“I will give you a house for your stay,” Osferth said as he slid wearily from the saddle and let a servant take his horse’s bridle.

A second servant took Tintreg in hand as I dismounted. “We won’t stay long,” I said, wincing at the aches in my back.

“Your horses need rest,” Osferth insisted, “and you need rest.” That was true. Even Tintreg, a hardy beast, had stumbled more than once as we approached the burh, and was sweating and panting.

“Two days,” I said reluctantly, “then I need to join Sigtryggr.”

Osferth hesitated, and I knew he wanted to mention the Witan again and encourage me to attend, but he seemed to acknowledge his words would be wasted. “Bettic will show you to your quarters,” he said instead, nodding at his steward, a one-eyed man with a limp.

“And my men?”

“Will be fed and sheltered,” Osferth said. He was already distracted by two young priests bringing him sheets of parchment. “We shall eat in the hall!” he called as he hurried away.

“He’s like his father,” I said to the steward.

“A pity he doesn’t wear his father’s crown, lord,” Bettic said.

I made sure my men had food and somewhere to rest, gave them a pointless warning about picking fights in the taverns, then followed Bettic to a house on the southern side of the fort. It was one of the buildings that had kept their Roman walls, though the plaster had fallen away and the roof was thatch. There was a small outer room that I guessed had been a shop, and a larger inner chamber where there was a bed, a stool, a table, rushes on the floor, and a hearth. The weather had warmed and I refused Bettic’s offer of a fire. Rorik, my servant, had followed us. “Fetch me something to eat,” I ordered him, “and some ale. Some for yourself too.”

“I’ll show you where to find food, lad.” Bettic had seen Rorik’s confusion.

“Where did you lose the eye?” I asked the steward.

“East Anglia, lord. A nasty fight two years ago.”

“I missed it,” I said. I had been in Ceaster for most of the time that Edward had spent conquering East Anglia.

“And more’s the pity,” Bettic said. He went silent, but I looked at him quizzically and he shrugged. “The king lined us in front of a ditch, lord. The Danes pushed us back and we lost good men.”

“In front of the ditch? Not behind it?”

“He reckoned it would stop us retreating.”

“I had hopes of him once,” I said bleakly.

“He beat the Danes in the end,” Bettic said, but it was half-hearted praise. “I’ll show your boy where to find food, lord.”

Once he was gone I unbuckled my sword belt, pulled my heavy mail with its greasy leather liner over my head, then lay on the bed and stared at the dirty thatch. I tried to summon Stiorra’s face and could not. I remembered her vivacity, her quick smile, her sense. Where were her children now? I closed my eyes tight, reluctant to let the tears fall. I clutched the hammer tightly enough to hurt my fingers. The curse had struck, but was it finished? I had just wasted weeks of my life by crossing Britain to rescue a man who did not need rescuing, then pursuing an enemy halfway to Eoferwic, only to be stranded in this Mercian burh where a bell was ringing to summon the faithful to midday prayers. I thought of Bebbanburg, where the endless sea beat on the sand, where the wind blew about the hall, and where I should be at this moment.