‘We are pilgrims,’ Oda explained. ‘My wife ails.’ He reached out and put a hand over Benedetta’s hand. ‘We seek the blessing of the Holy Father.’

‘I’m sorry for your wife, father,’ Jorund said sincerely and, watching the priest’s hand, I felt another pulse of jealousy. I looked at Benedetta and she looked back, her eyes sad, and for a moment we held each other’s gaze. ‘It’s a long way you have to travel,’ Jorund went on.

‘A long journey indeed, my son,’ Oda answered, looking suddenly startled because Benedetta had drawn her hand sharply away. ‘We seek a ship here,’ the priest went on, ‘to cross to Frankia.’

‘There are plenty of ships,’ Jorund said, ‘I wish there weren’t.’

‘Why?’ Father Oda asked.

‘That’s our job. Searching them before they leave.’

‘Searching them?’

‘To make sure no enemy escapes.’

‘Enemy?’ Father Oda pretended surprise.

Jorund took a long drink of his ale. ‘There was a rumour, father, that Uhtredærwe was in Lundene. You know who he is?’

‘Everyone knows.’

‘Then you know that they don’t want him as an enemy. So find him, they tell us, find him and capture him.’

‘And kill him?’ I asked.

Jorund shrugged. ‘Someone will kill him, but I doubt it will be us. He’s not here. Why would he be here? It’s just a rumour. There’s a war coming and that always means rumours.’

‘Isn’t there already a war?’ Father Oda asked. ‘There was fighting here, I’m told.’

‘There’s always fighting,’ Jorund said morosely. ‘I mean a proper war, father, a war of shield walls and armies. And it shouldn’t be, it shouldn’t be.’

‘Shouldn’t be?’ Oda enquired gently.

‘It’s not so far off harvest time, father. We shouldn’t be here, not now. We should be at home, sharpening sickles. There’s real work to be done! Wheat, barley, and rye don’t harvest themselves!’

The mention of barley made me touch my hammer, only to find the wooden cross. ‘You were summoned here?’ I asked.

‘By a Saxon lord,’ Jorund said, ‘who won’t wait for harvest.’

‘Lord Æthelhelm?’

‘Coenwald,’ Jorund said, ‘but he holds land from Æthelhelm so yes, it’s Æthelhelm who summoned us and Coenwald has to obey.’ He paused to pour ale from the jug.

‘And Coenwald summoned you?’ I asked.

‘Didn’t have much choice did he? Harvest or no harvest.’

‘Did you have a choice?’ Oda asked.

Jorund shrugged. ‘We swore fealty to Coenwald when we converted.’ He paused, perhaps reflecting on how the Danish settlers of East Anglia had lost their war to keep a Danish king. ‘We fought against him and we lost, but he let us live, he let us keep our land and he lets us thrive, so now we have to fight for him.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe it’ll all be over by harvest.’

‘I pray so,’ Oda said quietly.

‘Maybe there’ll be no war?’ I suggested.

‘When two men want one chair?’ Jorund asked scathingly. ‘Good men will have to die just to decide which royal arse warms the damned thing.’ He turned as angry voices sounded, then a woman’s shriek made me shiver. ‘Oh god,’ he groaned.