A black cloud of smoke rose high in the air, filling the village of Banford with its acrid scent as tongues of flame licked hungrily at the hut’s thatched roof. It was engulfed like kindling, half-burned to the ground by the time a blaze flickered to life on a second one. Tightening his hold on his stallion’s reins to be ready should one of the Saxon warriors dare to attempt to fight him, Rolfe ignored the sharp ache in his shoulder from yesterday’s battle. He refused to show weakness before these people, especially when he had to make certain that his words were heard.

‘We found one of your neighbours among the Scots we battled yesterday. Durwin was there as a friend to them, giving information to our enemy, and he raised his axe to us in battle.’ Durwin had been a simple farm worker with no sword to his name. He’d had no cause to meet with the Scots. No cause save the wounded pride that many of the Saxons seemed to share when it came to the Danes. On his cue, his men cut Durwin’s blanket-wrapped body down from a horse and laid him respectfully on the ground.

Rolfe and his men had come directly from that confrontation to this village on Alvey lands where the traitor lived. Cnut, Rolfe’s man in charge of the Saxon village, had quickly led them to Durwin’s house. Thank the gods that it had been empty. Rolfe didn’t relish the task of making women and children homeless.

‘But what of his brother Osric?’ An old woman’s voice rose from the people who had come from their homes to watch. They all stood huddled together, a few with blankets over their shoulders to guard against the snow that had started to fall. The flakes hissed when they touched the flames that engulfed the second hut. ‘Was he there, too?’

Cnut stepped forward. ‘They’ve been suspected of fraternising with the Scots for months. Osric hasn’t been seen in days. Can anyone vouch for his whereabouts?’

Of course no one could. Rolfe knew in his gut that Osric was fraternising with the Scots. Everyone in the village knew it, but no one would give up that information. It was why Rolfe had given the order to burn both of their houses. It was the only way to send the harsh but necessary message that traitors would not be tolerated.

‘You are people of Alvey.’ It was a simple fact that should need no reminder. ‘You were born here and your loyalty should lie with your lord and lady.’

A few in the crowd nodded along with his words, but many only stared at him. Pockets of rebellion had broken out since his Jarl, Vidar, had married their Saxon lady, Gwendolyn. Rolfe was hopeful that the melding of their people would continue, but it was inevitable to face some resistance. Their only choice was to catch it early. It was particularly disconcerting in this case because the village of Banford was the closest to the Scots who lived just north of their border. A rebellion here could have devastating consequences should they join with the Scottish army, which was why it was particularly important that he squash any seeds of uprising now. ‘Lord Vidar and Lady Gwendolyn will not tolerate traitors. Anyone known to be giving information to the Scots will have their belongings seized and risk execution.’

A grumble of unease ran through the gathered crowd, prompting his dog, who had been lying beside the horse, to get to his feet, his ears forward. ‘Easy, Wyborn.’ Rolfe kept his voice low and the mongrel settled while still keeping alert to the possibility of danger.

‘Consider that we Danes have not butchered your people. We have not taken your land from you. Will the Scots, who have haunted you for generations, be so fair? Will the Scots allow your women to choose their own mates? Will the Scots extend silver to the families who marry their warriors?’

He paused to look over their faces, hoping that his words rang true for them. The people murmured, but not one of them stepped forward or offered comment. This brooding rebellion was merely misplaced pride. If sense prevailed, they would come to understand that. For real peace to be fostered and to thrive, they would have to accept that the Danes were here to stay.

‘Your lord and lady have offered you all of these things. We have come to live in peace and to unite our people. The Scots will not offer you that. They will befriend you, only to enslave you.’

Rolfe gave a final nod and swung his horse around to walk to the edge of the village. Cnut and Wyborn walked beside him. ‘Are any other men missing besides Osric?’

‘None from the village.’ Cnut nodded in the direction of the fields and the farmhouse set with several outbuildings on the outskirts of the village. ‘I couldn’t say about the farm. Since I’ve been here Godric keeps most of his people to himself, but I will question him.’

The wheat field was fallow now with the arrival of winter and, though most of the trees were bare, a hill hindered a clear view of the house. Godric was known to dislike the Danes, but so far had done nothing that would cross the line to outright treason. However, Rolfe had been gone from Alvey all summer—first visiting Jarl Eirik to the south and then Haken up north where he’d come across Durwin meeting with the Scots—and things might have changed. He’d need to speak with Vidar before doing anything in that quarter.

‘Thank you, Cnut. Send word if Osric returns or you have more information.’

‘Aye, immediately.’

Rolfe set his heels to his horse and led the way from the village, some of his men falling in line behind him. The rest of his army had been left to return home in the longships, while he detoured to Banford. Wyborn ran out front as if he sensed they were going home. The wound from the spear Rolfe had taken to his shoulder the day before ached with every jolt of the horse. It would take over a day of hard riding to make it home to Alvey. He’d been gone for months and was ready to be home. He only hoped this show of treachery wasn’t a sign of things to come.