Sihtric was slightly drunk. ‘The thegns and ealdormen wouldn’t have it, oh no, Tostig could murder their sons if he liked, but for him to come between them and their purses ...’

The crisis had come in October, just three months ago. Tostig had been in the south, hunting with Edward, when the thegns had occupied Jorvik, slaughtered Tostig’s officers and his housecarls, and sacked his treasury. And then they had called for a new earl: Morcar, brother of Edwin the Earl of Mercia, son of Siward the old rival of Godwine, a scion of the only great English family strong enough to challenge the sons of Godwine.

It had been a genuine crisis. King Edward had backed Tostig, who was his appointed earl. But Harold had ridden north, unarmed. And he recommended to the King that the demands of the rebels be met. Edward reluctantly backed down, Morcar was installed, and the crisis was passed.

But the cost for Harold was an irreparable breach with his brother. Tostig sailed off to exile in Flanders; rumour had it that he was plotting.

‘Harold, you see,’ said Sihtric, ‘sacrificed his brother for a greater good -he did it once before, with another troublesome sibling called Swein who seduced a nun - although he let Tostig live, and I believe that was a mistake. Harold is a great man who will put the interests of peace even before his family - a remarkable man.’

‘And,’ Orm said, ‘you who were Tostig’s man are now welcome in Harold’s court.’

‘In Normandy I heard Harold’s confession,’ Sihtric said piously, ‘for taking an oath he doubted he would ever be able to keep.’

Godgifu snorted. ‘You weren’t just there when Harold took the oath. You urged him to do it. Harold sees you as a witness to his sin, I think. Or perhaps even the demon who goaded him to it. That’s why he keeps you close.’

‘Providence shapes all our lives. If I were not close to Harold I would not be able to bring him the Menologium.’

‘The what?’ ‘His prophecy,’ Godgifu said dryly. ‘You remember. Comets and kings and dubious poetry.’

‘He still believes all this?’ Orm said.

‘Oh, yes,’ Godgifu said. ‘He’s even been writing to Moor scholars in Iberia to have them check his calculations of the dates.’

Sihtric said, ‘I have found an astronomer in Toledo, who has some philosophies about the comet.’

‘What comet?’

Sihtric’s face remained impassive. ‘The one that will appear in March, according to the Menologium. Or rather reappear.’

Everybody knew that comets, hairy stars, were bad omens. But as signs in the sky they were quite unpredictable; they came and went according to the whim of God. ‘If a comet appears in March, priest,’ Orm said, ‘I‘ll swallow my own sword whole.’

Sihtric glowered darkly. ‘Don‘t make promises you can’t keep, Viking.’