He threw open the church door. The nave was lit by restless candlelight. The monks’ chant became ragged as some of them saw him running to the base of the tower. He saw the dangling rope, seized it, and pulled down. To his dismay, the bell made no sound.

One of the monks broke away from the group and strode toward him. The shaved top of his head was surrounded by white curls, and Edgar recognized Prior Ulfric. “Get out of here, you foolish boy,” the prior said indignantly.

Edgar could hardly trouble himself with explanations. “I have to ring the bell!” he said frantically. “What’s wrong with it?”

The service had broken down and all the monks were now watching. A second man approached: the kitchener, Maerwynn, a younger man, not as pompous as Ulfric. “What’s going on, Edgar?” he asked.

“The Vikings are here!” Edgar cried. He pulled again at the rope. He had never before tried to ring a church bell, and its weight surprised him.

“Oh, no!” cried Prior Ulfric. His expression changed from censorious to scared. “God spare us!”

Maerwynn said: “Are you sure, Edgar?”

“I saw them from the beach!”

Maerwynn ran to the door and looked out. He came back white-faced. “It’s true,” he said.

Ulfric screamed: “Run, everyone!”

“Wait!” said Maerwynn. “Edgar, keep pulling the rope. It takes a few tugs to get going. Lift your feet and hang on. Everyone else, we have a few minutes before they get here. Pick something up before you run: first the reliquaries with the remains of the saints, then the jeweled ornaments, and the books—and then run to the woods.”

Holding the rope, Edgar lifted his body off the floor, and a moment later he heard the boom of the great bell sound out.

Ulfric snatched up a silver cross and dashed out, and the other monks began to follow, some calmly collecting precious objects, others yelling and panicking.

The bell began to swing and it rang repeatedly. Edgar pulled the rope frantically, using the weight of his body. He wanted everyone to know right away that this was not merely a summons to sleeping monks but an alarm call to the whole town.

After a minute he felt sure he had done enough. He left the rope dangling and dashed out of the church.

The acrid smell of burning thatch pricked his nostrils: the brisk southwesterly breeze was spreading the flames with dreadful speed. At the same time, daylight was brightening. In the town, people were running out of their houses clutching babies and children and whatever else was precious to them, tools and chickens and leather bags of coins. The fastest were already crossing the fields toward the woods. Some would escape, Edgar thought, thanks to that bell.

He went against the flow, dodging his friends and neighbors, heading for Sunni’s house. He saw the baker, who would have been at his oven early: now he was running from his house with a sack of flour on his back. The alehouse called the Sailors was still quiet, its occupants slow to rise even after the alarm. Wyn the jeweler went by on his horse, with a chest strapped to his back; the horse was charging in a panic and he had his arms around its neck, holding on desperately. A slave called Griff was carrying an old woman, his owner. Edgar scanned every face that passed him, just in case Sunni was among them, but he did not see her.