“There is another solution,” said Ella. “I have proposed it before. We could make peace with them. Offer them tribute—we could call it wergild for their father. It would need to be a mighty tribute to attract them. But there must be ten households in Northumbria for every man out there in the Army. Ten households of churls can buy off a carl. Ten households of thanes can buy off one of their nobles. Some of them will not want to accept, but if we make the offer publicly, the rest may argue them round. What we would ask for from them is a year’s peace. And in that year—for they will come again—we will train every man of military age in the kingdom till he can stand against Ivar the Boneless or the devil himself. Then we can fight them three to two, eh, Cuthred? Or one to one if we have to.”

The burly captain snorted in amusement. “Brave words, lord, and a good plan. I’d like to do it. Problem is …” He pulled the laces on the pouch at his belt and tipped the contents into his palm. “Look at this stuff. A few good silver pennies that I got from selling a horse when I was down South. The rest is imitations from the archbishop’s mint here—mostly lead, if it’s not copper. I don’t know where all the silver’s gone—we used to have plenty of it. But there’s been less and less of it all over the North for twenty years now. We use the archbishop’s money, but the Southerners won’t take it; you have to have something to trade to deal with them. You can be damned sure the Army out there won’t take it. And it’s no good offering them grain or honeycombs.”

“But they’re here,” said Ella. “We must have something they want. The Church must have reserves of gold and silver … .”

“You mean to give Church treasures to the Vikings, to buy them off?” gasped Erkenbert. “Instead of marching out to fight them, as is your Christian duty? What you say is sacrilege, Church-breach! If a churl steals a silver plate from the least of God’s houses, he is flayed and his hide nailed to the church door. What you suggest is a thousand times worse.”

“You imperil your immortal soul even to think of it,” cried the archbishop.

Erkenbert’s voice hissed like an adder. “It was not for this that we made you king.”