“Empty words!” Eldred spat in his face.
A sigh of self-congratulation breathed through the growing crowd surrounding the captives.
He remembered another age when he had been warned that powerful men might come after him. He and Guthlaf had been young then, when they were running from their slavery in Paris; the gods might not be so indulgent this time. But he could not share this unease with his men.
“What shall we do with this scum, Guthlaf?” Eldred beamed.
There was no answer.
“Eh, Guthlaf?” he called again. Everyone looked round.
There was a moan in the darkness behind him. “He’s here,” a man called. “He’s been killed.”
Eldred ran to the spot where his old friend lay. Someone lowered a torch beside the body. Guthlaf lay in the ditch; there was a gaping wound in his chest. The First Man had taken his friend as well as his wife in payment.
“Close his eyes,” he whispered urgently.
His constant, dear old friend had taken with him a secret learned of Oswith. No man knew it now.
“What shall we do with the prisoners, Eldred?” asked one of the men.
“We bury them in the morning,” he growled. “Alive.”
The crowd began to disperse; as an afterthought, Eldred stood on a bench to speak again.
“And in the morning, we shall all go to the First Man’s grave to give him thanks for his protection this night. And from this time forth, he shall be known as The Guardian. His spirit lives still among us; he is but resting, and is ready to come to our aid when we need him. He must never be forgotten.”
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Forgotten Prophecies Page 3
