‘I know where it is.’ The thegn eyed the girl. ‘I didn’t know priests took concubines.’

Cynewulf flared. ‘She is no concubine, and you should have more respect for my holy office. This is Aebbe, whom I have brought here from the heart of Mercia, at no small risk to myself, to meet the King.’

‘Why?’

‘She has a message for him.’

‘What sort of message?’

‘A prophecy,’ Cynewulf admitted reluctantly. ‘A prophecy that speaks of dark times for Alfred, but ultimate glory which—’

The thegn grinned. ‘The King follows the Christ. I doubt very much if he will be interested in the hokum you peddle.’

‘The prophecy is not for sale,’ Cynewulf snapped. ‘I bring it here out of duty. And it is not hokum.’ He babbled, ‘The internal consistency - a correlation with past events of record - the visitations of a certain comet which—’

The thegn held up a gloved hand. ‘Just hand it over and be on your way.’

Cynewulf sighed. ‘It is not written down. It is in her memory - in her head - and nowhere else.’

The girl glared at the thegn. ‘So what now, greybeard? Will you cut off my head and give it to the King?’

To Cynewulf’s relief the thegn seemed more amused than angry. ‘You need to get this one under better control, priest.’

‘Believe me, I’ve tried.’

‘You see, my problem is this. If nothing is written down, what proof do you have of what you say?’

‘This.’ Cynewulf reached into his robe and produced a letter on vellum, crumpled and stained by his own sweat; he had carried it across the country and back. ‘This is a safe-conduct signed by the King himself. It has kept me alive, more than once - for even among the heathen Northmen Alfred’s name carries weight.’

The thegn took the letter. Cynewulf noted that he held it upside down. He passed it to the foreigner. ‘Read it, Ibn Zuhr.’ The foreigner murmured something Cynewulf couldn’t hear, and passed the letter back to the thegn - who, to Cynewulf’s horror, crumpled it and trod it into the dirt. ‘An obvious forgery. On your way, priest, if you don’t want to leave your head behind.’

‘But - but—’ Cynewulf got to his knees, retrieved his precious note, and tried to smooth it out. ‘Can you not read, man? Can’t you see?’

Aebbe placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Priest. Calm down.’

‘But these dolts - I have been across the country, I have faced down the heathen, only for this ...’

But Aebbe was smiling. When Cynewulf looked up, wondering, he saw that the thegn was smiling too. And though his grin through the beard looked like a wound in a bear’s thigh, something in his eyes, the shape of his mouth, was familiar.

‘Arngrim? Is it you?’