During the journey Ibn Zuhr asked more questions about the prophecy. Though Cynewulf didn’t have a copy of the Menologium itself he did have fragments of analysis of it, much of it by a long-dead monk called Boniface, whose commentary had been rescued from the ruined library of Lindisfarena. Ibn Zuhr read all this avidly, but if he came to any conclusions he kept them to himself.

They came to the town of Snotingaham, at the heart of Mercia. The great Offa’s kingdom was now ruled by a Danish puppet-king, much of it colonised by Northmen and their families. Snotingaham itself was under the thumb of the Danes, but the English went about their lives mostly unperturbed.

Here, Amgrim sought out a friend of his called Leofgar.

Leofgar was a burly, jovial, prosperous-looking man with a livid scar painted across his face. His hair was a woolly mass as black as night; Cynewulf wondered if he dyed it.

Leofgar clapped an arm around Arngrim. ‘We’re old buddies,’ he said to Cynewulf. ‘We fought together against the Danes a decade ago, when they took Snotingaham and holed up in it, and the West Saxons came to help us out.’ He touched the scar on his face. ‘We couldn’t get rid of the Danes back then, but I took away a trophy, as you can see - that and the life of the Danish brute who gave it to me.’

Since his fighting days Leofgar had become a weapons dealer. And from the look of his fine cloak and jewellery, a decade of war with the Force hadn’t done business any harm. Cynewulf wondered cynically if he had any qualms about selling weapons to both sides.

Arngrim said this formidable man was to be their guide for the rest of the journey through Northumbria to Eoforwic. They needed him, for as everybody knew the Northumbrians were a rough lot, and had been even before the Danes came and killed their kings.

They were treated to a heavy night of eating and drinking at Leofgar’s home. Then they woke before dawn as usual. With banging heads and growling stomachs, led by Leofgar, they resumed their long journey, progressing into the bleak, hilly country of Northumbria.

The Northumbrians’ uncouth accent was all but incomprehensible to Cynewulf. They were a sour bunch who resented their British neighbours to the north, and the English kingdoms to the south, and their new Danish overlords in Eoforwic. They didn’t even much like each other, and given half a chance they would be at each other’s throats pursuing ancient grievances once again. And they drank prodigiously. In their cups they would sing long mournful songs about the great days of Kings Edwin or Oswald or Oswiu, before they fell to puking, fighting, humping, or all three.

‘And that’s just the monks,’ as Arngrim said dryly.