Despite Hereward’s warning, I had naively thought it could not be so bad. Surely Uhtric would not be slain by an infected scratch. But as we walked slowly towards the shadowed far end of the hall and the stink of corrupted flesh grew stronger, I made the sign of the cross again and offered up a silent prayer for the lord of Bebbanburg.

“He is dying?” I hissed, my voice louder in the gloom than I had anticipated.

“Hush,” growled Hereward.

Runolf, Gwawrddur and Drosten were silent.

“Of course I am dying,” came a rasping voice from the shadows. From the flickering tongues of the candles’ flame, I made out Uhtric, skin sallow and sweat-sheened, propped up in a bed that had been placed where the high table had stood on my last visit. Beside him sat a woman. Her eyes glistened, the candlelight limning her austere beauty. Despite the dancing shadows and dim illumination, there was no hiding the pain and exhaustion on her slender face.

Uhtric shook his head. “You never could keep your thoughts to yourself.” He began to chuckle, but the laughter quickly became a cough. The woman leaned forward, clutching his hand and patting him gently on the back. She whispered soothing words I could not hear.

When the coughing subsided, Uhtric met my gaze. His eyes were bright, liquid and febrile. “You’re a clever one, Hunlaf. I don’t suppose you have brought me a cure for what ails me.”

My throat was dry. I swallowed, but could find no words. Slowly, I shook my head.

Uhtric snorted, as if amused by my reaction.

“Leave us now, my dear,” he said to the woman.

“You must not tire yourself,” she said.

“I can think of nothing better to do with my time,” he said, an edge of sarcasm in his tone. “It is not as if I have anywhere else to go. Not until the Almighty deems it to be my time.”

Abruptly, the lady stood. Her body was rigid, her anger apparent as she looked at us.

“My husband needs his rest. Do not tarry.”

Uhtric reached for her hand. She allowed him to grasp it for a second, and then she pulled away and strode from the hall.

As her footsteps retreated, Uhtric surveyed us all. He offered a curt nod to Runolf, and sized up Gwawrddur with a glance. Spying Drosten, with his blue-painted cheeks and oiled plaited hair, Uhtric frowned.

“What’s this? You bring my enemy to see me laid low? Is this how you fulfil your oath to me, Runolf? By bringing a Pict to gloat over me as I waste away?”

“I am not your enemy, Lord Uhtric,” said Drosten, his thickly accented voice low and respectful.

“Both Gwawrddur and Drosten, here, fought with us at Werceworthe,” said Hereward. “They are brave men. They risked everything to protect the minster.”