During that first night, as they all huddled in heaps of blankets around the dying fire, it become apparent that Leofgar’s relationship with Gytha was more than just commerce. Arngrim laughed in the dark, and offered his friend encouragement. ‘Keep it up, Leofgar, your pipe will be pumping any moment.’

Leofgar’s noisy ploughing made it impossible for Cynewulf to sleep. What made it worse yet was that the sounds and smells of their earthy passion worked their way into Cynewulf’s head, and he grew an erection so hard it seemed to suck the very essence out of his soul. At last he reached under his blanket and, whispering prayers for forgiveness, relieved himself with a couple of brisk motions. It was an act that brought no pleasure, only shame, and in the morning he felt sure the others knew what he had done - especially Arngrim, who grinned at him as if they shared a joke.

He felt the painful shame of those moments in the dark even more later that day, when Leofgar brought home Aebbe.

She stood in Gytha’s house - she refused to sit. She wore a grimy tunic that had been torn and crudely repaired. Her feet were bare, there were bruises on her arms and bare thighs, her hair was a mat of filth, and one cheek was puffed up and bloody.

‘She wasn’t hard to track down,’ said the blunt trader. ‘Guthrum‘s boys are the only Danes still fighting, and his hoard of slaves and booty made quite a splash when it reached town.’

Leofgar said that Aebbe had been sold in a batch of a dozen girls from Cippanhamm to a dealer who planned to ship them overseas. Fair English girls sold well in the east. Aebbe, though, was ‘too damaged’ to fetch much of a price. This phrase made Cynewulf shudder. It seemed the dealer had bought her without a close inspection; feeling cheated, he had taken out his rage on the girl. Then he sold her anyhow. She was strong, stocky, and a farmer took her at a knock-down price to work as a labourer. And it was from the farmer that Leofgar had been able to buy her back, though at a premium.

Leofgar winced. ‘Everybody made a profit on this girl except me, it seems.’

Cynewulf approached the girl, full of shame. He had betrayed her; after all he had brought her to the King’s hall where he had promised she would be safe. But he must speak to her. ‘Aebbe. It is me, Cynewulf. Do you remember me?’

‘I have lost much, priest, but not my mind,’ she said dully.

‘And you remember the Menologium—’

‘I haven’t lost my memory either.’ She looked up, defiant.