“I dare say,” agreed Cuthred. “One thing I have heard about him is this, and I’ve only heard it about him, not all the other Church-despoilers and ravishers there are in the world. Ragnar is very big on information. He’s like me. He’s good at getting people to talk. The way he does it, I hear, is this”—A note of professional interest crept into the captain’s voice.—“If he catches someone, first thing he does—no talk, no argument—is gouge one eye out. Then he still doesn’t talk, he reaches round and gets the man’s head ready for the next one. If the man thinks of something Ragnar really wants to know while he’s getting ready, all right, he’s in business. If he doesn’t, well, too bad. They say Ragnar wastes a lot of people, but then churls aren’t worth a lot on the block. They say he reckons it saves him a lot of time and breath.”

“And our prisoner has told you this is his view too?” It was one of the black monks who spoke, his voice dripping condescension. “In the course of a friendly discussion on professional matters?”

“No.” Cuthred took another pull at his ale. “But I looked at his nails. All clipped short. Except the right thumbnail. It’s been grown an inch long. Hard as steel. I got it here.” He tossed a bloody claw onto the table.

“So it’s Ragnar,” said King Ella in the silence. “So what do we do with him?”

The warriors exchanged puzzled looks. “Like you mean beheading’s too good for him?” ventured Cuthred. “We should hang him instead?”

“Or something worse?” put in one of the other nobles. “Like a runaway slave or something? Maybe the monks—what was that story about Holy Saint … Saint … ? The one with the gridiron, or …” His imagination ran out; he fell into silence.

“I have another idea,” said Ella. “We could let him go.”

Consternation faced him. The king leaned forward from his high seat, his sharp, mobile face and keen eyes passing to each man in turn.