Ostri paused, the tip of Death Giver balancing on the mouth of its scabbard. It was not a Saxon name. He scanned her briefly from head to toe, absorbing all he could about her from sight alone. She wore the simple garb of a thrall, a slave. No adornments hung from her clothes, no valuables to give her status; she had no Seax or belt, no shoes. A frown pressed down on his brow as he suspected she might also be a Danish woman, perhaps sent in as an innocent decoy, to spy. Did they think the Saxons stupid? Did they not consider they had the wisdom to see through their plot? Ostri would as easily kill a woman as a man, if that woman had come as an act of war. As he made a quick examination of the forest, checking for Danes hiding in the undergrowth, he wondered, ‘where has she come from?’
