“We don’t even know where he is. He could be anywhere in Pictland fighting Causantín. Hereward left weeks ago and we have heard nothing since.”

“I know where he is,” Drosten said in his gravelly burr. He stretched, pushing his meaty hands into the small of his back with a grunt.

Runolf and I both turned to look at the Pict. Drosten rarely spoke and it was easy to forget that he was listening to everything. He was quiet, but sharper than most men I have known. His speed of thought and muscular physique made him a formidable warrior.

“You do?” Runolf asked.

“Aye. Lord Uhtric. Hereward too.”

“How?” I enquired. I wondered if he was jesting with us. I waited for him to begin laughing at our expense. But Drosten was seldom jovial and it seemed this was no jest.

“I spoke last night with Onuis.”

It took me a moment to place the name.

“The pedlar who visited yesterday?”

“The same.”

A wizened man had arrived just as the sun fell the day before. He had called for the ferry, and Copel had grumbled at having to leave his cup of mead. The pedlar looked as old as the hills, his legs as spindly as rush lights and his back bent. A burly brute with a neck as thick as a bull’s had silently pushed a laden handcart behind the old man.

“He seemed a grumpy sort,” I said. I had asked the old man after his health, and he had snarled at me like a dog. His massive servant had glowered beneath his heavy brows, and I had looked away. Travellers were usually a source of tidings. They were welcomed with hospitality, but this pair had appeared churlish and rude. They had been gone when I rose the following morning.

“Oh, Onuis is not a bad man,” said Drosten. “He travels far that one. He doesn’t like strangers though.”

I thought it an unusual choice to travel widely selling your wares out of a cart for one who did not like to meet people, but I held my tongue.

“But you are no stranger to him?” I asked.

“No, no. Quite so. I have known him since I was a lad.” This was a surprise to me and Drosten smiled at my expression, which unnerved me somewhat. His tattoos always gave him a monstrous aspect, and when he grinned, the impression was heightened. “We enjoyed a few cups of mead last night. He told me much of what goes on north of here. He spoke of the land of my people and how they fare against the Northumbrians. And he told me of Hereward and the lord of Bebbanburg.”

“So where are they?” growled Runolf, clearly as frustrated with Drosten’s rambling as I was.

“Oh,” replied Drosten, raising an eyebrow at Runolf’s terse tone. “They are at Bebbanburg.”

“Uhtric has returned?” I asked.