap of the hill was surrounded by a low stone border; in the center stood the largest building Helga had ever seen, a long and narrow church constructed of an amalgam of timbers and stone and roofed with old Roman tiles that shone a merry scarlet in the morning sun.

“St. Paul’s church,” Goderic offered, steering his horse around the south side of the green churchyard. “It’s the most important church in Lundenburh, where the king goes to worship. The royal house is just beyond these church lands.” Goderic turned his horse down a little pathway that led south across the patch of green landscape ringed in by the bustling town, and Helga followed, craning her neck to look at everything even after they had passed it. Off to their left, just outside the churchyard border and ringed by fruit trees, Goderic pointed out the home of Bishop Ælfstan. The path cut through the Bishop’s orchard, and they passed under a long row of cherry trees heavy with unripe golden fruit before coming to the end of the track at a low gate in a stone wall. Goderic glanced about to be sure they were unobserved; then he edged his wand-tip out of the leather wrist-cuff he wore and muttered at the latch. It dropped out of the catch and the wooden gate swung open toward them. Helga pursed her lips.

“You couldn’t be bothered to just get down from your horse and open it?”

“Why would I?” Goderic queried as he pushed his wand back up inside his cuff, and he looked so genuinely surprised by the notion that Helga simply sighed and smiled at him the way she would have done with a child. Goderic took no notice; he simply clucked at his horse and led him through the gate into the road beyond.

The street they entered ran parallel to the Tames along the back side of the Bishop’s land. On the other side of it stood a tall and broad rectangular hall with a sloping roof that glittered with vermillion Roman tiles. A constellation of smaller buildings of both brick and wood were gathered around it like chicks around a hen. Behind them, past a marshy swath of shoreline, Helga could see the wide sweep of the Tames sparkling in the morning sunlight.

One of the outbuildings was a stable, and it was toward this structure that Goderic directed his horse. The stableyard bustled with men getting onto horses or getting off them, and with stableboys running to and fro among them bringing or taking their mounts. Most of the men, Helga noticed, wore fine cloaks pinned with gold brooches and carried swords that glinted with quality metalwork. A stableboy came and took their reins without having to be called.

“Welcome back, my lord Salisberie,” the boy demurred, and, seeing that Helga seemed to be attached to Goderic, he hastily added, “And you as well, Lady.” She gave him a warm smile and thanked him, and he grinned as he led their horses away.

“Come on,” Goderic said, holding out his arm for her to take hold. “The king usually hears petitions before midday. Let’s see how many thegns we have to elbow out of the way to get in.” He led her across the stableyard to the entrance of the large hall, a ponderous wooden door set in a wall of herringbone-patterned stonework. There was a guard at the entrance, but he only glanced at Goderic and nodded in recognition as he pushed the door open.

The interior of the king’s hall was cool and dim after the bright morning sunshine and the glint of the river. Helga had to blink a few times to regain her vision. When her eyes had adjusted, she found herself in a square, open room looking up into the face of a tall middle-aged thegn with a thick grey beard and sharp eyes. She knew he must be a thegn of some status by the heavy gold and garnet brooch that held his cloak at his shoulder - and by the way he seemed to command the space in which he stood. He was looking her over appraisingly when Goderic inserted himself between them and clapped the man on the shoulder.

“Ælfric!” he said brightly, although Helga thought there was some restraint under the jocularity in his voice. “How goes the king’s business in Hamtun?”

“Well as it ever goes,” was the man’s guarded reply. He was smiling genially at Goderic, but the smile didn’t meet his eyes. Goderic extended an arm toward Helga.

“Helga Hunlafsdottir, this is Ælfric, the ealdorman of Hamtunscir. He sees to the king’s business in my part of the country.” Helga dropped a shallow bow to him, as that seemed to be what he expected.

“A Dane?” he said in her general direction, and she didn’t care for the way he said it. Goderic patted the man’s arm.

“The daughter of an acquaintance of mine,” he explained. “She has business with the king.”

“Oh, and here I thought you’d finally decided to marry,” Ælfric smirked. Goderic laughed at what seemed to be an old, well-used joke.

“If I had, I certainly wouldn’t bring my wife to Lundenburh for all of you vultures to hover round.” He gestured at the room around them as he said it, and Helga noticed for the first time the dozen or so other men who stood in twos and threes in various parts of the large hall. Many of them sat on the bench that ran the whole way round the open chamber, and those who hadn’t stopped to stare at her were deep in quiet conversations. Helga thought they all looked like they were either waiting for orders, or waiting to be let in to see the king in the room that lay beyond the next door. “Is the king deeply engaged at the moment,” Goderic was asking, “or do you think he would hear us before midday?”

“He might,” Ælfric conceded, scratching his beard. “The Bishop and Leofwine have been arguing about land for the past half hour, so he’d probably welcome an interruption, to be honest.”

“Jesu, not them again,” Goderic sympathized. “Would you announce us, then?”

Ælfric crossed his arms and looked as though it were a hard decision for him; then he grinned through his thick beard. “I suppose I could be persuaded.” He cocked out an elbow and put a hand on his sword, which made his cloak swirl importantly as he turned toward the inner door. Halfway there, he spun back around. “Oh, Goderic, since we spoke of marriage - have you betrothed that brother of yours yet? Ælfgyth is twelve this Swithhun’s Day. They’ll both be old and withered at this rate before you make a decision!”

“Go on,” Goderic waved, shooing the ealdorman toward the inner door. “I’ll betroth him when he stops being so young and stupid. Until then, you don’t want him!” He kept up his genial smile until the corners of Ælfric’s cloak had disappeared through the big wooden doors; it then slipped off his face and was immediately replaced by an irritated sort of relief.

“You don’t like this ealdorman?” Helga asked him knowingly. Goderic grimaced.

“I….” He paused, searching for the correct sentiment. “I don’t know that I trust him to mean what he says. But the king trusts him, above most of his other thegns, so I have to pretend to like him for the king’s sake.”

“Not to mention because he holds sway over your land?” Helga smiled. Goderic nodded.

“And to make it worse, he won’t cease trying to snatch Eaderic out from under me like taking an egg from under a dragon,” he whispered.

“And you don’t want your brother married to his daughter because you don’t trust him?” Helga said. Goderic snorted.

“That is one reason among a great many.”

He broke off as the inner doors opened and Ælfric came back out. “You can come in,” he said quietly. “Leofwine and Ælfstan are still gnawing at each other, but your entrance might shut them up if we’re lucky.” He stepped back and held the door open to Goderic, and Goderic took a deep breath.

“Jesu help us,” he murmured, giving Helga a ‘here we go’ sort of look as he crossed himself. Helga patted his arm.

“D’you mind awfully if I ask Thunor to put his hand in as well?” she whispered, touching the hammer-shaped amulet under the fabric of her collar. Goderic shrugged.

“We’re about to beg a king for money to start a school for witches without actually telling him it’s for witches - while the Bishop listens - I’ll take help from whoever’s interested in helping.” He grinned at her then, and they both chuckled as he ushered Helga inside with a bow. They slipped through the door and then Ælfric followed, closing it behind them.

The inner hall of King Æthelræd II was a long, broad rectangle of stone under a peaked roof supported by columns that were chipped and roughened by age. Helga’s shoetips brushed gently at a battered mosaic tile floor that had once shown a vibrant picture of a man in a robe, an image of whatever god the Romans had worshipped there when the building had been one of their riverside temples. Bits of the image were now missing, and Helga assumed the many hanging tapestries around her were hiding rough patches in the ancient walls. Beneath the largest and brightest of these tapestries sat the king, in a low stone seat draped with furs and cushions, surrounded by a cluster of thegns. Helga was surprised; the king wasn’t at all how she had pictured him. Æthelræd II was very young, surely only a year or two older than Helga herself. He was tall, slender, and elegant, a pretty thing like a picture from an illustrated Bible, and his lean form was draped languidly over the throne the way one might casually toss a cloak over a bench. His robe of red and white embroidery was wrinkled from restless adjusting, and the circle of gold on his blond curls was cocked to one side. The young king had his head propped on his hand, smushing up the side of his face against one high cheekbone, and he looked bored out of his mind.

In the empty space in front of the throne, two men were arguing. They looked like they had forgotten anyone else was in the room, something the king appeared to wish was true.

“That land belonged to my grandfather, and I have the charters to prove it!” one of them spat, a scruffy red-haired man in thegn’s dress whose hand was edging toward his sword. The other man, plump and clad in the robes of the Church, pointed a finger in his face.

“That is not what the churchmen of Wirecestre are saying.”

“The churchmen of Wirecestre,” the thegn growled, “will say anything they think will get them another abbey!”

“How dare you accuse men of God of falsehood?!” squeaked the man who must surely be the Bishop.

“With the same words our Savior used: vipers, all of them!”

Behind them, the king rolled his eyes so far that Helga could see the white of his eyeballs, and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling at the sight. Ælfric apparently took this as his cue; he nodded to Goderic and then strode right up the center of the room, parting the two combatants like barley stalks.

“A petition is brought before you, my king,” he said loudly as he bent most of the way onto one knee, ignoring the protests of the Bishop and Leofwine. “Will you hear it?”

“God be praised,” the king groaned in reply, pushing himself back into an upright position. “Bishop, Hwicce, you’re both dismissed until after Sext. Go ...wave staffs at each other somewhere else until then.” He waved at the two complainants with a right hand heavy with garnet rings. Leofwine stared daggers at the Bishop for a moment and then stalked off to a corner of the room to sulk; the Bishop maintained his position near the throne, but looked as though he’d swallowed a frog. In the intervening silence, Ælfric stood back up and cleared his throat.

“Æthelræd, King of the English, raised by the right hand of the Almighty to the throne of the whole kingdom of Britain, will hear the business of his man Goderic, thegn of Salisberie. Approach and be recognized, thegn.”

Goderic nodded to Helga, and she followed his lead as he made for the center of the room. He planted his feet firmly on the noseless mosaic face and took a knee, inclining his head to the king, and Helga did likewise; she spread her skirts and dipped to the floor, not rising until she saw Goderic begin to stand again. 

“My King,” Goderic said in a voice much different than the one he used in conversing with her. He looked somehow taller and more impressive than he had done up til now, and Helga smiled inwardly - this was Goderic de Grifondour in his natural element.

“I thought you left Lundenburh for the summer, de Grifondour,” the king quipped. 

“I had done, Sire,” Goderic answered, “but upon returning home I was presented with a proposition from a lady which I could not easily turn away.”

“This lady you’ve brought with you here?” Æthelræd asked cheekily. “Oh, I don’t blame you, I couldn’t turn her away either.” He flicked his eyes over Helga in a way that would have been considered rude from any man without a crown on his head. “And exactly what lady would this be?”

“Sire, this is Hel--”

“The lady can introduce herself, de Grifondour - unless she’s a mute?” He raised his eyebrows in Helga’s direction, and the grin that was beginning to pluck the corners of his lips said that this was the most fun he was likely to have all day. Helga obliged him with another bow.

“No indeed, Sire, I am no mute,” she replied. “I am Helga Hunlafsdottir, of Little Witchingham, in the Danelaw.”

“A Norsewoman? Goderic, your social circle is broadening. How progressive of you.” The king winked at her before turning back to Goderic and settling into a more comfortable position. “Alright, de Grifondour. Tell me what business has brought you all the way back from the countryside.”

“My King,” Goderic began, “as you yourself well know, I have of late come to hold the wardship of two orphan boys from Normandy.”

“Cheeky devils, but I liked them,” the king commented parenthetically. Goderic nodded.

“Aye, Sire. Good boys, both of high rank. It happens that this lady has also recently found herself keeping four orphaned children in her home in the Danelaw.”

“Norse children?” asked Æthelræd.

“Two of them, Sire,” Helga answered, before it occurred to her that she hadn’t been directly addressed. The king only looked at her, so she went on. “Two are Saxon boys.”

“We have heard each other’s counsel,” Goderic continued, “and agreed that we are no fit guardians for so many children at once - seven, if my brother Eaderic is included in the number. And we have thought it wise that they all be given some formal education.”

“Naturally,” the king acquiesced. “Are you requesting they be found places in cathedral schools, then?”

Goderic glanced at Helga, and she held her breath. This was where the real adventure began.

“Actually, Sire… we are hoping to create our own school.”

“Hmph!” The noise came from the Bishop, who still hadn’t roamed far from the place near the throne where he’d been arguing. “Someone else wanting to usurp from the Church. Taking cues from Leofwine, are we, de Grifondour?”

“No disrespect is meant to the church, sir,” Helga said, hoping that was the correct title for a bishop and immediately suspecting that it was not. The Bishop narrowed his eyes at her.

“Do you allow this woman to speak out of turn like this, my King?” He addressed Æthelræd, but he kept looking at Helga. Æthelræd laughed aloud.

“Right now, Bishop, I’m fond of anyone who interrupts you or Leofwine. Go on, I’m listening.”

“Sire, the cath--” began Goderic, but the king waved at him dismissively.

“No, not you,” he said, grinning. “I want the lady to tell me. Go on, lady. Speak.”

Helga flicked a nervous glance at Goderic, but he simply shrugged and took a step backward. Taking a deep breath, Helga picked up what he had been saying.

“Sire, as the Bishop rightly argues, the cathedral schools do good work. They teach orphan boys to read and do sums, so they may make their way in the world - or even one day join the church.” She bobbed a little curtsy to the Bishop, who seemed still suspicious but somewhat placated by this. “But doing business and reading religious texts,” she went on, “are not the places these children we have as wards were born to. They are noble children, sons of thegns and Norman lords. They should, when they grow to be men, be masters of their households. They should marry noblewomen and raise sons in service of the king; they should know how to command servants, and how to conduct themselves here in the king’s presence, and how to make war. These are not things taught by the church - indeed, as it should be, because they are worldly things, are they not, Bishop?” Helga steeled herself for an attack, but the Bishop’s face had shifted - he wasn’t looking exactly friendly, but he at least no longer seemed hostile.

“Indeed not,” he murmured contemplatively. King Æthelræd leaned forward on his throne, the boredom he had been steeped in when they’d arrived gone from his face. He looked now very much like a king.

“So you propose to gather these noble children and educate them to be thegns and ladies of rank - as their families would do if they had them?”

“Aye, Sire,” Goderic nodded. “We would take the six orphans we have already, and any others we should find who are without family to guide them, and set up an estate somewhere where they can be instructed as befits their place.”

“And so what do you need me for, Goderic?” the king asked, though he clearly already knew the answer. Goderic inclined his head.

“Other than your excellent lordship and guidance, my king? The same thing the cathedral schools require to operate, Sire--”

“My money,” Æthelræd finished. “You want me to dip into the treasury.”

“If it please you, my king,” Goderic bowed. “You are a young man, Sire, and praise Jesu you will be on the throne for many years to come. These thegns that fill your hall right now-- ” he gestured around him “--they are full of wisdom ...and full of years. They do you great service; but when they leave you to join the household of the King of Heaven, as we all must, you will need wise and learned young lords to take their places at your side. What better investment, then, than to spend your wealth for the training of future thegns?”

“How long did you practice that speech, Goderic?” King Æthelræd grinned. “Those are the fanciest words I’ve ever heard you use.” There was quiet laughter from a few of the gathered thegns, and Goderic spread his hands and gave a self-deprecating smile. The king sighed and sat back on his throne. “You--” he pointed suddenly at Helga. “Tell me what my money would be used for. Specifically.”

“Well, Sire,” Helga said, “firstly for the payment of scholars to teach the children. Goderic can teach the skills of warfare and horsemanship, and I can teach the girls ladies’ arts, but we would hire learned men to teach them languages and history and arithmetic and ...other skills.” She paused for breath, hoping the king wouldn’t inquire about the other skills. “And secondly, for the bodily sustenance of the children. We would want to clothe them as fits their rank, and feed them well.”

King Æthelræd tilted his head back, sinking more comfortably onto the throne, and now he looked to Helga like a young boy again. After a few moments, he pursed his lips and turned to Bishop Ælfstan.

“What do you think, Bishop? Saint James tells us to care for orphans in their need - would you say this falls under that mandate?”

“Perhaps,” the Bishop said carefully; he was still staring at Helga, and she realized suddenly that he was trying to see what hung at the end of the chain around her neck. Thankfully it was tucked into the front of her apron dress - she doubted the sight of Thunor’s hammer would have helped their case with him. 

“What about you, Ælfric?” the king said to the ealdorman. Ælfric crossed his arms.

“I would be interested in how much of the treasury de Grifondour wants you to hand over, my king. Does he have an amount per year in mind?”

Goderic glared at his ealdorman for a split second before inclining his head again to the king. “I would not know the precise cost until we are certain how many children we will have, and how many scholars we will hire. But as soon as we learn that, I can give you a written sum, Sire. And - this should ease your mind as well as those of your councillors - the cost would surely grow less with each year.”

“Why less?” Æthelræd queried.

“Because once we begin, we will surely gain support from wealthy men of the kingdom who wish to help our endeavor,” Goderic supplied. “With such contributions, our need for royal wealth would grow smaller.”

“Hmm,” Æthelræd mused. His hand strayed to the tassel of his red cloak and began to twirl it absently as he pondered. Finally, he leaned forward again. “This is an unusual request for you, Goderic de Grifondour. I can’t remember you ever asking me for royal money before.” He glanced questioningly at a man in the corner who held a parchment scroll, and the man shook his head no. The king nodded. “No, indeed. There are some thegns with a habit of holding out their hands to me at every opportunity, but you have never been among them. I appreciate that; and it makes me much more inclined to humor you.” He paused again, mulling over the idea just long enough to make Helga start feeling uncomfortable. Then he waved to the man with the scroll.

“Sire?” the man said, approaching the throne. Æthelræd sighed.

“Make a record of this potential endowment,” he said. “Goderic, when you and this lady decide how many children you’ll be keeping and what it will cost you, I expect you to send us a formal request in writing. My scribe here will do some sums of his own in the meantime, some estimations. If your request compares well with his sums, we’ll make the necessary arrangements. And then, of course, we’ll want to have a visit from Rodolphus or perhaps Walrand in a year or so - as a way of judging the effectiveness of your instruction. See if you’re turning out good little thegns with all our money.”

“Of course, my king,” Goderic bowed. “I’m sure the boys would be happy to come back and see you.”

 “You can send them with this good lady,” the king grinned at Helga. “She can give me a full report then.” 

Helga shot a look at Goderic, who smothered a chuckle and motioned for her to answer. “Of course, Sire,” she responded dutifully, grateful she had remembered to lace the strings at the top of her collar that day. “I would be honored to receive an invitation to return to my king’s hall.”

“Indeed?” Æthelræd smirked, and Helga blushed.

“WELL,” an impatient voice suddenly interjected from behind them, and Leofwine the thegn appeared at Goeric’s elbow. “If Salisberie is quite finished with his petition, then--”

“Oh, God, are you still here?” the king groaned. “I’d hoped you’d wandered outside and gotten lost.” He sighed. “Very well. Dismissed, Goderic. Unfortunately for me. Shame you can’t take Leofwine and the Bishop with you as you go.”

Goderic bowed low, hiding a grin. “I would fain oblige you, Sire, but I fear the Hwicce need their intrepid thegn more than I, and without the Bishop here, who would shepherd his flock?”

The young king rolled his eyes. “Ugh. Completely useless to me, as usual, de Grifondour. Well, go on then, so these two can prod each other in privacy.” Someone opened the hall door at his dismissive wave, but he and Goderic grinned at each other as Goderic backed away from the throne.

“Deepest thanks, my king. You will have no regrets.”

“Lies. I will have a multitude of regrets, all of them directly related to my occupation of this throne. See that you aren’t one of them.” And having given this pronouncement, he plopped his face back onto his hand and waved reluctantly at Leofwine to continue presenting his case. Goderic and Helga both bowed once more before slipping back out into the antechamber of the hall. 

 *   *   *

They rode back through the Bishop’s orchard in a cheery silence, broken occasionally by Goderic quietly chuckling to himself. When they were almost back to Paul’s church, Helga gave him an amused sigh.

“Would you like to share the source of your laughter, or should I just guess?” 

Goderic found a single ripe cherry on a low branch and plucked it as they rode out of the orchard into the street. He popped it into his mouth, winced at the tartness of it, and then grinned at her. “Just that if I had known it would go that well, I would have been bringing attractive women with me every time I presented a petition.”

“Oh, I’m so happy to have helped,” she said playfully. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have untied the neck of my dress, and we wouldn’t even have needed to speak.” Goderic didn’t seem to be at all chastened by her sarcasm. He just laughed aloud.

“I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me earlier, to be honest,” he chuckled. “The king is fond of Norsewomen. Married one, you know.”

“Oh?” Helga asked, reflecting that the king didn’t behave as though he were married to anyone. Goderic was nodding in reply.

“Ælfgifu. Daughter of the eorl Thored of Yorvic. You look a bit like her, actually. He told me once that if I wanted a quiet and boring marriage, then I should take a Saxon woman, but that Norsewomen were infinitely more fun because they’ll always answer you back.”

“And where was the king’s wife today?” Helga asked, ignoring his socio-cultural commentary. She hadn’t seen her anywhere in the hall or its surrounds - in fact, Helga herself had been the only woman present all morning. Goderic shrugged.

“Somewhere in one of those royal buildings, I suppose. Probably pushing out another baby.” When Helga balked at him, he chuckled. “Well, she’s been with child every time I’ve ever seen her. I can’t even tell you how many little athelings there are at the moment. I lost count.” Helga shook her head.

“Not for me, thank you,” she said disdainfully. “I think I’ll just skip being married and go straight to being the elderly village witch who frightens the úgaldr by mumbling under her breath whenever they pass.”

“I thought you liked children?”

“Oh, I do, and there are plenty of them roaming about for me to collect and care for without having to create any of my own, thank you.”

“Well, you can afford not to, I suppose,” Goderic said as they steered their horses back onto the descent of Ludd Hill. “You don’t have a title that you have to worry about passing down. But if I don’t marry soon, and find someone for Eaderic too, there will be at least three wizards on the gemót who’ll be plotting to murder us both and take the Salisberie title for themselves.” 

“So, what were those great many reasons, then?”

“Hmm?”

“Your reasons for not wanting Eaderic to marry Ælfric’s daughter. Besides your obvious personal feelings for the man.”

“Oh,” Goderic snorted. “Well, the first that comes to mind is that Eaderic would keel over from apoplexy if I stuck him with her.”

“He doesn’t care for her either?”

“Got one look at her last year and told me later that he’d rather marry one of my horses. A black-haired girl, he’s always telling me. He wants me to find him a black-haired girl like those women from Gwent and Powys. As though I’m just wading through a sea of options and can pick him one like cloth at market day.”

Helga laughed brightly. “I think he has a very high opinion of what you’re capable of, Goderic. He clearly idolizes you.”

 “Mmm,” Goderic frowned. “I don’t think he worships me as much as the idea of being the Thegn of Salisberie. Maybe once he’s grown I’ll just retire and let him have the title. Go off and have adventures, chase some dragons, and let him be the politician. And that, of course, is the other reason I can’t let Ælfric have him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Ælfric’s not a wizard. And my brother will have to marry a witch.”

“Even if he falls in love with an úgaldr girl?” Helga asked, her brows drawing downward. Goderic pressed his lips together.

“Love doesn’t enter into it,” he said bluntly. “Look, I have nothing against mixed marriages on principle. I’m not like those wizards who rail about keeping the race pure and all that. If you want to go and marry a mundani man, have at it. I’ll present him with his new sword myself. But Eaderic and I… we have a responsibility that lies above that. The Thegn of Salisberie has to be a liaison between the magical people and the mundani king. It’s delicate and political - and whatever woman marries into that has to be able to understand the situation from the inside. Not to mention, we have to make certain that our sons are wizards so the next Thegn of Salisberie can continue doing what we do. So he has to marry a witch, preferably from a notable family involved in the gemót, and so do I.”

“Is that why you’re well over twenty and still not married?” Helga smirked. “Can’t find a suitable candidate?”

“My options are limited,” Goderic smiled wryly. They had now arrived back in front of Gwydion Pyk’s inn, and Goderic swung himself off his stallion and tossed the reins to the boy who came out to meet them. Helga slipped off the palfrey and did the same.

“So… what now?” she asked as Goderic headed for the inn’s door. He shook the wrinkles out of his fine red cloak and offered her his arm again.

“Food, I hope,” he grinned. “And while we eat, we can discuss how we’re going to go about collecting all the magical orphans you plan to teach at this school we just bought.”

Closer to midday, the tables in Pyk’s inn were considerably fuller now than when Helga and Goderic had ridden out to the king’s hall. Helga noticed that none of the current patrons were heating their drinks with wands, and she supposed that those among them who were wizards chose to blend quietly with the úgaldr travellers who knew nothing about Gwydion except that he had bread and cider for sale. The two of them were led by Finela to the room behind the stacked barrels, which turned out to be Gwydion Pyk’s private chamber. Helga found the place irresistibly charming, if a bit confusing.

If there had not been a bed tucked into the corner of the room, Helga would not have readily known it was someone’s living space. The room held a scattering of unrelated objects, some of which made sense and some of which did not. A spear propped in a corner was topped by a battle helmet with a bent noseplate; a nearly complete set of rune amulets hung suspended from the ceiling by strings; a tapestry fragment was draped over a woad-painted deer skull on a shelf above the bed; and Helga nearly tripped over what she initially thought was a boulder on the floor, but that turned out to be an entire segment of a Roman fresco that had come out of the wall of some ruin. The bed itself was nearly hidden under more of the same tapestry that Gwydion wore as a cloak. Several of the metal rings which had attached it to a wall were still looped into the fabric. The fact that he wore the rest of it around his shoulders now seemed the most normal thing about him.

Bread, cheese, and ale were brought in for them by Gwydion’s wife Muire, while the innkeeper himself shuffled around the room clearing away debris so they could sit down, and uncovering a tree stump that he used as a table for the food. Goderic settled himself on a stool Gwydion unearthed for him under a pile of scrolls, while Helga ended up sitting on the piece of Roman wall.

“By Hercules, who put out the lights??”

Helga squealed and jumped up off the fresco, nearly spilling the plate of cheese into the floor. She and Goderic watched in bewilderment as the painted figure on the plaster, a young man carrying a wine jug, swiveled his head in various directions and blinked his eyes at the sudden return of the light that Helga’s skirt had blocked.

“Um… sorry?” Helga said, nonplussed. “I… I didn’t see you there.”

“Aye,” Gwydion grunted, dropping down onto the bed. “Nor would ye, because that’s precisely how the little rogue wanted it. He likes tae hold still til some poor soul sits down, an’ then he comes out wi’ that who put out the lights nonsense, just tae hear ‘em yell out an’ watch ‘em jump. Right, Antonius?”

“Spoilsport,” the man in the painting said, crossing his arms. Gwydion waved dismissively at him.

“Just sit back down, lass. If he’s in the dark long enough, he’ll go tae sleep an’ we’ll be shut of him.”

Gingerly, Helga lowered herself back onto the stone block; Antonius didn’t call out again, but Helga was sure she could hear him chuckling to himself from behind her legs. Gwydion watched her face and grinned.

“Donnae ye mind the clutter,” he said as he passed Goderic the ale jug. “I’ve got a bad habit of bringin’ home stray objects when I’m drunk - can’t return them the next day because I can’t remember where I got ‘em from, and half of ‘em are bewitched anyway. Muire won’t allow me to drink anywhere but here now. Says we don’t have enough rooms in the place for me to bring home any more artifacts.”

Helga glanced around her and thought that Muire was probably correct in that estimation.

While they ate, Goderic recounted their meeting with the king for Gwydion’s benefit. The innkeeper appeared to share Goderic’s distaste for ealdorman Ælfric, and had a good laugh at the news that the Bishop was still fighting Leofwine for that scrap of land in Mercia. When Goderic told him how easily King Æthelræd had granted their petition for funds, Gwydion shook his head in bemusement. 

“Well,” he shrugged, “there’s no accountin’ for what a young man’ll agree tae do for a pretty woman. Did think he’d put up more of a fuss, though.”

“I’ve been told I resemble the king’s wife,” Helga said wryly, “and that perhaps that tipped the balance. But in any case, I think that may have been the easy part of our adventure.”

“Why?” Gwydion asked, finishing a cup of ale and pouring another. “What’s tae do now that ye’ve got the endowment?”

“Now we have to actually collect the children,” Goderic sighed. “Somehow, we’ve got to find all the orphaned witches and wizards who haven’t already been taken in by a guardian, and spirit them away to whatever location we choose for the school.”

“Hearth messages?” Gwydion suggested. “Put the word out on the network that ye’re lookin’ fer orphans?”

“That would find some of them,” Helga agreed. “But what about the ones who are homeless, that nobody knows about? I found Hnossa, the little witch I’m keeping, wandering about the forest with her brother, living on berries. Nobody who got a hearth message would have known about her. And sending owls with letters would only work with people who can read.”

“Aye, an’ ye can’t very well just pop in and visit every wizarding house in the country, can ye?” Gwydion mused.

“No, and even if we could, that wouldn’t find us the úgaldr-born children - and they’re the ones most likely to find themselves without anyone to teach them.”

“Interesting conundrum we’ve made for ourselves, eh, Gwyd?” Goderic said, helping himself to more ale. Gwydion nodded.

“Aye, quite the riddle.”

“Send ‘em tae Eryr house, ye great numpty!”

All three of them jumped at the words, and Goderic bit his piece of bread so sharply that half of it was sheared away and fell to the floor. The voice was Gwydion’s - but it hadn’t come from Gwydion’s mouth.

“Och, and who asked you?” Gwydion said indignantly, attempting to lever himself up off the bed and failing. He spoke in the general direction of the far corner of the room, where the helmet and spear were leaning, but Helga could see nobody there who could have produced the voice.

“They asked me!” the voice came again. “Well, they asked you, an’ that’s basically the same thing.”

Helga got up from her seat and strode over to the corner, pulling her wand from her belt. She could have sworn that the voice had come from the helmet with the bent noseplate, but it appeared to be quietly propped on the spear haft as it had been when they’d arrived. She poked her wand into the open eye socket.

“Ach, watch where ye’re stickin’ that wand, hen! Ye’d put a man’s eye out!” The face of the helmet had danced to life as it spoke those words, and the ridge of metal above the eye opening now lifted with a creak as though it were raising a critical brow at her. Helga sighed and crossed her arms.

“More bewitched stray objects, Master Pyk?”

“Damned useless thing,” was Gwydion’s reply. “Put a charm on it so I could tell it things I needed tae remember, an’ it would tell ‘em back tae me in me own voice. Except now all it does is insult me!”

“Aye,” answered the helmet, “an’ you’re the one who’s useless, ye ken?”

“Go boil yerself,” Gwydion retorted, and he tossed a hard piece of crust that clanged hollowly off the helmet’s forehead. Goderic reached over then and put a hand on his friend’s wrist.

“What was it talking about, though?” he asked, picking up his lost chunk of bread from the floor and brushing off dust. “It said to send us somewhere?”

“Aye!” the helmet responded. “Somethin’ he told me tae remember months ago. Eryr house.”

“What’s Eryr house?” Helga asked the helmet, which seemed flattered that she was talking directly to it instead of about it.

“They’re a family, hen. In the West, in Cymru. Got the best damn scryers this side of the sea. Always have. The Cymry are born with a gift for seein’ with magic, just like Beowulf over there an’ his people are born good at killin’ things with it.” The helmet nodded slightly in Goderic’s direction, rocking on the spear haft, and Helga pursed her lips to contain a giggle. Gwydion’s face lit up.

“Oh…. aye! I remember now. That’s right, I did tell ye tae remind me of them if I needed ‘em. Aye, Goderic, that’s who ye’ll want to see. One of the witches of the Eryr family.”

“A witch, specifically?” Goderic asked, and both Gwydion and the helmet nodded.

“Oh, aye,” the innkeeper confirmed. “Always the women who have the divining gifts over there. The men specialize in conjurin’, the women in scryin’. You’ll want the eldest woman of the house of Eryr, whoever she is.”

“You know who she is, sieve-fer-brains!” the helmet interjected helpfully. “Lady Rhonwen, remember? Married that fussy Saxon thegn from Croes Ati?”

“I bewitched ye tae remind me, no tae insult me fer mah poor memory!” Gwydion spat at the helmet. He poured himself another cup of ale and took a long drink. Goderic’s brows drew together.

“Do you mean Rhonwen, the wife of Æthelweard Hræfnsclawu?”

“Aye, that’s the one!” the helmet piped. Goderic nodded sagely, and Helga returned to her seat on the fresco block.

“Do you know her, Goderic?”

“I know of her,” he mused. “She attended the gemót last year with her husband. She’s the daughter of an old wizarding family from the Rhufoniog region of Gwynedd. They’re important among our kind, but have lost a lot of their status among the mundani, so everyone said Æthelweard married beneath himself. Then, of course, we saw her, and decided that she’s the one who married beneath her.”

“That Æthelweard’s an old fussy-britches before his time,” the helmet added, and Goderic nodded.

“And she looks like the last of the druids who met Rome at Ynys Mon. If it were up to me, I’d have her sitting in the gemót instead of him.”

“I like the sound of her, then,” Helga smiled. “So if we go to her, she can use a scrying glass to find all the children we’d need to gather?”

“Aye,” said Gwydion, “and probably find you a location as well. She’ll be happy tae help, I think - always put a great stock in learnin’, those Cymry. You tell her it’s a school ye’re building, an’ she’ll probably sign up tae teach herself.”

“Excellent,” said Goderic. He put his cup down firmly on the stump. “Then the lady Rhonwen will be our next stop. We’ll return to my estate tonight and send a message ahead so her household will be expecting visitors, and you can give your father an update.”

“And now that we know it will actually happen, you can tell the boys what we’ve been up to?” Helga suggested, and he agreed.

“Of course. I’ll have a talk with them after dinner. And then tomorrow, if Hræfnsclawu is ready to receive guests, we’ll take another trip.”

“More apparating. Hurrah,” said Helga dismally, and Goderic laughed as Gwydion patted her shoulder and put another cup of ale in her hand.

 *   *   *

“Will we learn magic in other languages?”   

“You won’t separate us, will you?”

“You mean, we’ll be leaving King’s Worthy?”

Helga walked back into Goderic’s hall from the kitchen late that evening to find her host sitting at the dining table with Walrand, Rodolphus, and Eaderic, being harried by a volley of questions. Outside the sky was turning rosy pink, boding well for tomorrow’s journey to Cymru. They had come home from Lundenburh hours earlier laden with little gifts for the boys from Gwydion’s strange stash of artifacts – a leather ball that bounced of its own accord, some rune amulets that changed colors depending on the caster’s mood, and a quill that corrected the user’s writing - and had waited until after dinner before explaining to them the endeavor they were about to set out upon. While Goderic had told the boys all about the school for wizards they would soon be attending, Helga had busied herself with a hot bath in a large wooden tub in the kitchen. The elderly witch who had helped her out of her cloak the night before had heated the water with her wand, and had poured some lovely smelling potion into it that turned the water colors and made her skin feel soft. The same witch now followed her out of the kitchen, trying to get a wooden comb into her wet hair as she made to join Goderic at the table. When she sat down on the end of the bench beside Walrand, the old woman saw her chance and began combing her hair without hesitation, and Helga didn’t protest. 

“Enjoying yourself, Eadgifu?” Goderic smiled at her, and the old woman grinned toothlessly.

“Haven’t had a girl to take after since yer mum passed,” said Eadgifu, pulling the comb slowly through Helga’s long blonde waves. “All boys. Nobody fer me to fuss o’er til now.”

“Oh, I imagine Goderic’s hair is long enough for you to comb and plait,” Helga told her, winking at Goderic, and he shook his head. 

“Don’t give her ideas.”

Helga and the old woman giggled together, and Goderic saw he was now outnumbered.

“So you’re going away again tomorrow?” Walrand asked, and Helga started to nod before remembering that her hair was being combed. Goderic did it for her.

“Yes. To find all the other children you’ll be learning with,” he told the boy. “Helga, I think you should speak with your father tonight at the hearth and let him know our plans. Perhaps he can bring the other children to stay here for a few days - so they can become acquainted with these three while we’re making arrangements.” At this, Walrand’s face lit up, and Rodolphus imitated his smile. Helga nodded her agreement as Eadgifu tapped her hair with her wand to dry it.

“It would be easier on him, not having to care for all four of them on his own. How would you like that, Eadgifu? A little girl to spoil for a while?”

“Oh!” the old woman gasped, clapping wrinkled hands. “I’d feel like a young maidservant again!”

“A girl?” Rodolphus said doubtfully, and Helga gave him a reassuring grin.

“A very uncomplicated girl, trust me. You have nothing to worry about.” Turning back to Goderic, she asked, “So you’ve spoken to the Hræfnsclawu house, and they’re prepared for our arrival?”

“Won’t be going there,” Goderic said over his mead cup. “Æthelweard is off on some journey to Saxony, has been for a month or more. His wife and daughter have gone back to Rhufoniog to visit her family until he returns. So I contacted them there, and their steward said they’d be more than happy to receive two guests. We leave for Cymru in the morning.”

Helga sighed. “Perhaps if I apparate often enough, I’ll become accustomed to it.”

“Actually,” Goderic said, “I had something else in mind - something not quite as abrupt as apparating. For your benefit.” He was trying to hide a conspiratorial smile, and was failing. 

“Like what?” Helga asked, and his grin widened.

“Surprise. You’ll see. Just …tell me you’re not afraid of heights.”

“I’ve never had cause to be,” Helga answered cautiously. “Should I?”

Goderic only grinned and said, “You can let me know that in the morning.”