Sigefrith asks Egelric to make a voyage

Egelric stood behind the wall and watched as Sigefrith and Alred fenced with sword and buckler. This was something to see! Egelric couldn’t fathom how each could guess the move the other was about to make – he could swing a sword well enough, but he could never tell what his opponent was planning. When he would fight with Malcolm, his cousin would coolly inform him, “You’re dead,” as time after time his sword stopped just short of a slash that should have been fatal. As much as he liked Malcolm, it was always rather humiliating.

But he had been born to walk behind a plough, and he had never even held a sword before he came to the valley. It was already a miracle that he had come as far as he had in his thirty-​​two years. He was a squire now, and if he had still had Finn, why, the boy would have gone up to the Duke’s household as a page, and from there who could have said?

No, he mustn’t think of Finn. The hardest part was not knowing. He almost envied Ethelmund who, at least, knew his son dead. For if Finn still lived, it was unforgivable that he should be lazing around on an August afternoon instead of searching for him. Perhaps Elfleda was right not to have forgiven him.

But no, he mustn’t think of Finn.

He hung his arms over the wall and applauded Alred, who had just unarmed the King. He had always been better with a sword than Sigefrith, but it was only now that enough of his strength had returned to allow him to win again.

“Egelric!” Alred cried. “Your turn!”

“Oh, no!” he laughed.

“Were you waiting for me?” Sigefrith asked as they came over to the wall.

“I waited in the hall a while but the page told me Your Majesty was here.”

“You see, Alred? You are getting old, and I don’t have the time to wait around for you to defeat me any longer.”

“Old? Which one of us has the gray hairs in his beard?”

“Egelric does,” Sigefrith laughed.

“I would never presume to have more gray hairs than Your Majesty,” he smiled. “I know my place.”

“Watch your lolling tongue, Dogface, for I am about to send you away, and just now I am not sure whether to allow you to return.”

“Send me where?”

“To perdition,” Alred supplied, “hereafter known as Scotland.”

Egelric frowned. Surely Sigefrith wasn’t thinking of fighting again?

“I want Gog to be the baby’s godfather,” Sigefrith explained.

“You say it as if you thought of it,” Alred whined.

“You meant it as a joke. I mean it seriously. The more I think of it, the more I like the idea. We could use an ally in the north, especially one within a week’s ride.”

“Is God Almighty that important?” Alred asked.

Egelric shrugged. “It’s complicated. Black Colin had eight sons, so there are eight clans within the clan. Well – the eighth clan is me,” he added sheepishly. “But Gog and Magog are the grandsons of the seventh son, and Gog is the oldest son of the oldest son of the… let me count… of the oldest son. You see how it is.”

Alred blinked. “And Abraham begat Isaac; and Isaac begat Jacob; and Jacob begat Judas and his brethren… yes, I see.”

“And traditionally the clans have been allied in pairs, so the daughters of the first son marry the sons of the second son, and the third and fourth, and so on. All of which has left the sons of Donald – that’s Gog’s tribe – marrying the leftovers, because nobody knew what happened to Duncan – that’s my tribe.”

“That’s why they all want him to marry their sisters,” Sigefrith laughed. “Preferably several at a time, and hurry up about it, so they can finally have wives for their sons.”

“Why don’t you, Egelric?” Alred asked. “‘It is not good that the man should be alone,’” he said, mimicking Father Brandt’s Saxon accent.

“You’re feeling priestly today, Alred,” Sigefrith said admiringly.

“I’ve been helping Dunstan with his Latin.”

“And you started with the part where Adam knew his wife?”

“That’s where it all started,” Alred laughed. “But you should, Egelric. I don’t know how you live. I keep an eye on the babies of my maids to see if I can spot your nose, but I haven’t yet. It’s a mystery to me.”

“If you do find it, it will probably be Magog’s, remember?” Sigefrith said, punching his shoulder.

“It must breed true if The Lord My God has it too. Your father must have looked just like you, Egelric.”

“It was my mother the daughter of the Scot,” Egelric corrected. “My father was from these parts. I got my nose from my mother.”

Alred whistled. “Egelric, you never told me your father was blind!”

Alred took off running across the field as Egelric scrambled over the wall. “Give him your sword, Sigefrith!” he called, laughing. “My squire has challenged me to a duel!”