‘I would happily debate genealogies with you all day, priest,’ Orm said, breathless, ‘but I have rather more pressing issues on my mind.’

‘He‘s right,’ said Godgifu practically. ‘Come, brother, we can discuss the Menologium later; for now let’s help him out.’

Godgifu and Sihtric cautiously worked their way around the bog. They found a fallen branch and laid it across the mud. The branch was heavy, its bark rotten and crusted with lichen, and they were both soon filthy. Orm managed to grab the branch, which at least stopped him sinking further into the mud. But he couldn’t pull himself out. They all kept trying, and Sihtric murmured a prayer in Latin.

‘It‘s not prayers he needs right now but muscle, good Sihtric.’ A tall, well-built man clad in expensive-looking mail came striding into the copse. Behind a glistening helmet inlaid with bronze, Orm glimpsed locks of greying red hair and a long moustache. He spoke English, and must have been about forty, but he was a slab of muscle who might have massed twice as much as the skinny priest.

Sihtric bowed. ‘Lord. We’ve done our best, but—’

‘I can see you have.’

‘His name is Orm Egilsson,’ Godgifu said.

‘Orm, is it? One of William’s paid warriors? I’ve seen men die like this before, once the mud gets in your mail, and your leather gets soaked - but not today. Eh, Orm Egilsson?’

He turned to his horse, which was being held by a boy, and took his shield. It was the Norman kind, the leaf shape with rounded top and pointed base that the craftsmen called half-lanceolate. The Englishman dropped the shield on the mud, and without hesitation strode out along it, showing impressive balance. Positioning his feet carefully, he leaned over and stripped off his glove. ‘Flesh on flesh is your best bet now.’

Orm threw his glove towards Godgifu and reached up. The Englishman warmly clasped Orm’s hand and pulled. Orm scrambled, kicking at the mud, but it was the Englishman whose sheer straining power won the day, and Orm came free all at once like a baby popping from between its mother’s legs.

The Englishman helped the Dane to stand and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘There. Next time watch where you’re riding.’ Before Orm could thank him he picked up his shield and strode back to his horse.

The priest said, ‘What a man. Sees a problem, solves it, moves on. Well, Orm Egilsson, you’ll have a story to tell when you get drunk tonight.’

Godgifu scraped the mud that clung to Orm’s mail. ‘Anything broken?’

‘Only my pride.’ He looked down at her as her gloved hands brushed across his chest. Their eyes met, her bright boyish gaze playful yet with hints of depth. The way she stroked his chest felt almost tender, despite the layers of cloth and metal that separated his flesh from hers.