‘Saxons are dirty people,’ Benedetta said.

‘Cities are dirty,’ I said.

‘They do not wash,’ Benedetta went on, ‘even the women! Most of them.’

I found I had nothing to say. Lundene was indeed dirty, it was filthy, yet it fascinated me. We passed pillars that had once graced great buildings, but which were now surrounded by wattle and clay. Shadows lay beneath arches that led to nowhere. New buildings had been made since I left, filling the gaps between the Roman houses, some of which still had tiled roofs above three or four stone-built storeys. You could see, even in the night, that this had once been a glorious place, proud with pillars and gleaming with marble. Now, except for the streets closest to the river, it was largely abandoned and gone to ruin. Folk had always believed that the ghosts of the Romans stalked these ancient streets and so they preferred to settle in the new Saxon city built to the west and, though Alfred and his son Edward had encouraged people to move back inside the old walls, much of Lundene was still a wasteland.

We passed a newly thatched church and turned left at the top of the hill and, ahead of us, on the city’s western hill, flaming torches lit the palace, which lay close by the cathedral that Alfred had ordered to be rebuilt. We had to cross the shallow valley where the Weala brook flowed south to the Temes. We crossed the bridge and walked uphill towards the palace that had first been built for Mercia’s kings. The entrance was a Roman arch carved with spearmen who carried long oblong shields, and it was guarded by four men who had round shields painted with Æthelstan’s symbol, the dragon holding a lightning bolt. That symbol was something of a relief. Finan had assured me that Æthelstan’s men still occupied the city, but the dragon with its jagged lightning was my first proof. ‘They’re old men,’ Finan grunted.

‘Probably younger than you and me,’ I said, which made him laugh.

The old men at the gate were evidently alarmed by our approach because one hammered on the closed doors with the butt of his spear and, a moment later, three more men appeared. They pulled the doors shut behind them then lined beneath the arch and levelled their weapons. ‘Who are you?’ one of the newcomers demanded.

‘Is Bedwin in the palace?’ I asked.

The man who had spoken hesitated. ‘He is,’ he finally said.

‘And I’m the Jarl Uhtred of Bebbanburg, here to see him.’ I rarely used the Danish title, but the man’s surly tone had angered me, and my men, hearing the arrogance in my voice, drew their swords.

There was a brief pause, then at a signal, the spears were lowered. Six of the men just gaped at me, but the surly man still wanted to keep his authority. ‘You have to surrender your weapons,’ he demanded.

‘Is there a king here?’