“They are in God’s hand,” concluded the archbishop. “Surely a divine vengeance will fall upon those who stole the goods of St. John’s at Beverley.”

“But God’s hand shows itself through the hands of others,” said Erkenbert. “And we must call for help from those.”

“The kings of the Mark and of Wessex?”

“A mightier power than they.”

Wulfhere looked down with surprise, doubt, comprehension. Erkenbert nodded.

“I have drafted a letter, for your seal. To Rome.”

Pleasure showed on Wulfhere’s face, perhaps anticipation of the much-rumored pleasures of the Holy City. “A vital matter,” he announced. “I shall take the letter to Rome myself. In person.”

Shef stared thoughtfully at the reverse side of his mappa, the map of England. Halfway through his work he had discovered the concept of scale, too late to apply consistently. Suffolk now bulked incongruously large, taking up a whole quadrant of the vellum. At one edge was his detailed drawing of all the information he had been able to wring out about the north bank of the Deben.

It fits, he thought. There is the town Woodbridge. That is in the first line of the poem, and the line must mean the town, because otherwise it would make no sense: all bridges are wood bridges. But more important is what the thrall says about the place, with no name, downstream of the bridge and the ford. That is where the barrows are, the resting place of the old kings. And who are the old kings? The slave knew no names, but the thane of Helmingham, who sold us mead, listed the ancestors of Raedwald the Great, and among them were Wiglaf and his father Weohstan: Wuffa, then, Wehha’s offspring.

If the slave had remembered well, then there were four barrows together in a line running roughly south to north. The northmost of those. That was the place of the hoard.

Why had it not been plundered? If King Edmund had known it was the secret hiding place of the treasures of his realm, why was it not guarded?

Or maybe it was guarded. But not by men. That was what the slave had thought. When he had realized what Shef intended to do he had grown silent. Now no one could find him. He had preferred to take his chances of recapture than go to rob the grave.

Shef turned his attention to practicalities. Diggers, guards. Spades, robes, boxes and slings for hauling up earth from deep down. Lights—he had no intention of digging in daylight with an interested county watching.

“Tell me, Thorvin,” he said. “What do you think we might find inside this barrow? Other than gold, we hope.”

“A ship,” said Thorvin briefly.

“Close on a mile from the water?”