They had to crowd out of the way of the bustling slaves and servants setting up the feast. They all seemed tense. Evidently working for the Butcher was not a healthy occupation.

‘Belisarius. This is my father.’

‘You’re the east Roman. My daughter has told me about you. I’m honoured to meet you.’ Bertgils was a stocky man, clean-shaven save for the usual vast moustache, and his heavy blond hair hung loose. He wore a sword at his waist, and under a leather jacket a pendant of amber glinted. He might have been forty. Belisarius saw something of his daughter’s frank intelligence in his eyes.

‘The honour is mine.’ Belisarius bowed in his turn and handed Bertgils his gift for the King. Bertgils glanced at the book dubiously, and handed it to a servant. Bertgils led Belisarius into the hall; the others followed. ‘I’d be fascinated to hear you tell of your country. The King, too, has shown an interest - hence your invitation to join the feast.’

Belisarius nodded. ‘But I’m here to give your King a warning.’

Bertgils said, ‘Aelfflaed told me about that too.’

‘If there’s a sand-grain of truth in it, you need to be prepared.’

‘All right. But I’ll be frank with you. The King is made of stem stuff - he has had to be just to survive his own succession. He has no patience with prophets and auguries.’

‘At least we can try,’ Belisarius said.

‘I owe my daughter that much. And in the meantime there is the feast.’

‘Yes, the feast!’ The voice boomed like thunder, and what felt like a side of ham slammed into Belisarius’s shoulder.

Bertgils bowed. ‘My lord.’

The Butcher was tall even among these tall Germans, and his chest was as wide as a barrel. Under a leather coat he wore a jacket of chain-mail, even here in his own hall. A monstrous silver cross hung by a gold chain around his neck, and each of his stubby fingers was adorned by a gleaming ring. He wore a vast moustache like the rest, and his hair was pulled into a knot on top of his head, exposing a neck that was dyed bright red from chin to chest, giving him the look of a huge predatory bird. His breath stank of spoiled meat. Belisarius tried not to recoil.

At the Butcher’s side was a demure woman, much younger than he was - no older than Aelfric in fact, if that. She was expensively dressed too, and bizarrely she wore a sieve of silver on a chain around her neck.

Aethelred snapped, ‘So you’re the east Roman.’ The King spoke a coarse Latin, to Belisarius’s surprise.

‘I’m honoured to meet you.’

Bertgils showed the King Belisarius’s gift; Aethelred thumbed the precious pages casually, leaving grimy marks, as Belisarius tried to explain its provenance.