‘So do we help them?’ Finan demanded.

I still gazed after the horsemen. ‘It seems a pity,’ I said, ‘to come this far and not smell her tits again.’

Finan treated that jest with contempt. ‘They weren’t happy to see us. So why help them?’

‘Swithun wasn’t happy,’ I agreed, ‘and I’m not surprised. He remembers us from East Anglia.’

Cent had ever been a restless shire. It had once been its own kingdom, but that was far in the past and it was now a part of Wessex, though every now and then there were stirrings of independence, and that ancient pride had driven Sigulf’s grandfather to side with the Danes of East Anglia shortly after Edward became king. That alliance had not lasted, I had shamed the Centishmen into fighting for Wessex, but they had never forgotten the disgrace of their near treachery. Now Sigulf was rebelling again, this time to help Edmund, his sister’s eldest son, inherit the throne of Wessex.

‘If we join their fight,’ Finan said, ‘we’re fighting for Eadgifu’s boys.’

I nodded. ‘True.’

‘For God’s sake, why? I thought you supported Æthelstan!’

‘I do.’

‘Then …’

‘There are three claimants for the throne of Wessex,’ I interrupted him. ‘Ælfweard, Æthelstan and Edmund. Doesn’t it make sense that two of those should join together to defeat the third?’

‘And when he’s defeated? What happens to the two?’

I shrugged. ‘Eadgifu’s boy is an infant. The Witan will never choose him.’

‘So now we fight for Eadgifu?’

I paused a long while, then shook my head. ‘No.’

‘No?’

For a moment I did not answer. Instead I was thinking of Finan’s omen, his vision of my naked corpse in a field of barley, then I remembered the dead swan I had seen lying in the drab ditch with a broken neck. And that, I thought, was an omen if ever there was one, and at that moment I heard the beat of wings and looked skywards to see two swans flying north. Thor had sent me a sign and it could not have been clearer. Go north, go home, go now.

What a fool I was! To think I could lead a Centish rebellion against Wessex? To defeat Æthelhelm with a ragged band of Centishmen and a handful of Northumbrians? It was pride, I thought, mere foolish pride. I was Uhtred of Bebbanburg and one of my poets, one of the men who compose songs for the winter nights in Bebbanburg’s hall, always called me Uhtred the Unbeaten. Did I believe him? I had been beaten often enough, though a kindly fate had always given me revenge. But every man knows, or should know, that fate is fickle. ‘Wyrd bið ful ãræd,’ I told Finan. Fate is inexorable.

‘And fate is a bitch too,’ he said, ‘but what’s our fate now?’

‘To avoid all fields of barley,’ I said lightly.

He did not smile. ‘Are we going home, lord?’

I nodded. ‘We’re going back to Spearhafoc,’ I said, ‘and we’re going home.’