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know I would have taken care of your brother that way years ago if I thought I could do so safely.”
    “I don’t mean to kill him, Mother. Just make him too sick to fight. He will look a fool, whereas I , . .”
    “Ah,” said Guthfrid. Her brow smoothed out. “I see.”
    “You gave me something once before. He was sick for two days.”
    She smiled. “All right, my love. But you must be careful. Should anyone see you put it into his cup …”
    His brown eyes were cold and flat. “No one will see me.”
    “Oh, my darling …” and she put her hand on his golden head. “Please be careful. If ever I should lose you …”
    He took her other hand and pressed it to his lips. Then he stood up. “Never fear, Mother. I am far too clever to get myself killed.”
    She stared up at him, her own hair glimmering in the light from the lamp on her table. “Give the poison directly into my hands,” he said. “I will trust no one else with this. Tomorrow, just before we leave.”
    “All right,” she said, and watched with a mixture of pride and fear as he walked out the door of her room.

    This year’s war band was larger than last year’s. This year they knew they were going out to fight. The Atrebates had refortified one of Britain’s most ancient hill forts, called Beranbyrg by the Saxons and Barbury by the British, and if Cynric wanted to claim land in their territory, he was going to have to win it by force of arms.
    Three hundred thanes were lined up four abreast on the main road of Winchester the morning of April 22. It was a week after the Saxon spring feast of Eostre. Ceawlin and Sigurd, mounting their horses near the stables, exchanged grins of mutual delight and felt sorry for anyone who was not lucky enough to be riding out on this beautiful morning to his first battle.
    The two boys settled themselves into their saddles, received their weapons from the slave who was holding them, and began to walk their horses toward the mass of men in the courtyard. As he reached the line of thanes, Ceawlin saw his mother come out the door of the women’s hall. For a moment he hesitated. Then, with a word to Sigurd, he guided his bay stallion across the yard toward her. She came down the steps and stood beside him, her hand on his knee, her eyes searching his face as if to memorize it. He smiled down at her, his eyes very bright. “I will bring honor home to you, Mother,” he said.
    Fara smiled back and then was grave again. “I know you will, my son.” She dropped her hand and stepped back. As he turned his horse, he saw out of the side of his eyes the little British princess come out onto the steps of the women’s hall. He closed his fingers on the reins and looked at her directly.
    Her small face was perfectly expressionless but he could see even from the back of his horse that there were shadows under her eyes. It was her brother who was leading the Atrebates. For a brief moment his joy in the day was marred by a flash of pity; then he trotted forward to join his kinsmen, his hair shining brighter in the sun than the metal rings of his byrnie.

    They marched north along the old Roman road to Corinium. Ceawlin rode beside Sigurd and inhaled the fresh damp odor of growing things. He felt perfectly happy. Until his eye fell on the golden head of his brother, riding next to the king.
    Sigurd saw the direction of his gaze. “I’ll watch your back for you,” he murmured.
    Ceawlin shot him a look, then shrugged and made no answer. There was no answer he could make. They both knew Sigurd’s concern was not unwarranted.
    “Eager for glory, children?” Sigurd’s elder brother, Cuthwulf, pushed his horse between Sigurd and the prince. Cuthwulf had seen battle before, a fact which he never let them forget. He was a big, broad-shouldered man with truculent blue eyes. He was so unlike the suave Cutha that Ceawlin sometimes wondered about his paternity.
    Ceawlin said now, mildly, “We only hope to emulate your example,