“Get a good night’s sleep,” Hereward said, looking at each of us in turn in the warm glow of the fire, “for this rain does not look set to halt any time soon and we have far to travel on the morrow.” Outside, the rain continued to fall without pause. Every so often, a gust of wind shook the building, rattling flakes of soot from the beams and forcing water under the eaves, to drip down the northernmost wall that was most exposed to the prevailing wind. We had been provided lodging in a small hall within the royal enclosure and, having secured the king’s agreement to the plan, we were anxious to head back to Werceworthe. We had sent for Drosten and Gwawrddur, and they had arrived not long before, wet and bedraggled from hurrying through the rain-sodden streets of Eoforwic, but flushed and exuberant from having spent a large portion of the day drinking ale.

The two men shook out their cloaks, draping them over a bench to dry, and stretched out their feet to the fire. The stink of the street wafted from the drying filth that caked their shoes and spattered their leg wraps.

“We will have time for sleep later,” said Runolf. “First we drink!”

Drosten belched and laughed.

“And eat,” he said.

“Yes,” Runolf said, “we need meat and ale. Or maybe fine mead. We must celebrate our victory.” He turned to me with a grin. “Can your silvered tongue get us what we desire?”

I smiled. Then, when I realised he was serious, I stood up with a resigned sigh. I had been pleased that my words had persuaded the king, but it seemed there was a price to pay that came from being chosen as the speaker of the group.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, “but you’ll regret it in the morning.”

“The only thing I will regret is having wasted the day waiting for the king to see us when I could have been drinking with Gwawrddur and Drosten.” Runolf chuckled. “I have much drinking to do to catch up. But it is a challenge I accept!”

“It is no race,” said Gwawrddur.

“That is good,” replied Runolf, his grin broadening. “For if it was, you would lose, and we all know how you hate losing.”

I left them to their banter and moved to the door of the hall, grabbing my drying cloak from where it hung near the fire. I planned to go in search of a servant or thrall who could bring us provender and drink, but before I could pull on the door, it swung open. Cool air and splatters of rain buffeted me. Surprised, I stepped back, my hand dropping instinctively to the seax I wore on my belt.

There, in the torrential rain, stood Lord Mancas. Behind him, were three hooded figures.