“But it seems that this caused dissension among the heathens. Indeed there is a strange story that the execution was put to an end by a machine of some kind. Everything at Eoforwich seems to have something about machines attached to it.

“Yet the important news is the dissension. For after it the Viking army split.”

Mutters of surprise and pleasure.

“Some of them have now left Eoforwich and are marching south. A lesser part of the Army, but still formidable. Where, I must ask myself, are they heading? And I say, they are heading back to East Anglia, from where they came.”

“Back to their ships,” snapped Alfgar.

“That could well be. Now, I do not think the East Anglians will fight them again. They lost their king and too many leaders, thanes and warriors in the battle by the Stour, from which you, young man, so valiantly fought your way. Yet, as you have all been telling me,” Burgred glanced sarcastically at Alfred, “the Vikings must be fought.

“So I shall send East Anglia a war-leader, with a strong force of my men to support him till he can rally his own.

“You, young man. Alfgar, son of Wulfgar. You are of the North-folk. Your father was a thane of King Edmund. Your family has lost more, suffered more and dared more than any other. You will put the kingdom back on its feet.

“Only it can no longer be a kingdom.”

Burgred locked eyes with the young atheling, Alfred of Wessex: eyes as blue and hair as blond as Alfgar’s, a true prince of a royal line. But something queer, cross-grained about him. A clever look. They both knew that this was the sticking point. Burgred of Mercia had no more claim to East Anglia than Ethelred of Wessex. Yet the one who filled the gap would clearly become the mightier of the two.

“What would my title be?” asked Alfgar carefully.

“Alderman. Of the North-folk and the South-folk.”

“Those are two shires,” objected Alfred. “A man cannot be alderman of two shires at once.”

“New times, new things,” replied Burgred. “But what you say is true. In time, Alfgar, you may win a new title. You may be what the priests call subregulus. You may be my under-king. Say, will you be loyal to me and to Mercia? to the Mark?”

Alfgar knelt silently at the king’s feet and put his hands between the king’s knees in token of subjection. The king patted his shoulder and lifted him up.