“Enough,” said one of the other men he faced, thrusting a staff between his legs. The thane crashed down, started to scramble again to his feet. From his sleeve the first man jerked a short, limp canvas cylinder: the slave-taker’s sandbag. He swung once, to the temple, crouched, ready to swing again. As Hereswith fell forward on his face, to lie unmoving, he nodded, straightened, tucked the sandbag away, beckoned to the thane’s wife to come and treat him.

“Now,” said the stranger, turning to his fascinated but still unmoving audience. “Let me tell you who we are, and who we were.

“We are men of the Way, from the North-folk. But this time last year we were slaves of the Church. Slaves to the great minster of Ely. Let me tell you how we became free.”

The slaves in the crowd, maybe a dozen of the fifty men there and the same proportion of women, exchanged frightened glances.

“And to the freemen here,” went on Sibba, once slave of the minster of Ely, then catapulteer in the Army of the Way, veteran of the victory over Ivar the Boneless himself, “to the freemen here we will say how we were given our own land. Twenty acres each,” he added. “Free of toll to any lord, except the service we owe to Shef Jarl. And the service we give freely—freely, mark you—to the Way. Twenty acres. Unburdened. Is there any freeman here who can claim as much?”

This time the freemen in the crowd looked at each other, a low growl of interest rising. As Hereswith was dragged away, head lolling, his tenants edged closer to the new arrivals, ignoring the broadsword left forgotten in the dirt.

“How much does it cost you to follow Christ?” began Sibba. “Cost you in money? Listen and I will tell you …”

“They’re everywhere,” the bishop’s bailiff reported. “Thick as fleas on an old dog.”

Bishop Daniel’s brows knitted at his servant’s levity, but he held his tongue: he needed the information.

“Yes,” the bailiff went on, “all men from Norfolk, it seems, and all claiming to be freed slaves. It makes sense. See, your grace, we have a thousand slaves just on our own estates here round Winchester and in the minsters and shires. The man you speak of, the new jarl as the heathens call him—he could have sent three thousand slaves in here to spread his word from Norfolk alone, if he sent them all.”

“They must be caught,” Daniel grated. “Rooted out like corn-cockle from amid the wheat.”

“Not so easy. The slaves won’t hand them over, nor the churls, from what I hear. The thanes can’t catch ’em. If they do, they defend themselves. They never travel in less than pairs. Sometimes they group together to be a dozen, or a score, no light matter for a small village to deal with. And besides …”

“Besides what?”