‘Perhaps she has a little Danish in her,’ Sihtric said obscenely. ‘You Northmen always did enjoy a bit of the old in-and-out as you rampaged across England, didn’t you?’

‘Sihtric—‘

He ploughed on, ‘Don‘t you think it’s strange to find us all here like this, a mix of mongrel races? Earl Harold himself is half English, half Danish - and we English are really Germans - and the Normans are Northmen too, or were a hundred years ago when they stole this bit of land from the Frankish king. Even the Bretons we chased across the countryside are, it is said, descended from Britons who fled here to escape from my own Saxon forefathers, though I find that hard to believe ...’

Orm glanced at Godgifu. ‘What’s he talking about?’

She rolled her unreasonably pretty eyes. ‘History,‘ she said. ‘Always history.’

‘Priest, in Brittany - by the bog - you told me you had been looking for me. Why?’

Godgifu said, ‘Tell him about the Menologium. I can see you’re longing to.’

‘The Menologium?’

‘A prophecy,’ Sihtric whispered. ‘Possibly heretical. Two centuries ago it came into the possession of Alfred - our greatest king, you might have heard of him. It was already old then, and proven - and the years since have shown it to be no less truthful.’

‘It‘s a family legend,’ Godgifu explained to Orm. ‘A story. One of our family, a priest called Cynewulf, was at Alfred‘s side in those days. Since then the sons of Alfred, the kings, have forgotten about the Menologium. But not us - not Sihtric, and our father, and a chain of grandfathers before him, going back to the cousins of Cynewulf.’

‘So what’s it got to do with me?’

Sihtric replied, ‘Your forefather was involved too.’

He told Orm the story of Egil, who had raided Alfred’s hall at Cippanhamm, and then fought the English at Ethandune. Orm knew the story, of course - or at least his family’s flattering version of it. Egil had spawned many offspring, among them a long line of Egils, one of whom, six generations later, had been Orm’s father, and the seventh Orm’s own elder brother, also called Egil.

‘Most Danes are no more literate than the Normans,’ Sihtric said dismissively. ‘But your family sagas preserve the memories of your ancestors. And if you are a soldier of fortune it does no harm to be bragging about the deeds of your forefathers, does it? Especially if one of them took on King Alfred himself. So it wasn’t hard to track you down, Orm son of Egil son of Egil.’

‘I still don’t know what you want,’ Orm said.