‘You know the truth already, Orm. You have seen it. You know all about the Menologium, and indeed the Codex of Aethelmaer. You know they were authored by an agent, or agents, intent on deflecting destiny. And now you have felt the cold hands of another history-meddler on your shoulder. Yes, another, Orm, I’m convinced of that. For your Witness seems opposed to the intervention made by the author of my Codex, doesn’t she? We’re caught in a war of meddlers, it seems.’

Orm stared at him. ‘“Meddlers”? That’s a very human word.’

‘I use it intentionally. There’s nothing divine about the Weaver, Orm. He fiddles with history as a poor painter adds one brushstroke after another, never satisfied, for he has no true vision. And not only that, the Weaver fails to achieve his goals. William won at Hastings despite the Weaver’s tinkering. No, Orm. The Weaver may not be human; he may be more - or less - than that. But I am convinced he is not God - and nor is your Witness.’

Orm’s shock deepened. ‘But how can he send words through time, into the head of another, save through a miracle? I have seen it myself, in Eadgyth. When she spoke her prophecy, they were not her words.’

‘Trickery!’ Sihtric said. ‘Machinery! Working on my machines with the Moors has shaped my thinking, Orm. Think of it. You can build a machine that can throw a bolt miles. Waterwheels and canals that can turn a desert green! If you can do all that—’

‘It’s one thing to throw a bolt,’ Orm protested. ‘Another to throw words across centuries.’

‘I can’t imagine how it’s done. But I also can’t imagine what our machines will be capable of in five hundred years, or a thousand. I can put no limits on them, any more than I put limits on God.’ His tone was edgy, uneasy.

‘Is that heresy, priest?’

‘Ah, that’s a good question, and I’m a long way from any bishop who might be able to answer it for me.’

Orm stared at him, trying to pick his way through this morass of theology and speculation. ‘You know, I used to talk about you with your sister, before Hastings. Even then we thought your ambition, that whole business of the Menologium, was destroying you. Turning you away from God. That was twenty years ago.’

‘Well, perhaps you were right.’ Sihtric laughed darkly. ‘Nothing changes, does it?’

They were disturbed by a horseman, who came galloping in a cloud of dust. He was hot, bedraggled. ‘Father! They said I would find you here.’

‘Robert? What’s wrong?’

‘There has been an accident. A boy, Ghalib—’

Sihtric frowned. ‘I know him - the son of a court favourite. Is he dead?’