Cynewulf had his cousin laid out in a tent, on a heap of blankets. He immediately found the main wound. It was a rip in Arngrim’s lower belly, made by a blow powerful enough to have cut through his mail. Though one of the King’s own physicians fussed around, Cynewulf chased him away. He would have nobody tend his cousin save Ibn Zuhr. Though he had always despised the Moor Cynewulf had no doubt that his foreign medicine was better than anything the King’s doctors could muster.

But Ibn Zuhr said there was little he could do. ‘The wound is too deep,’ he murmured. ‘His intestines are gashed too - there will be internal bleeding, infection from the spilled contents of his gut—‘

Cynewulf, sickened, said, ‘Just do your best, Moor.’

So Ibn Zuhr cleaned his hands in hot water, and made a potion of his obscure herbs, a kind of tea which he had Cynewulf hold under the thegn’s nose. This would deepen his unconscious state, the Moor said, while he worked. Then he cleaned out the wound. This was a rough job, as Ibn Zuhr scooped out dirt and dried blood and yellow fat and pus from the cavity, as if gutting a pig. Then he pulled the thegn’s organs back into place. He had Cynewulf hold the two ragged sides of the wound together - it was difficult, the flesh was slippery with blood, and the priest needed all his strength - while Ibn Zuhr stitched the wound with a bone needle and gut thread. When it was done he washed the wound with wine, and covered it with a light silken cloth.

The Moor stood back, breathing hard, his arms bloodied to the elbow. ‘I have done my best,’ he said.

‘I believe you,’ murmured Cynewulf.

‘I don’t.’ The voice was a gurgle, as if his throat was full of blood. But Arngrim’s eyes were open.

‘Cousin! You are alive!’

‘The gates of the Upperworld are closed to me yet.’

‘Does it hurt?’

Arngrim grimaced, as if trying to laugh. ‘For a priest you are an idiot, Cynewulf. I half-woke while the Moor was rummaging in my gut. Imagine how that felt. Worse than the Dane’s blade.’

‘I’m not ready to give you the last rites yet.’

‘My sword. And my trophy.’

‘Ironsides is here, at the foot of the bed. And the King nailed the Beast’s arm to the oak tree.’

Arngrim snorted. ‘That will do. Egil lived, I think. But by Woden’s eyes I hope the bastard dies of the wound I inflicted on him today. Listen, Cynewulf. When I die - my sword - I promised it to the river—’

‘Arngrim, I’m a priest of Christ. I can’t perform a pagan ritual.’