Instead of finding friends on his visit to the thegn’s hall, on the contrary, Deormund discovered an enemy. With no sign of Wardric or Milgast, he spent time gazing around in search of Cyneflaed. When he chanced to sight her, their eyes met and she gave him a pretty smile but hurried away, concerned to fulfil her duties. The exchange of glances had not gone unnoticed.
A burly fellow, taller than Deormund, approached the deer herder.
“Oi, you!” he said roughly, his voice conditioned by a defect, a cleft palate that deformed the unfortunate man’s upper lip and ran up to his nostrils. The blemish, tainting him since birth, would not alone have made him exceedingly ugly. That was achieved by his aggressive expression as he uttered, “I want a word with you!”
At first, Deormund thought there
