The door of the timber house opened and Hereswith marched out, followed by his wife and their gaggle of sons and daughters. As he saw the lowered eyes, the cleared space, the strangers, Hereswith stopped short, left hand dropping automatically to the handle of his broadsword.

“Why are you going to the church?” called out one of the strangers suddenly, his voice sending the pigeons pecking in the dirt into flight. “It’s a fine day. Wouldn’t you rather sit in the sun? Or work in the fields if you need to? Why walk three miles to Drayton and three miles back? And listen to a man tell you you must pay your tithes in between?”

“Who the hell are you?” snarled Hereswith, striding forward.

The stranger stood his ground, called out loudly so all could hear. His accent was strange, the villagers noticed. English, sure enough. But not from here, not from Berkshire. Not from Wessex?

“We are Alfred’s men. We have the king’s word and leave to speak here. Whose men are you? The bishop’s?”

“The hell you’re Alfred’s men,” grunted Hereswith, freeing his sword. “You’re foreigners. I can hear it.”

The strangers remained braced on their staves, unmoving.

“Foreigners we are. But we have come with leave, to bring a gift. The gift we bring is freedom: from the Church, from slavery.”

“You’ll not free my slaves without my leave,” said Hereswith, his mind made up. He swung his sword backhand in a horizontal cut at the nearer stranger’s neck.

The stranger moved instantly, hurling his strange metal-ribbed staff straight up. The sword clanged on the metal, rebounded out of Hereswith’s unpracticed hands. The thane crouched, groping for the hilt, eyes darting from one stranger to the other.

“Easy, lord,” said the man. “We mean you no harm either. If you’ll listen, we’ll tell you why your king has asked us to come here, and how we can be his men and foreigners at once.”

Nothing in Hereswith’s makeup urged him to listen or to compromise. He straightened, the sword again in his hand, and lashed out forehand at the knee. Again the staff blocked it, blocked it easily. As the thane recovered his blade, the man he had attacked stepped forward and pushed him back with the staff across his chest.

“Help me, you men,” bellowed Hereswith at the silent watchers, and charged forward, shoulder dropped and sword ready this time for a disemboweling thrust.