The two men, the king and the prince, began slowly to thrash out a claim to territory, a likely dividing line. They had no image of the territory they were discussing, only knowledge that this river was north of that one, this town in this or that shire. The debate took even more toll of Ethelred’s waning strength.

“You’re sure they’ve split?” said Ivar Ragnarsson sharply.

The messenger nodded. “Almost half of them marched south. Maybe twelve long hundreds left behind.”

“But no quarrel?”

“No. The word in the camp was they had some scheme for getting the wealth of King Jatmund, whom you killed with the blood-eagle.”

“Nonsense,” snarled Ivar.

“You heard what they got from the raid on the minster at Beverley?” asked Halvdan Ragnarsson. “A hundred pounds of silver and the same again in gold. That’s more than we’ve taken anywhere. The boy is good at new schemes. You should have settled with him after the holmgang. He is a better friend than enemy.”

Ivar turned on his brother, eyes pale, face whitening in one of his celebrated rages. Halvdan stared back at him placidly. The Ragnarssons never fought each other. This was the secret of their power, even Ivar in his madness knew it. He would take his rage out on someone else in some other way. Another matter to keep secret. But they had done it before.”

“Only now he is an enemy,” said Sigurth decisively. “We have to decide if he is our main one at this moment. And if he is … Messenger, you can go.”

The brothers put their heads together in the little room off the drafty hall of King Ella in Eoforwich, and began to reckon numbers, rations, distances, possibilities.

“The wisdom of the serpent, the cunning of the dove,” said Erkenbert the archdeacon with satisfaction. “Already our enemies destroy themselves and each other.”

“Indeed,” agreed Wulfhere. “The heathen make much ado and the kingdoms are moved. But God hath showed his voice and the earth shall melt away.”

They spoke over the clanging of the dies, as each of the lay brothers in the monastic mint put his silver blank in place, struck it firmly with his hammer to drive the embossed design into one side. Moved it to the other die, struck again. First the spread-winged raven for the Ragnarssons. Then the letters S.P.M.—Sancti Petri Moneta. Collared slaves shuffled by, carrying man-loads of charcoal, rolling out carts of rejected lead, copper, slag. Only choirmonks touched the silver. They shared in the wealth of the minster. And any who thought for a moment of his own advantage could reflect on the Rule of Saint Benedict and the archbishop’s power of chastisement written into it. It was long since a choirmonk had been flogged to death in chapter, or bricked alive into the vaults. But such cases had been known.