Godgifu said, ‘Oh, don’t be so pompous, Sihtric. He has a rival, you know.’

‘A rival?’

‘There is another sibyl hanging around Edward’s court. A monk called Aethelmaer.’

Sihtric said, ‘A buffoon who dreams of marvellous machines—’

‘And who speaks of comets,’ Godgifu reminded him. ‘In laughing at him the thegns are learning to laugh at you too, brother.’

Sihtric snorted. ‘I’ll deal with Aethelmaer. Of course the challenge is interpreting the Menologium. I told you it couldn’t be a coincidence that you are involved, Orm, a descendant of Egil. Now I think I have worked out how you can help me interpret the Menologium, and to persuade Harold to accept its advice.’

Orm frowned. ‘You’re going too fast, priest. Perhaps you should show me this prophecy of yours.’

Sihtric raised his eyebrows. ‘Can you read?’

‘I find it helps when some wily cleric in the pay of an illiterate Norman count puts parchments in front of me to sign.’

The priest had a small leather bag under the table. ‘I have a copy of it here ...’ He drew out a parchment and unrolled it on the sticky tabletop. Orm saw the stanzas of the Menologium, neatly transcribed, but tangled in a thicket of notes and arrows, all in a crabbed hand that Orm presumed was the priest’s. ‘I told you it remains cryptic,’ Sihtric sighed. ‘Even after a lifetime’s study. But look here ...’ He read the ninth stanza aloud.

The Comet comes/in the month of March.
End brother’s life at brother’s hand./A fighting man takes
Noble elf-wise crown./Brother embraces brother.
The north comes from south/To spill blood on the wall ...

‘A bit of nice symmetry about those lines, don’t you think?’

‘I’m no skald,’ Orm growled. ‘So a brother slays a brother. Why do you think it refers to Harold?’

‘Who else? What fraternal rivalry matters in England save the feud between Harold and his fuming, exiled brother?’

‘And what about the rest of it? What’s all this about fighting men and elves?’

‘That doesn’t concern you,’ Sihtric said dismissively.

‘The truth is he doesn’t understand that bit himself,’ Godgifu said.

Suddenly all this talk of prophecies and politics was too much for Orm. He regretted coming. He longed to be free of this place, this cramped city, free of this grasping, manipulative priest with his entangling words - free to be with Godgifu. ‘Just tell me what you want from me.’

‘It comes here.’ Sihtric pulled his parchment across the table. ‘The seventh stanza. I need to understand these words.’

Orm glanced at the stanza: ‘The dragon flies west./Know a Great Year dies/Know a new world born.’

‘I believe this stanza hints at the ultimate prize,’ Sihtric said, his face flushed. ‘That in our grasp is not just England, but a new world.’

Orm looked at Sihtric. ‘What new world?’

The priest smiled. ‘Vinland.’