‘Your people came raiding once, across the ocean,’ Belisarius said evenly. ‘The Romans did before you.’

‘But that was centuries ago. Everything is different now. Look around you. Northumbria is strong - no fool would come here. And besides we would have the support of Mercia. No, Belisarius, this is an interesting speculation but there is nothing in it.’

The Butcher spoke, and the hall fell quiet. ‘I can’t hear you singing, Father Pretty-face!’

Boniface stood uncertainly, his tumour livid in the lamp light. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know your songs, King.’

‘Then let’s hear one of yours.’

Boniface flinched, but all eyes turned to him. ‘Very well. This is a hymn of midsummer, composed by Dom Caedmon of—’

‘Get on with it!’ shouted a thegn, and a chicken bone came whirling out of the air.

Boniface flinched, but he began to sing. His clear voice, smoothed by a lifetime of chanting, delivered a simple, sweet, lilting song in German, of the month of June, in which John the Baptist was born, and the apostles Peter and Paul had suffered martyrdom.

The catcalls began after only a few lines. And as the bones and lumps of bread began to fly, Belisarius got to his feet and put his arm around the frail monk, sheltering him from the greasy storm. ‘Get him out of here,’ he murmured to Aelfric.

Aelfric led the bewildered Boniface away.

The Butcher was angry and mocking. ‘Where’s my little monk? I want to hear him sing!’

‘Perhaps, my lord,’ Belisarius said smoothly, ‘you would prefer to hear a song from my own country.’ And, without waiting for agreement, he launched into a gloomy old lament of a refugee from Rome, on the eve of its terrible sacking by Alaric the Goth. “‘Great were the cries of the maidens of Rome ... Even the statues of the forum shed marble tears ...”’ He did his best to translate the lyrics into German; the scansion was terrible, but he doubted this audience would care about that.

He got the reaction he expected. At first there were catcalls, a few flying bones, and cries of ‘Bring back the monk!’ But then the repetitive dolefulness of the tune cut into the thegns’ drunken consciousness. Some of them swayed to the rhythm, and tried to join in the chorus: “‘Rome! Rome! When will you rise again?”’

As the verses unwound, the listeners got restive. In the end they seemed relieved when he finished and sat down. The feasting mob turned to other matters.

Bertgils handed Belisarius a cloth to mop the grease from his face. ‘You did well. That barrage would have been dreadful for poor old Boniface.’

‘Yes. And I would wager none of them would even remember having done it, the next morning.’

‘None but the Butcher,’ murmured Bertgils, ‘who sees everything.’

‘How soon do you think we can get out of here?’