Theobald and Githa fight

“Oh, Theobald, you look so mournful,” Githa said as her husband came in from the barn. “Won’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”

“Are the children asleep?” he asked dully.

“Of course they are. Now, the house is quiet and warm, the children are sleeping: you can tell me what you’ve been thinking, can’t you? Perhaps I can help.”

“No, Githa, my mind is made up. It is this: I think we should go.”

“Go?”

“Home.”

“We are home.”

“Oh, Githa, don’t start with that again,” he sighed. “You know what I mean.”

“I thought you had decided we would stay.”

“I intended to wait on definite word of the fate of Sigefrith and Alred and our men before deciding.”

“And you have had it! Better still, they came home – the King and the Duke and many of our men, and other men besides. What more did you want? We already knew they had lost.”

“It’s more than that, Githa. Please trust me. It isn’t safe here.”

“It never was!” she cried as loudly as she dared with the children sleeping in the room. “You knew that. Your father told you that–my father told you that.”

“It was different then,” he said, beginning to grow angry at her resistance. “We were young and didn’t have the children. It is unsafe here for many reasons, not all of which you know. But there is a new danger. I didn’t want to tell you, but you oblige me to.”

“Oh, tell me, do!”

“It’s the Scots, Githa. There are bands of Scots raiding up and down the eastern coast, far down into Northumbria. They could easily come here as well.”

“Is that why the King went to Scotland?”

“That’s why.”

“Well, and? Have you so little faith in your king? In Sigefrith? Your friend?”

“No, Githa. I hope he succeeds. I hope he might. But he may not. He may not even make it to Stirling. And meanwhile I have to think about my family.”

“Sigefrith is thinking about your family! That’s why he went to Scotland.”

“Githa, forgive me for saying so, but you have no idea what you’re saying! You don’t know what the Scots are capable of.”

“There are worse things than death, Theobald,” she said ominously.

“Yes! Yes, there are! Having your wife raped before your eyes is one of them! Having your children murdered before your face is another one!”

Githa cried aloud.

“If you don’t believe me, ask your father what happened the last time the Scots went through here.”

“You dare try to convince me by making such threats?” she sobbed.

“It’s not a threat, Githa. Please calm yourself. I’m telling you of the danger, since you don’t seem to believe it’s real.”

“You are too cruel, Theobald. You present me with a choice between going home to your father, or staying here and seeing my babies killed. Surely there are more possibilities.”

“I’m not presenting you with any choice, Githa. I’m telling you what we shall do.”

“You can’t, Theobald. You swore an oath to Sigefrith and to Cenwulf.”

“Is a woman going to give me lessons in honor?” he barked.

“Somebody should,” she muttered.

“Papa!” Brinstan called out from his cradle. “Pick me up!”

“Oh, now you’ve woken the baby!” she groaned.

“I did?” he cried.

“Papa! Pick me up!”

Grumbling, Theobald stalked over to Brinstan’s bed and took the little boy into his arms. He and Githa would not speak to one another again that night.