The royal hall was unimpressive. Like many of the new buildings of Lundenburh, overshadowed by mightier ruins, it was a simple framework of oaken posts, so new you could smell the drying mud of the walls. But, floored by reused Roman roof tiles and with a fire blazing in the big central hearth, it was warm and well-lit, and its walls were adorned with tapestries and bosses of silver and gold.

Alfred himself sat on a handsome giving-throne that looked as if it had been carved out of a single massive trunk. On his head was the crown he had worn in the field that day at Ethandune. He still had his taste for display; his tunic, a rich purple, looked like silk from Constantinople. Flanked by clerks, he was working his way through a mound of papers, signing, hastily amending lines here and there with a pen adorned by a handsome jewel. But Alfred’s skin was sallow, his tall frame was skeletal, and he habitually held a handkerchief to his mouth. Yet he laboured steadily. The years had been much harder on Alfred than on Cynewulf, who now felt ashamed of his own self-pity.

One of Alfred’s famous candle-clocks burned down on a table. It was a row of six candles, each marked with four lines to map the hours, and connected to the others by lengths of wick, so that the burning-down of one would light the next. Invented by the King himself, it was a way of keeping track of time without reference to the sun. In this as in all things Alfred liked order, control, and records.

At last Alfred shooed away his clerks, like chasing away geese. ‘It is good to see you, priest. I have my hearth-companions look out for veterans of those days at Aethelingaig and Ethandune.’

‘I’d hardly call myself a veteran—’

‘You did your part, Cynewulf. You and that enigmatic prophecy of yours. And you still have your reward?’

Cynewulf lifted up his arm so that his silver ring showed. Saberht gaped. He hadn’t known that this feeble old priest owned such a ring, a gift from a king.

‘I like to see those left alive,’ Alfred said, ‘so that I can refresh my memory of those who fell. Like your cousin Arngrim. His men gave him a ship burial, you know. On a tub we captured from the Danes.’

‘Yes. Arngrim lived and died a pagan, and there was nothing I or any priest could do about that.’

Alfred laughed, but it was a harsh sound that coarsened into a cough. ‘We were glad of it at the time. But it’s an irony that I see more of my old adversary Guthrum than I do of those who fought with me against him. We pray together, you know. We even sing psalms - though his singing voice makes Arngrim sound like the Arch Cantor.’

‘I’m glad the Danish king’s Christianity has stuck.’