‘Capturing Lundene?’ I suggested.

‘How in God’s name does he hope to do that?’

It was a good question. Æthelhelm had sufficient men to defend Lundene’s walls, yet Æthelstan had evidently appeared in front of the ramparts, and that could only mean that he meant to make an assault. The last I had heard was that Æthelstan was at Wicumun, which lay a long day’s march west of Lundene. I stared upriver as we crossed the bridge, but could see no movement beyond the city’s wall where the River Fleot poured the filth of tanneries, slaughteryards, and sewage into the Temes. The Saxon town, built beyond the valley of the Fleot, showed no sign of an army come to assault the city, but undoubtedly something had caused the city bells and horns to sound the alarm.

‘He’ll never get across those walls,’ Finan said.

‘We did.’

‘We got through them,’ Finan insisted, ‘we never tried to cross the ditch and wall. Still, it was a rare fight!’

I instinctively touched my chest where Thor’s hammer was hidden beneath the mail. It had been years since Finan and I, with a small band of men, had used deceit to capture the Roman bastion that guarded Ludd’s Gate, one of Lundene’s western gates, and we had defended that bastion against a furious Danish assault. We had held the bastion and we had returned the city to Saxon rule. Now we had to fight for the city again. ‘Æthelstan must know the East Anglians are unhappy,’ I said, ‘so maybe he’s relying on that?’

‘If the East Anglians change sides,’ Finan sounded dubious.

‘If,’ I agreed.

‘They won’t fight unless they see we’re losing,’ Brihtwulf put in.

‘Then we mustn’t lose,’ I said. We had gone around two hundred paces, perhaps a third of the way across the long bridge. Father Oda had filed through the barricade last, lingering to talk with the horseman who commanded its guard, and he now hurried to catch up with us. ‘It seems King Æthelstan is to the north-west of the city,’ he said.

‘So he’s threatening the fort?’ I asked.

‘They’ve seen his banners,’ the priest said, ignoring my question, ‘and it appears he is here in force.’

‘The fort is the last place I’d assault,’ I said sourly.

‘Me too,’ Brihtwulf muttered. He was walking beside me.

‘And surely,’ Oda went on, ‘we’ll be of no use to the king if we’re south of the river?’

‘I thought you Danes were supposed to be good at warfare?’ I said.

Oda bridled at that, but decided to take no offence. ‘It is the fate of Englaland,’ he said as we neared the southern end of the bridge. ‘That’s what we decide today, lord, the fate of Englaland.’

‘And that fate,’ I said, ‘will be decided here.’

‘How?’

So I told him as we walked. We were not hurrying, despite the horseman’s last urgent request. As we neared the southern bank I could see more of the troops who still watched the fort from Suðgeweork’s houses, but they were making no apparent effort to assault the strong wooden ramparts. At the bridge’s end was a timber gateway with a fighting platform from which Æthelhelm’s flag with its leaping stag flapped in the brisk wind. Beneath it the gates were open and a harassed-looking man was beckoning to us. ‘Hurry!’ he called plaintively. ‘Up to the ramparts!’