Then he talked and so confirmed much of what I had guessed. Eadgifu’s declaration that she was travelling to Contwaraburg to pray at the shrine of Saint Bertha had not deceived Æthelhelm for a moment. Even as the queen and her small entourage travelled south Æthelhelm’s men were galloping toward Wiltunscir where they roused a troop of his household warriors. Those men, in turn, went to Lundene where Æthelhelm kept ships which had brought them to this creek on the muddy shore of Cent where, just as Æthelhelm had surmised, Eadgifu had taken shelter. ‘What are your orders?’ I asked Wighelm.

He shrugged. ‘Stay here, keep her here, wait for more orders.’

‘Orders that will come when the king dies?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You weren’t told to go to Contwaraburg? To order the queen’s brother to stay quiet?’

‘Other men went there.’

‘What other men? Who? And to do what?’

‘Dreogan. He took fifty men and I don’t know why he went there.’

‘And Dreogan is?’

‘He commands fifty of Lord Æthelhelm’s household troops.’

‘What about Waormund?’ I asked.

The mention of that name made Wighelm shudder. He made the sign of the cross. ‘Waormund went to East Anglia,’ he said, ‘but why? I don’t know.’

‘You don’t like Waormund?’ I asked.

‘No one likes Waormund,’ he replied bitterly, ‘except perhaps Lord Æthelhelm. Waormund is Lord Æthelhelm’s beast.’

‘I’ve met the beast,’ I said bleakly, remembering the huge, vacant-faced warrior who was taller and stronger than any man I had ever met except for Steapa, who was another fearsome West Saxon warrior. Steapa had been a slave, but had become one of King Alfred’s most trusted warriors. He had been my enemy too, but had become a friend. ‘Does Lord Steapa still live?’ I asked.

Wighelm looked momentarily confused at the unexpected question, but nodded. ‘He’s old. But he lives.’

‘Good,’ I said, ‘and who is in Fæfresham?’

Again Wighelm looked puzzled by the sudden change of questioning. ‘Eadgifu is there …’ he recovered.

‘I know that! Who leads the men there?’

‘Eanwulf.’

‘And how many men does he have?’

‘About fifty.’

I turned to Immar Hergildson, a young man whose life I had saved and who had served me devotedly ever since. ‘Tie his hands,’ I ordered him.

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Lord?’ Wighelm repeated the word nervously. ‘You’re a—’

‘I’m a lord,’ I said savagely.

The thunder sounded, but further away now, carrying Thor’s anger out to the turbulent sea. The wind still shook the tavern, but with less anger than before. ‘Storm’s passing, I reckon,’ Finan brought me a pot of ale.

‘It’s passing,’ I agreed. I pulled a shutter open, making the flames in the hearth flicker. It was almost dark outside. ‘Send someone to tell Vidarr and Beornoth to come back,’ I said. There was no chance that men from Eanwulf’s troop in Fæfresham would come north in the darkness, so there was no need to watch for them.

‘And tomorrow?’ Finan asked.

‘Tomorrow we rescue a queen,’ I said.