The mass of the common folk toiled at their land as they had always done. But if Wessex fell it would be the end of England. And in a new Dane-land, determinedly pagan, thoroughly illiterate, Danish-speaking, the brilliant age of Bede would soon be but a dream.

The peace won by Alfred had been broken the previous year when the Danes, now under their petty king Guthrum, at last moved against Wessex. Storms wrecked their ships; weakened and cut off, Guthrum agreed another truce with Alfred, and withdrew. It was this truce which the Danes had treacherously broken, in their Twelve Days assault on Alfred’s estate at Cippanhamm.

And now, Arngrim learned, the news was worse yet. Since Cippanhamm many of the Wessex nobility, losing faith in English kings, had thrown in their lot with the Danes.

When they had gleaned all they could from the dispirited thegns, Amgrim, Ibn Zuhr and Cynewulf found logs to sit on. Cradling mugs of bark tea, bitter-tasting but warming, they huddled in cloaks that were damp with dew, for the short January day was already ending.

Arngrim grumbled, ‘The King skulks in his tent, attending his endless prayer services and having his meaningless thoughts copied down by his clerks. He isn’t doing anything.’

‘It’s said he muses on the ageing of the English race,’ Cynewulf said. Our centuries of vigour are done, and now we must be pushed aside, as once we pushed aside the Romans.’

Arngrim grunted. ‘If you asks me he spends too much time thinking about the Romans.’ Alfred‘s father Aethelwulf, deeply pious himself, had sent his youngest son to Rome, twice before his tenth birthday. Alfred was struck deeply by the ancient city, its fabric rotting after centuries of neglect and sackings. ‘I heard a rumour that he’s planning a pilgrimage to Rome. He wouldn’t be the first to escape that way.’

‘That,’ said Cynewulf, ‘would be a disaster.’

‘Well, if the King is in shock, it seems to me he must be drawn out of it. But how?’

Cynewulf said slowly, ‘I think I know a way.’

Arngrim said, ‘You mean your prophecy.’

‘Yes.‘ Seeing Arngrim’s sceptical expression, he said quickly, ‘Think about it, cousin. Aebbe has told me damnably little about this vision from the past. She always knew it was her sole bit of power. But what she did tell me was tantalising. “Even the dragon must lie/At the foot of the Cross.” What can that prophesy but the triumph of Christ over the pagans - and what Christian king can lead us but Alfred? For if he falls, there will be none to follow.’

Arngrim scowled. ‘How do you know this has anything to do with our century at all? Perhaps this verse speaks of the dead past, or the far future.’