A queen whose feeble revolt against Æthelhelm had failed. And she was my best hope of keeping the oath to kill Wessex’s most powerful lord and his nephew, who, if Finan’s premonition that the storm was sent to mark the death of a king, was king already.

And we had come to make certain his reign was brief.

Tomorrow.

The storm blew itself out overnight, leaving fallen trees, sodden thatch, and flooded marshland. The dawn was damp and sullen, as if the weather was ashamed of the previous day’s anger. The clouds were high, the creek had settled, and the wind was fitful.

I had to decide what to do with the prisoners. My first thought was to put them in a stout shack on the harbour’s western side and leave two men to guard them, but Wighelm’s men were young, they were strong, they were bitter, and they would surely find some way to break out of the shack, and the last thing I wanted was to have vengeful warriors following me south to Fæfresham. Nor did I want to leave any men behind, either to guard the prisoners or to protect Spearhafoc. If we were to go to Fæfresham then I would need all of my men.

‘Just kill the bastards,’ Vidarr Leifson suggested.

‘Put them on the island,’ Finan said, meaning Sceapig.

‘And if they can swim?’

He shrugged. ‘Not many can!’

‘A fishing boat might rescue them.’

‘Then do as Vidarr suggests,’ Finan said, tired of my doubts.

There was a risk in stranding them, but I could think of no better solution and so we herded them onto Spearhafoc, rowed a mile eastwards down the Swalwan Creek, and there found an island of reeds that, judging by the line of flotsam heaped on the shore, did not flood at high tide. We stripped the prisoners naked and sent them ashore, making them carry their four wounded men. Wighelm was the last to go. ‘You can reach Sceapig easily enough,’ I told him. The island of reeds was only a long bow shot from Sceapig’s marshes, ‘but if you hurt anyone ashore I’ll find out and I’ll come for you, and when I find you I’ll kill you slowly, you understand?’

He nodded sullenly. ‘Yes, lord.’ He knew who I was now and he was afraid.

‘All these people,’ I said, gesturing at both Sceapig and the mainland, ‘are under my protection, and I am Uhtredærwe! Who am I?’

‘Uhtred of Bebbanburg, lord,’ he said fearfully.

‘I am Uhtredærwe, and my enemies die. Now go!’

It was midday before we were back in the creek’s harbour and another hour before we set off on the southwards road. We had eaten a poor meal of fish stew and hard bread, cleaned our mail and weapons, and donned the dark red cloaks that were the marks of Æthelhelm’s men. We had captured twenty-four of Æthelhelm’s shields, all painted with the leaping stag, and I had given those to my men. The rest of us would go to Fæfresham without shields. My pagans, like me, hid their hammer amulets. Ideally I would have sent a couple of men to scout the town, but streets and alleys are harder to explore unseen than woodlands and hedgerows, and I feared the men might be captured, questioned too harshly, and so reveal our presence. Better, I thought, to arrive at Fæfresham in force, even though that force was only half the enemy’s number. I did send Eadric, the most cunning of my scouts, to explore the edge of the town, but ordered him to remain hidden. ‘Don’t be captured!’