The older man came closer and bent before her to pick up the torn cloak. Unafraid, polite, but far from humble, he handed it to her.

“I am Feronantus,” he introduced himself, “of the Skjaldbræður.” He used not their newer Christian name, but an older one, in the tongue of the Northmen: Shield-Brethren.

“I am Vaetha,” she said. “As you judged, I am a messenger.”

“‘One who sees,’” Feronantus translated. “From the Tocharian. Wordplay for ‘spy.’ Of course, you are lying about your name—we expect that. But Vaetha will serve until you trust me well enough to tell me who you really are.”

She tried to best his steady gaze but could not.

“Come,” said Feronantus. He turned his back on her and walked away. She followed him into the compound. The giant archer Rædwulf trailed after them both, clutching his precious arrow and smoothing the fletches as if it were a living thing in need of the master’s comforting touch.

The young blond watched with dumfounded amazement as she passed, then whirled on the others. They laughed at his astonishment.

The pell fighter leaned forward and stretched out a clutching hand toward the blond’s crotch. “She could have cut your balls off,” he chided. “No great loss!”

“Did you see her?” the boy asked sharply. He tagged along after Feronantus, his sidewise gait that of a whelp. “I’m called Haakon,” he said to her. “How do you say your name again?” Clearly he had never seen a dark woman before.

“Don’t bother,” Feronantus said. “She’ll be gone before you glean any truth from her. And remember your vows.”

The boy’s feckless astonishment disgusted Cnán. This Feronantus might be of the ancient school, but the others—the Saracen-looking fellow, the men still clutching their cups of country beer, the stick-swinging, rowdy youngsters, this rudely staring blond—appeared far more raggle-taggle than her mother’s tales of steel and glory had led her to expect. Clearly the warrior monks of Petraathen had fallen on hard times.