Gunnilda prepares her piece

Alwy ducked his head through the door and scuffed to a stop in the dirt. Gunnilda was ready for him.

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Gunnilda meets the so-called King

Gunnilda had failed to reckon how exhausted a brisk march up the hill slope would leave her, but it had been worth it: the “fine men” were still in the square.

The laughter of the blue one carried as far as a shout: clear and loud without the grating edge of a guffaw. Bertie laughed to hear it. Gunnilda grit her teeth. If they laughed because they had spied Alwy’s blond head bobbing up the hill, then their piece would be garnished with an extra ladle of sour Gunnilda sauce.

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