Only later was he able to slip in a question about the barrow. Wulfnoth frowned, and his plump, toothless wife hastily made a protective sign toward a rude wooden idol. “It is not good to speak of such things,” muttered the Jute. “I would the wizard had not been buried on my land. But he was close to my father, who died last year and would hear of naught else.”

“Wizard?” Whitcomb pricked up his ears. “What tale is this?”

‘Well, you may as well know,” grumbled Wulfnoth. “He was a stranger hight Stane, who appeared in Canterbury some six years ago. He must have been from far away, for he spoke not the English or British tongues, but King Hengist guested him and eftsoons he learned. He gave the king strange but goodly gifts, and was a crafty redesman, on whom the king came more and more to lean. None dared cross him, for he had a wand which threw thunderbolts and had been seen to cleave rocks and once, in battle with the Britons, burn men down. There are those who thought he was Woden, but that cannot be since he died.”

“Ah, so.” Everard felt a tingle of eagerness. “And what did he whilst yet he lived?”

“Oh…he gave the king wise redes, as I have said. It was his thought that we of Kent should cease thrusting back the Britons and calling in ever more of our kinsmen from the old country; rather, we should make peace with the natives. He thought that with our strength and their Roman learning, we could together shape a mighty realm. He may have been right, though I for one see little use in all these books and baths, to say naught of that weird cross-god they have…Well, anyhow, he was slain by unknowns three years ago, and buried here with sacrifices and such of his possessions as his foes had not reaved. We give him an offering twice a year, and I must say his ghost has not made trouble for us. But still am I somewhat uneasy about it.”

“Three years, eh?” breathed Whitcomb. “I see…”

It took a good hour to break away, and Wulfnoth insisted on sending a boy along to guide them to the river. Everard, who didn’t feel like walking that far, grinned and called down the hopper. As he and Whitcomb mounted it, he said gravely to the bulging-eyed lad: “Know that thou hast guested Woden and Thunor, who will hereafter guard thy folk from harm.” Then he jumped three years back in time.

“Now comes the rough part,” he said, peering out of the thicket at the nighted thorp. The mound was not there now, the wizard Stane was still alive. “It’s easy enough to put on a magic show for a kid, but we’ve got to extract this character from the middle of a big, tough town where he’s the king’s right-hand man. And he has a blast-ray.”

“Apparently we succeeded—or will succeed,” said Whitcomb.