It was the next lesson though that saw, the routine he had entered into shaken and brought to a sudden end. The peace of Castle-Rheged was destroyed by none other than Uhtric, the Ealdorman himself.

  Arriving from seemingly out of nowhere, he descended upon the peace from the south. Riding up the road not dissimilarly to how many Arns might have imagined Oein might ride whither from Valhalla’s gates to confront Fenris.

  Turbulent was to speak lightly of the great din and noise that echoed throughout all of Rheged at his great white-steed’s arrival. Majestic as a king might be, his horse shook and snorted, with all clearing a path before it and the three hundred huscarl, servants and attendants behind him. All a-horse they burst past peasant and clergyman of Rheged alike.

  The man himself was a man, with a thick mane of gold-grey hair, a long beard the same colour that almost reached down to his waist. Dressed in black, from his tunic, to his trousers to his cloak he did not wear the symbol of his house, the Rhegedian chimera-lion. The great standards waved in the air behind him.

  These standards had seen far more bloodshed and courage in their time than any other. They had borne witness to the disasters and depredations of the ‘Great Arnish Army’ that had sought to lay low each of the isles off the shore of Gallia. They had seen the then King of Rheged, Hrothgar charge off into the Muddren Fields to his death against the forces of Helgi the Terrible.

  But just as they had seen disasters such as those, or the Great Battle of 611, nigh on a hundred years ago. They had borne witness to the greatest glories in Brittia’s history, from the repulsion of the Arns from the north-west of Brittia, to eight victories over Donnchad of Caledonia to a great many other unnumbered battles.

  *****

  In the middle of training with Oswine, when the first cries of, “His lordship has returned! His lordship is upon us! Open the southern-gates!” were heard from the walls of the castle.

  Not understanding at once the exact idea behind the words of the other guards, Trygve was to stare to his friend for understanding. The Brittian was swift to translate the words of his peers, for him.

  Keen to see the lord of Rheged, Trygve was to allow himself to be taken to one side, wherefore he had but a few minutes to bear witness to the thunderous arrival of the Ealdorman’s arrival. Never before had he borne witness to such a majestic entry. Hardly disappointed, he was soon over-awed by the arrival of this great man, so that he near forgot himself.

  The courtyard was soon filled with three hundred new arrivals, all of whom called for servants and stable-hands to hurry hither to assist them. Bridles were seized, and horses were marched across the courtyard, towards the stables.

  Large despite his moderate stature at five-feet seven, with a thick chest and arms, he was a lion of a man, dressed in dark silk (as might a lady, Trygve was later to jest). He leapt from his horse with the agility of a man half his age.

  Scanning the crowd, just as his grandsons a trio of children, each with dark hair save for the youngest, were helped down from their horses. All three of them short for their ages had the same hooked nose that their grandsire had. These were the sons of Swiehun, born from his union with the lady Sivara, daughter of Sivrard of Jorvik.

  It was the most prized jewels of the house of Rheged in all the world. In order of birth they were Uhtran, who was at seven years of age already in love with swordsmanship, the hunt and with tales of heroism. The next grandson was no less fierce, and prone to squabbling with his elder brother, he was five years old and named Iason by his mother, who was a great lover of the tales of the ancient heroic King of Kharinth Iason.

  Friend to Herakles, this great monarch had presided over one of the most golden of ages in that kingdom’s history and was said, to have won the fervent love of Menrva, goddess of war. It was the desire of Uhtric to place his second grandson into the clergy a proposal that many had their doubts towards, due entirely to Iason’s passionate-spirit. Lastly there was quiet, studious Cuthbert who preferred his books to manly feats of arms at three years of age.

  “You,” Said Uhtric pointing to Trygve, the moment he took notice of him after whispering to a few of his men, he motioned for the youth to come stand before him. “I would speak with you, friend of Wulfnoth.”

  Trygve hurried thither to stand nearer to the Ealdorman, nervous despite himself and keen not to cause trouble. Conveniently he forgot for the moment, to wonder to himself how the noble could speak such fluent Caled.

  Once in place, he was scrutinised with the same thoroughness that a lady might examine a man with, though in this case there was neither passion nor longing in the eyes of the nobleman. But rather, there was suspicion in those dark eyes of his.

  Anxious, Trygve waited to be addressed, having no desire to offend or upset this likely ill-tempered nobleman. At last after several minutes more of study, from top to bottom, from crown to ankles, back up again as though in search of arms and some sort of hidden weapon, he spoke. His voice was raspy, as though it had been over-utilised in the past forty years or so, it was also hoarse and if anything pitiable. “You are he? The boy who ventured south alongside pious old Wulfnoth?”

  “Aye, laird,” Trygve retorted politely if in a small voice, daunted and feeling as though he might have wished to be anywhere else in the world.

  He wondered briefly why it was his lot in life, to always have to have dealings with the grumpiest of people, or at least those most hostile to him. He longed for the simpler days of Glasvhail, and for the company of his friends and brother.

  “I wonder if you might not tell me what it is that our mutual friend, imparted to you last he saw you? For what reason did he bring you hither, ere to hurry whither from this place to the monks of Saga in the monastery of Edda.” Uhtric asked though it did not appear to be a question of any sort, to Trygve’s mind.

  There was a kind of menace behind those words, though the tone behind it was pleasant, and there was no hostility in the eyes of the old man.

  Bewildered by his situation, Trygve strove to determine what he should do next. A great breath was sucked in, ere he pledged sincerely to the old man, “I know only that which he has told me and that I have observed, he left for reasons beyond my understanding.”

  “Pray tell, lad,” he was encouraged the hint of menace still beneath the surface. “I wish to hear of my oldest friend.”

  With considerably more confidence Trygve told him, “I have observed shadows sprung from evil hunt us, across Caledonia, and have been myself thrice wounded by them. I near fell in battle as he near did, wherefore we journeyed hither to warn you of the evil that has arisen throughout the lands of the Lairdly-Island. I believe that Wulfnoth departed for Edda’s abbey to learn more about them. I also think that you might know more about his movements and intentions than I, since you seem to already be aware of his presence there.”

  This answer greatly pleased the Ealdorman, who spoke no more. He was not a foolish man, but one who appeared to inspire genuine respect amongst those around him. This much Trygve could discern at once, not only with a glance about him but also in part through his own observations.

  It did not take long before he himself was enraptured by the spell that the old man cast upon those that surrounded him.

  “You shall be my guest, doubtlessly this was one of the reasons for which you were left in my care,” Uhtric promised at once, the thin thread of menace beneath his voice gone. All that remained was the utmost confidence and approbation.

  *****

  The feast that followed was grander than all those that had preceded it. Given a seat of honour, with the pretty maids from the city of Rheged he had not yet set eyes upon, to wait upon everyone, Trygve included. He soon found himself swept up in the congenial mood, for the greater part of the celebration.

  Towards the end of the festivities, as he felt his mind become abuzz with drink and his belly was filled with warmth, he noticed if distantly how muted the joy of the noble-children and Eadburg was. They were quiet, and apprehensive, just as Uhtric himself certainly was. The whole of the men appeared no less frightened, and uncertain of themselves and the immediate situation.

  No one explained it to Trygve however he could sense the mood once he regained some of his sobriety. It felt he mused darkly, as though they were currently besieged. The reason for this sense of misery on their parts mystified him.

  Noticing his pensive look, Oswine who had been invited to sit by him, an honour extended only by virtue of his friendship with the youth. He was honoured and flattered for it had not been long ere he had descended into the shared melancholy, of those around him. So that he sipped at his drinking horn, rather than downed it at every opportunity as Trygve had previously done.

  “What is the matter my friend? You do not wish to continue drinking,” He asked hurriedly apparently keen to hide his own moroseness.

  “It is simply that, all appear quite sorrowful,” He said noticing how most would not meet the sombre gaze of their beloved lord.

  There were no alarmed looks, as one might have expected with a tale of political intrigue, but rather a grimace that almost passed for a smile. “I do apologize friend, there have been a wake of er- events that I failed to inform you of.”

  “What sort of events?” Trygve queried dubiously, thinking it very strange that he had not been informed of these ‘events’ ere that moment.

  Oswine opened his mouth to answer the question only to be interrupted by Eadburg who spoke from Uhtric’s other side. “It is my doing-”

  “Eadburg! There is no need to take up that tone, for you did nothing wrong, my dearest,” Uhtric intervened earnestly with such warmth that he reminded Trygve of his own father then. So in love did he appear that the Caled felt his heart soften towards this great Ealdorman, and the Earless, “It was my doing, there is no reason for you to shoulder the blame.”

  “What is it that happened?” Trygve queried persistently, feeling excluded and frustrated by the deliberate vagueness on the part of all those around him.

  “I would ask that you do not persist upon this topic Trygve of Glasvhail,” Uhtric pleaded gently, looking for all the world akin to the most miserable grandfather.

  Trygve opened his mouth then thought better of it, reminding himself that though he had been treated well thus far, he was surrounded by many Brittians. The enemies of old of his noble flame-blooded people, and therefore it might not be wise to antagonise them further.

  The next thought was to wonder to himself, when was it that he had revealed from where he had sprung. He had not told the old man, nor had he hinted at it to any save for Oswine, and he knew full-well that his friend had not said a word to anyone.

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  Someone must have eavesdropped, he realized annoyed at how he had not counted upon such a possibility before then. Ordinarily he was the clever one, and yet he had comported himself no differently from a common fool.

  Speaking of fools, the next person to step up to entertain was the grimacing fool of the castle. Looking no more cheerful than all the rest, he nonetheless began to tell a tale of an ancient buffoon who once annoyed Augustan the Princeps by seducing the man’s daughter. Hardly paying the Romalian tale any mind, so caught up was he in his own thoughts Trygve was to slowly but steadily drift off to sleep.

  *****

  It was days later after the feast, after he had acclimatised himself to his new routine which involved; rigorous training with arms with Oswine, the study of reading and writing with Leofd?g and long walks with Uhtric.

  The fact that he was the most requested companion not only for walks along the perimeters of the castle and village of the Ealdorman, but also when out upon the hunt was quite the honour. In all, he had an innate sense of uncertainty towards all Brittians save for Oswine and Leofd?g, and even Eadburg due to Wulfnoth’s bond with them.

  Uhtric was genuinely interested in all that the youth had to say, though he never questioned about Caledonia, and Trygve never told him about it. Rather they discussed Arnish folk-tales, the many feats of glory of Uhtric’s ancestors and of course strangest of all; love itself.

  “I to my shame, came not to my wife’s bed unsullied lad, I had a horridly sordid youth if I may say so lad,” He said on one of these long walks looking terribly ashamed and sad. “This was how my son Hallbj?rn and daughter Leofgye came to be. But my wife came to our wedding pure, and good. I must confess that I never felt more ashamed than that day, for my horrid past. She was hurt and carried that hurt for years, though we in time found peace in our Swiehun.”

  At this time he would speak no more of Swiehun, save to admit when pressed that Swiehun was his second to eldest son. He had two others, Leofd?g and Rodbert, both of whom had gone into the clergy.

  “Rodbert went on to become a disciple of Saga; far to the south in Gewisse it is there that he has become abbot of a monastery. As to Leofd?g he became an abbot of Ziu, over yonder in Ergyng. I do believe he is now tutor to the High-Prince of Ergyng.” Both statements were made with a proud gleam in the old man’s dark eyes. He soon inquired after Trygve’s family, with Oswine already familiar with this topic walking a short distance behind them helped to answer the question.

  “Trygve has three brothers and one sister,” Oswine answered only to add with a small snigger, “He is the runt of the litter.”

  “Tush you,” Trygve said good-naturedly ere he added, “Aye I suppose I am. I am the youngest of my brothers though am older than my baby sister Finella, whom is the most sensible lass in all of Glasvhail. My brothers Solamh and Indulf though are the brave, resourceful ones. As to Eachann he and I have the most sense and wits.”

  “I see,” Uhtric murmured, adding with a stroke of his thick beard, “It appears to me that what one of my uncles once taught me about, ‘it is impossible to geld a Caled’ must be true. If indeed you speak true of your brothers.” He soon asked with a small twinkle in his eyes, “Which is your favourite?”

  It came into Trygve’s mind to answer Indulf. It was true that they had always been the closest of the brothers, so that Finella was oft jealous of the two of them. Solamh was the most dignified, Eachann always the most quietly persistent.

  Yet it would be a lie if he were to say that there remained only warm feelings between them.

  The force of their last confrontation had left Trygve feeling bitter towards his elder brother. Indulf had taken no thought to the safety of not only himself, but his younger brother, Cormac and Daegan. For this reason he found it difficult to forgive his brother.

  “How can a brother choose just one? It is akin to asking a parent which is his favourite.” Trygve countered swiftly, thinking himself clever at that moment.

  His words troubled his host though this had not been his intent. The old man appeared so disturbed, and red-faced that his guest regretted his words at once.

  Tongue-tied for fear of making things worse, Trygve was to search about for some means by which to resolve his mistake. Looking to his newest friend, he found Oswine equally bewildered if rather more melancholic as he looked out over the gates they were walking atop, to the distant sunset.

  Thinking this something of a hint, Trygve went to comment upon the suns when the old man remarked, “I suppose it might otherwise be difficult to decide upon a favourite child. My Hallbj?rn has always had a special place in my heart. As Hector was to Priam, so he has always been to me. Though it once was a great source of fractious words betwixt my beloved Eadburg and I.”

  “Once? How did you resolve that conflict?” Trygve wondered keen to change the topic away from the sons, though it was the children of his host that he was most intrigued by. No one ever spoke of them.

  At this question the old man offered but a small smile, which was as sad as it was full of warmth. “I did not. My wife did, and how you may ask, did she do this? She forgave me, my many injuries and sins. It was this that healed my heart. Because this is what family do for one another I should think; forgive.”

  It was these powerful words that brought up Trygve short. Made to realize just how passionately he had once believed, in such words, and how he had forgotten them in his bitterness towards Indulf.

  Pensive, he began to at last reconsider his previous anger against Indulf. They were family, it was true. The wisdom with which Uhtric spoke with at that moment, reminded him very much, of that of Ida. She in particular tended to speak in that manner, whenever Freygils made a mistake, or rushed into a foolish mistake without thinking, and she grew angry with him, only to then forgive him.

  *****

  Castle-Rheged that night did not have as bombastic a feast as other nights. Taking his meal alone, after Eadburg had refused to come down to eat with everyone else, Uhtric had retired to his own chambers. Uneasy, the guards had hurried through their own meal, wherefore they urged Trygve to finish his own meal and to return to his lessons with Leofd?g. The Ursidon had however, decided to preside over a Session rather than to teach him.

  Not feeling particularly religious that night, Trygve had in place of prayers, chosen to return to his chambers to read. Or at least to attempt to read and write, he had just to say finish crossing his last ‘x’ when he heard what sounded to his ears a terrible wail just outside of his door.

  It was not a wail as one might have ordinarily described it. But a sound akin to that of a great force of breezes barrelling through caverns, or as it might be better described; an echo in a wind-tunnel.

  Frightened by the sound, as he had just finished preparing for bed, and praying for the continued safety of his friends, brothers and Helga, he leapt what must have been halfway to the ceiling. Wishing that there was someone else at hand, to check outside the door for him he was to swallow and with pounding heart do so himself.

  Trembling a little, for he was still something of a coward (his wraith and rotting lady infested nightmares were a testament to this, he thought!). Trygve advanced ever slowly towards the door, whereupon he opened it ever so slowly.

  Seeing no one, and as the sound had receded Trygve could only breath a small sigh of relief. Grateful that there was no one present outside his door, he almost withdrew back into his chambers. His desire to withdraw himself was thwarted by the strangest sensation of coldness, one that felt as though it were as much in his blood and spirit as in his skin.

  Shivering, Trygve could hardly move. It felt all too similar to that night upon the Mound of Griogair he told himself, wishing to melt into a puddle and weep, so afraid was he.

  The thought they might come for him was followed by the idea that he should flee to the chapel of the castle, as quietly as possible. At present he was on the third floor, where the kinsmen of the Ealdorman were placed. The chapel was one floor down, and a short distance from the stairs.

  It would not take him too long to reach the room in question, he told himself. Taking a single step outside of his room, he noticed at once how quiet it was in the hallway. This sparked the realisation that all were likely asleep as no one was thinking there would be an invasion or attack.

  This sudden awareness of his predicament gave Trygve more courage than he had previously believed himself capable of. True, it might have been better; one might think as he crossed the hallway as silent as a ghost that it might have been better had he screamed the whole of the way. But the youth, was still in a death-struggle to reclaim his voice. The fact that he had made it so far, in spite of the mortal terror that gripped him now was quite remarkable in its own right.

  Marble-stoned the floor was carpeted though, so that all footsteps were fairly muffled. The walls though were aligned with mounted armoured-statues and the banner of house Rheged. Taking every care not to knock over a suit, which were not as you might think plate-mail, but rather the scale and ring-mail of Brittia, along with the helm.

  Though there were a few statues that were dressed in the hauberk and mail and helm, of Romalian centurions and legionnaires. This was no easy task though, as the torches had recently been blown out. Their flames perished by the ‘wind’.

  Any other man might well have belived such a coincidence, but not the clever son of Freygils who had become by this time, over-familiar as one might say with the Knightwraiths. Of all the wraiths that which he most feared though, was the Kingwraith. The Laird of Shadows as Trygve had taken to calling him in his mind, and to his friends in Brittia. So fearful had he become of the wraith in question that, he could hardly call him aught else. He prayed at that moment that, if it had to be any of the wraiths that it be any of the others, just not their king. So terrible was he.

  Trygve reached the Ealdorman’s chambers, which he was both grateful and horrified to see was open a crack already. A small flicker of light was perceptible through that crack, he noticed at once.

  Apprehensive and worried for his friend, the Ealdorman Trygve made to push the door open all the more, and cry out to the lord of Rheged. His mouth was open in preparation for the cry, when he heard a voice that sounded as a snake’s hiss and a thunderstorm, and a wind-tunnel all at once.

  It was in truth the most evil sound he had ever heard in all his life (except for the voice of the Kingwraith). Yet it was also, the sweetest sound. It reminded him of the taste of a fresh apple in an orchard, or of duck freshly cooked, and mixed with the sweet flavour of honey.

  Startled by this dichotomy and the intensity of the fear that washed over him, and froze his very blood and heart Trygve froze in place, hand raised to push the door.

  “-noth seeks still to question after Swiehun,” Reported the terrible hiss that strangest of all, sounded different from the hissing voices of the other wraiths. Somehow, it sounded rather more vicious, crueller somehow than most of theirs.

  It sounded female.

  “Trygve MacFreygils assures me that my old friend wishes only to prepare for war, against the Dark Laird.” Uhtric protested feebly, almost as though he were pleading with the female wraith.

  Confused by why the Ealdorman would be holding a conversation, with the wraith Trygve continued to listen. His ears perking a little, at the mention of his name, Trygve listened all the more attentively.

  The wraith spoke in the sweetest, most honeyed words imaginable. “Why, Ealdorman has not Wulfnoth spent years in Caledonia? Is this youth not from those lands? Why then, do you trust him so? Did I not say that he would claim to have been involved with Bardulf the Wolfram? He who slew your good-brother the lord of Hwicce? Did I not predict that Wulfnoth would seek to learn what has become of Swiehun?”

  “Aye, aye you did,” Uhtric mumbled darkly.

  You may wonder how it was that Trygve could understand them, as they were not speaking in Caled. They in fact were speaking to one another, in the Arnish tongue with Trygve understanding every two words or so. So that he did indeed miss parts of their conversation.

  But the truth was he had caught the most important detail of all from this exchange. That Uhtric Ealdorman of Rheged was in league with the wraiths.

  The sense of betrayal that washed over Trygve was such that he could not think, could not feel aught else but pain and anger. He had liked the Ealdorman, had thought him wise and yet the old man had imprisoned Wulfnoth and was conversing liberally with what seemed to him to be a Queenwraith or some such abomination!

  This shan’t be allowed to go on unpunished! He told himself full of outrage, prepared to turn about to go to the stables and ride out to the local monastery of Saga. There he would find Wulfnoth, free him and they would reveal the truth of Uhtric’s duplicity.

  “What should I do? Wulfnoth is a paragon,” Uhtric complained, “And my dearest old friend, I shan’t hurt him!”

  These words interrupted Trygve’s furious line of thought, and though he wished to leave he could not quite convince his beating heart or feet to move away from there. He had to hear more.

  The Queenwraith (if she was truly such a thing) went on seducing the Ealdorman with her honeyed words. “Aye, but has not the valiant Sivrard always been your friend? He is wed to one of Morcar’s sisters just as you also are. He has always since his union with Ealda supported you, shielded you from the Wulfrics and fought side-by-side against Donnchad the Poisonous with you.”

  “That is true.”

  “What has Wulfnoth done for you, in the past thirty-five years?” She reasoned genially, “Was it not he who threw himself into this investigation into Swiehun?”

  “Yes that is true,” Uhtric conceded reluctantly.

  “Therefore think of the glory you and he shall achieve, when you at last dethrone the usurper of the Caledonian throne.” The Queenwraith uttered slowly and at some length, Uhtric must have scowled or flinched in some way. For her tone changed from one full of empty warmth, to the menace of a terrible wroth that made both him and Trygve back away instinctively. “If I may, my lord I must remind you that Sivrard is as yet undefeated in war, as is my liege the King of Tuathmurdún.

  It would not be wise to deny him, for you know what fate awaits you and all those who defy him, from his Court-Sorcerer’s visit here twelve months ago.” She spoke in honeyed tones once more, “Think only of the bounty he offers and- wait what was that sound?”

  It was then that Trygve must have emitted some sort of squeak or his boot had scrapped along the floor (it was both).

  It was also at that moment that his heart stopped entirely, as he realized that he had been found out by the wraith. Death was sure to follow.

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