CHAPTER 39Storming furiously into Hereward’s cell, I found him with his head-bandage rakishly askew, pacing again, round and round the tiny chamber. It now looked barer than ever, for his few belongings — clothes and weapons — had gone.
In the two weeks we had been at Crowland, learning to mourn the dead of Ely and to hope for those who were alive, at least when last seen, Hereward had hardly noticed me. The children and I shared the guest quarters with Aediva and Lucy, but Hereward had chosen a cell rather than the infirmary, and I knew why: he could grieve and endure and recover away from eyes that might see too much, before which he might otherwise have lost face and, therefore, power over his remaining men.
For what? I wondered bleakly. The old life was dead, as dead as Tostig and Th
