'I don't know, Bertie.'

Gunnilda stepped into the cool night air with a feeling of relief. It was dark, and no one could see her, and she could be alone.

She went mincing up into the woods behind the house; in her bare feet she couldn’t go elsewhere than on the path that led to Egelric’s farm, so halfway there she stopped and turned her face deliberately to the north, where neither her nor Egelric’s farm lay, and where she could have seen the road had it been daylight.

Now she could cry, and that too was a relief. It was all so horribly, horribly humiliating. She realized now that the worst of it was not that Alwy had asked. He probably didn’t realize it was wrong: poor Alwy never meant any harm.

No, the worst was that Egelric had apparently answered. What on earth had he said? What was he thinking? What was this then – had he told Alwy what he did with Elfleda? What Elfleda liked? Enraged, she smacked a birch trunk with her little hand. She wouldn’t think of it!

But he would think of it!

But he would think of it! When had Alwy asked him? Had she seen him since then? Had he smiled knowingly at her, wondering if Alwy had been putting his newfound knowledge to the test? Was he wondering if she liked it?

She crumpled the edge of her shift in her hands, lifted it to her mouth, and screamed into it. She could have killed him, she thought, but he wasn’t there – no, he was at home, lying in bed next to Elfleda. She could only hate him, hate him, hate him, and stomp her bare feet with every hate, and then sink down to sit on the dirt path and sob into her knees.