I was about to give him a sour answer, about to confess that I doubted our success, but before I could say a word the first church bell sounded.

There was only a handful of bells in Lundene, perhaps five or six churches had raised or been given enough silver to buy them. King Alfred, when he had decided to rebuild the old Roman city, had wanted to hang bells at each gate, but the first two had been stolen within days, and so he decreed that horns be used instead. Most churches simply hung a metal rod or sheet that could be beaten to summon the faithful to worship, and now, together with the few bells, all of them began to sound, a cacophony that panicked birds into the sky.

None of us spoke as the clangour went on. Dogs howled.

‘That must,’ Brihtwulf broke our silence, paused, then raised his voice so he could be heard, ‘that must be Merewalh.’

‘It’s too early,’ Wihtgar said.

‘Then Æthelhelm is assembling his army,’ I said, ‘ready to march. And we’re too late.’

‘What do you mean?’ Father Oda asked indignantly. ‘Too late?’

The bells were surely summoning Æthelhelm’s army, which meant he would be leading that horde out of the city to attack Æthelstan’s weaker forces. We were all standing now, gazing north, though there was nothing to be seen there.

‘What do you mean?’ Father Oda insisted. ‘Why are we too late?’

But before I could say a word in answer there was a bellow of anger from further down the wharves. The shout was followed by more yelling, by the clash of blades, then by hurried footsteps. A man appeared, running for his life. A spear followed him, and the spear, with deadly aim, struck him in the back. He took a few stumbling steps, then collapsed. He lay for a heartbeat, the spear’s shaft wavering above him, then tried to crawl. Two men in red cloaks appeared. One seized the spear’s haft and drove it downwards, the other kicked the wounded man in the ribs. The man jerked, then shuddered. The clangour of the bells was lessening.

‘You will go to the walls!’ a voice shouted. More men in red cloaks appeared on the landward wharf. They were evidently searching the ships, rousting out men who had slept on board, then herding them through the gaps in the river wall and so into the city. I assumed the dying man who still shuddered on the wooden planks had defied them.

‘Do we kill them?’ Finan asked. The red-cloaked men, I could see about thirty of them, had not yet reached our three barges. ‘They’re here to stop men leaving,’ Finan guessed, and I guessed he was right.

I gave him no answer. I was thinking of what Brihtwulf had said, how the East Anglians hated the West Saxons. I was thinking of Serpent-Breath. I was thinking of the oath I had given to Æthelstan. I was thinking that Brihtwulf despised me for being a coward who wanted to run away. I was thinking that fate was a malevolent and capricious bitch, and I was thinking that we must slaughter the men in red cloaks and steal three good ships to make our escape from Lundene.