The angry shouts had come from the upper floor. There was a yelp and then a man was hurled down the stairs. He was a young man who crashed against the steps, bounced and collapsed on the floor. He did not move. Men stood, either to help him or to protest against the violence, but then all of them went very still.

They went still because a man was coming down the stairs. A big man. The first we saw were his boots, then massive thighs, and then he came into view, and I saw it was Waormund. He was bare chested, his clothes over his arm. He carried a sword belt with a sheathed sword; a big blade for a big man. There was not a sound in the tavern except for those heavy boots on the stairs. He paused after a few steps and his harsh face, blank-eyed and scarred, looked around the room. Benedetta gasped, and I put my hand over hers, warning her to keep silent.

‘Scum!’ Waormund snarled at the room. ‘Little Danish bastard thought to use my woman. Told me to hurry! Anyone else in a hurry to use her?’ He waited, but no one made a sound. He was terrifying; the width of that muscled chest, the sneer on his face, and the size of the heavy sword had cowed the room into submission. Benedetta was clutching my hand beneath the table now, her grip tight.

Waormund came down the last steps. He paused again, looking down at the youngster who had offended him. Then, very deliberately, he kicked him. Kicked him again and again. There was a yelp from the boy, then no sound except for Waormund’s massive boot crashing into the prone body. ‘East Anglian pussies!’ Waormund snarled. He looked around the tavern again, plainly hoping someone would defy him, but still no one spoke or moved. He looked at our corner, but just saw two hooded people and a priest. The rushlight was weak, the room shadowed, and he ignored us. ‘Danish god-damned pussies!’ He was still trying to provoke a fight, but when no one responded he picked an ale pot from the closest table, drained it, and stalked into the night.

Benedetta was crying softly. ‘I hate him,’ she whispered, ‘I hate him.’

I held onto her hand beneath the table. Men were helping the fallen youth and conversation was starting again, but subdued now. Jorund, who had stood when the boy was thrown down the stairs, had gone to see what damage had been done and came back a moment later. ‘Poor boy. Broken ribs, crushed balls, lost half his teeth, and he’ll be lucky to keep an eye.’ He sat and drank some ale. ‘I hate that man,’ he added bitterly.

‘Who is he?’ I asked.

‘Bastard called Waormund. Lord Æthelhelm’s mastiff.’

‘And it seems he doesn’t like Danes,’ I said mildly.

‘Danes!’ Jorund said wryly. ‘He doesn’t like anyone! Saxon or Dane.’

‘And you?’ Father Oda asked. ‘You fought against the Saxons, yet now you fight alongside them?’