''I will show you the way.'' spoke then the watchman.
Son of Régn, and Breca's bastard son named Hondscioh, loaded with their weaponry — shield, sword and spear, rode slowly across the even ground, led by Thorkel, the watchman of Harwick with his horse.
As they drew nigh to Harwick, moss-ridden rock would rise on either side, boulders and irregular ridges suggesting menacing shapes.
As the young watchman and the exiled two came up over a rise, and into sight of the Eorling village, Thorkel rode up ahead to a guard at the break in the rocks, who after a moment waved them in.
The two continued forward, scanning villagers clustered around a couple of funeral pyres. The villagers stared back — listless, forlorn, dead-eyed at them.
''By Béma... they've got the spark of cows.'' Hondscioh whispered at Régnwald.
The road up to Harding's hall was of soil, stamping feet made it sing out as the two marched along. The linked rings of their mail-coats jingled and their shields and helmets shone as bright as the sun.
''How bout that one.''
Régnwald followed his comrade's gaze to a woman, coming from the opposite direction, carrying her baskets. She was a jolt of vigor and beauty, especially set against the dregs through which she moved.
He found her studying him with interest; Régnwald edged up to Thorkel.
''Who's the one with the baskets?''
''Selwyn...'' sighed the long bearded Eorling ''Once the hall's bedwarmer. Though the happy would keep a horse-length from her.''
''Happiness isn't everything.'' then said Hondscioh lasciviously, pursing his lips as he marched along.
''Well, she had stabbed her last guest, some earl...'' the old man tried to remember the name, scanning the ground ''Earl Ingeld was his name.''
''How is she still here then?'' asked Régnwald, in some curiosity.
''Well, as far as I remember, she had a reason. And also, she paid the wergild.'' 'twas replied.
As he marched along in his byrnie, Régnwald found his mind in questions coming as arrows. 'Women?' - 'There was Elga, yes.' - 'In Middlemead.' - 'And Céolswíð?' - 'A friend?' - 'No,' - 'Yes?' 'Were they alright?' - 'Was she here?' - 'In the Mead-hall?' - 'Would she?' he felt the beating of his heart deep beneath the firmly-weaved war-nets, a sense mayhap in desperate longing, though in what meaning? Alas none of them would dare or wish to spare more words, so the light conversation was sunk, and they continued on, till they were ordered to halt before the great hall of Harwick and the Wold.
