The question seemed to confuse him. ‘No,’ he managed to say.

‘No, lord,’ I snarled.

‘No, lord.’

‘Then it isn’t a king’s hall tonight, is it? We keep our weapons. Open the doors.’

He hesitated again, then relented and the high doors creaked open on their ancient iron hinges and I led my men into the lantern-lit corridor beyond. We passed the stairs where, so often, I had climbed to meet Æthelflaed, and that memory was as sharp and painful as the recollection of Gisela on the river terrace. Where were they now? I wondered. Did Gisela wait for me in Asgard, the home of the gods? Did Æthelflaed watch me from her Christian heaven? I have known many wise men, but none who could answer those questions.

We walked through a courtyard where a wooden chapel stood above the remnants of a Roman pool, then through a broken arch into a passage made of thin Roman bricks. ‘You can put your swords in their scabbards,’ I told my men, then pushed open the crude wooden door that had replaced some piece of Roman magnificence. The feasting hall beyond was lit by a myriad rushlights and candles, but there were only a dozen men seated about the one table. They looked alarmed as we entered, then stood, not in welcome but to give themselves space to draw their swords. ‘Who are you?’ a man demanded.

I had no chance to answer because another man answered for me. ‘He is the Lord Uhtred of Bebbanburg.’ It was a tall, stern priest who had spoken and who now offered me a slight bow. ‘It is good to see you again, lord. Welcome.’

‘Father Oda,’ I said. ‘It’s a surprise to see you.’

‘A surprise, lord?’

‘I thought you were in Mameceaster.’

‘I was, and now I am here.’ His words were touched by a Danish accent. His parents had come as invaders to East Anglia, but the son had converted to Christianity and now served Æthelstan. ‘And I am surprised to see you too, lord,’ he went on, ‘but glad of it. Now come,’ he gestured me towards the table, ‘there’s wine.’

‘I came to see Bedwin.’

Father Oda indicated the man at the head of the table who had challenged us when we entered and who now walked towards us. He was a tall man, dark haired, with a long face and long moustaches that hung down to the ornate silver cross at his breast. ‘I am Bedwin,’ he said, sounding anxious. Two wolfhounds growled when he spoke, but quieted at a gesture from him. He stopped some paces away, his face still showing puzzlement at our arrival, an expression that swiftly changed to resentment. Did he think I had come to usurp his place as commander of the city? ‘We were not told of your coming, lord,’ he said, and it was almost a reproof.

‘I came to see King Æthelstan.’

‘Who is in Gleawecestre,’ Bedwin said, almost as if he was ordering me to go across Britain.