Cynewulf looked again, and saw the King through her eyes. Alfred was a tall, pale man, his hair worn long and loose. Clean-shaven, he had a remarkably long chin that gave his face a perpetually mournful expression. His habit was almost as plain as Cynewulf’s, but it glistened with gold’s lustre. As the petitioners spoke to him, clerks at his elbows frantically scribbled down a record of all that was said, but the King was racked by fits of coughing, during which the clerks paused, their quill pens poised. After a few moments Alfred waved away his petitioners and bowed his head as a priest at his side began to intone prayers.

Aebbe said, ‘The last English king. The only man who stands before the Danes. And you tell me I am safe here, Cynewulf.’

Cynewulf tried to suppress his own doubts. Alfred looked more a scholar than a warrior, it couldn’t be denied. ‘It is midwinter. The Danes never move in midwinter. And there is a truce between Alfred and Guthrum—’

‘Well, at least the King is pious, just as you said. Maybe his prayers will keep away the Northmen.’

‘For a girl born on a holy island you’re terribly cynical.’

‘But think what she’s been through.’ Arngrim was five years older than Cynewulf, and probably twice his weight. ‘The monks abandoned their house on Lindisfarena long before she was born, bearing the bones of Saint Cuthbert with them. Christianity didn’t help them much, did it? And since then you’ve had to run yourself, girl, haven’t you?’

Aebbe’s was a common story. More than eighty years after the first raid on Lindisfarena, and twelve years since the Danish army called the Force had landed in East Anglia and begun its purposeful rampage, the country’s markets were ruined, trade withered, monasteries shattered, folk driven from their farms to starve. Even kings had died. Of the four great English kingdoms, only Wessex still stood. England was a land full of fear - and there were many, many refugees.

‘I can look after myself,’ Aebbe said defiantly. ‘And as for Christ, there are many who say He has deserted England, for why would He let us suffer so?’

‘You can see she’s mixed up,’ Cynewulf said hastily.

‘You mustn’t mind Cynewulf, Aebbe,’ Amgrim said. ‘Christianity is only a generation deep in our family. That’s why Cynewulf works so hard at it. Even Alfred, pious as he might be, is directly descended from Cerdic, the first Saxon to land in Wessex four hundred years ago, who in turn was descended from Woden.’

The foreigner, Arngrim’s companion, spoke for the first time. ‘For a follower of your Christ-prophet the King seems remarkably fond of wealth. I am so blinded by his jewellery I can barely see him.’ His voice was a deep brown tone, and he made Aebbe laugh.

Cynewulf turned on him. ‘And who are you?’