They huddled together for warmth, shifting, nudging each other, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard ground.

Cynewulf felt the warm mass of Aebbe behind him, her belly pressed against his back, her bent knees against his thighs, the whisper of her breath on his neck. Suspicious of all men, she stayed closer to the priest than to Arngrim or Ibn Zuhr, as if she distrusted him the least. Once such a presence would have filled him with helplessly sinful thoughts. But the harm that had been done to her by other men seemed to have scoured the last of his youthful lust from his body. Perhaps it made him a better priest, he thought, if, he felt wistfully, less of a man.

Her breath soon settled into the gentle rhythms of sleep. Since they had set off from Jorvik she had spoken not a single word.

It was a murky noon, two days later, when they returned to the boggy ground to which Alfred had fled, on that dismal night after the Twelve Days assault.

Before they found Aethelingaig, others found them. A party of a dozen men came riding over the broken ground, the legs of their horses heavy with mud. They had their cloaks thrown back, so their swords and axes were exposed.

Arngrim had his party dismount. ‘Stand apart. Drop your cloaks to the ground. Keep your hands empty.’

Cynewulf’s heart thumped as he complied. ‘Are they Danes?’

‘West Saxons. I think I recognise the lead man. That’s not to say they won’t run us through if we give them cause.’

The leader, a burly young fellow with a thick black beard, drew his sword and pointed it at Arngrim’s chest. He called out, speaking in Danish, ‘Who are you? What is your business here?’

Arngrim answered in his own tongue, ‘I am English. So are my companions, save the Moor, who is my slave. I am Arngrim, son of Arngrim, thegn to Alfred. I think I know you.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘My name is Ordgar.’

‘Yes. You are Aethelnoth’s man.’ He glanced back at the priest. ‘Aethelnoth is the ealdorman of the shire. If he is still supporting the King, it is good news.’

Ordgar kept his blade pointing square at Arngrim’s chest. ‘Why do you come to this place?’

‘We seek the King. The Danes took this woman.’ He indicated Aebbe. ‘We have brought her back.’

Ordgar frowned, suspicious again. ‘Why?’

Arngrim hesitated. ‘It may be best if you hear it from the King. We were with Alfred in his hall, during the Twelve Nights. We were there when the Danes raided. I myself stood before their leader—’

‘Egil. I remember you.’ Ordgar lowered his sword, and Cynewulf let out a breath. ‘Men still talk of you that night, Arngrim son of Arngrim. You stood your ground.’