‘I don’t want to spend any time on the road,’ I had interrupted him.

‘Not if you want to stay hidden,’ he had noted shrewdly. My curious group of warriors, freed slaves, women, and children would be noticeable, and travellers would talk. If our pursuers came from Lundene then they would use the old Roman road and would question everyone they met, so the fewer people who saw us the better.

‘So I cross the road?’

‘You cross the road and keep going westwards! You’ll find plenty of woodland to hide in, and if you go a small way north you’ll find a good track that leads all the way to Werlameceaster.’

‘Is it busy?’

‘Maybe a few drovers, lord, maybe some pilgrims.’

‘Pilgrims?’

‘Saint Alban is buried in Werlameceaster, lord.’ Rædwalh had made the sign of the cross. ‘He was executed there, lord, and his killer’s eyes popped out, and quite right too.’

I had given Rædwalh another gold coin and then we had left. The sky was almost cloudless and as the sun rose so did the warmth. We went slowly and cautiously, pausing among trees to wait for the Roman road to be empty before we crossed, then following hedgerows and ditches that led us westwards. Alaina insisted on carrying the spear which she had used to kill the man trying to pierce my throat. The weapon was far too big for her, but she dragged the hilt along the ground with a stubborn look on her face. ‘You’ll never take it off her now,’ Benedetta said with a smile.

‘I’ll put her in the next shield wall,’ I said.

We walked on in silence, dropping into a shallow valley filled with trees. We followed a forester’s track that led through thick stands of oak, ash, and coppiced beech. A black scar showed where a charcoal maker had burned his fierce fire. We saw no one and heard nothing except our own footfalls, the song of birds, and the clatter of wings through leaves. The woodland ended at a dry ditch beyond which a field of barley climbed to a low crest. Barley. I touched my hammer and told myself I was being a fool. We had passed two other such fields and I had told myself I could not spend the rest of my life avoiding barley fields. Finan must have known what I was thinking. ‘It was only a dream,’ he said.

‘Dreams are messages,’ I said uncertainly.

‘I dreamed you fought me over ownership of a cow once,’ he said, ‘what sort of message was that?’

‘Who won?’

‘I think I woke up before we found out.’

‘What dream?’ Benedetta asked.

‘Ah, just nonsense,’ Finan said.

We were following a blackthorn hedge that marked the field’s northern boundary, a hedge dense with bindweed and bright with cornflowers, with poppies and pink bramble blossom. North of the hedge lay a field that had been cut for hay. The stubble dropped gently to the road that led to Werlameceaster. We saw no travellers. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to walk on the road?’ Benedetta asked.