It was my turn to make a scornful noise. “I’m going to Eoferwic, Mus. Eoferwic and Bebbanburg. I’m going home.”

“I don’t think you are, lord,” Mus said quietly.

“You don’t?” At first I thought I had misheard her, then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what you think, Mus, I must leave, I have to find Sigtryggr. I don’t want to waste time, so believe me, we’re going to Eoferwic.”

“Then you won’t find King Sigtryggr there, lord, because he’s been summoned to Tamweorthin.”

I just stared at her. “Summoned?”

“Invited, lord.”

“Sigtryggr! To Tamweorthin?” Tamweorthin was a Mercian burh, a place that Æthelflaed had been fond of, and a place where there was a palace fit for a king. “How do you know?” I asked, still struggling to understand her news.

“I serve in the hall. You’d be surprised at the things we hear. Men think we don’t exist except to serve them, and not just food and ale.”

“Who invited him?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Tamweorthin, like Gleawecestre or Wintanceaster or Lundene, was one of the few burhs where royalty could live in the luxury they loved.

“King Edward, of course,” Mus said, “he wants King Sigtryggr to be at the Easter meeting of the Witan, so you won’t have to leave for at least a week, lord, and that will give you time to talk to Wynflæd.”

I stood and snarled. The impudence of Wessex! The only reason for Edward to invite Sigtryggr to a meeting of the Witan was to demand his fealty! To humiliate him publicly and make him a client king! “He won’t go,” I said angrily.

“Edward?”

“Sigtryggr. He won’t go.”

“But if he does, lord, will you speak to Wynflæd?” She hesitated. “Please, lord, for me?”

“For you, Mus,” I growled, “yes. But I’m still leaving for Eoferwic in two days.”

“Why?”

“Because Sigtryggr won’t submit to Edward.”

And at nightfall a messenger came to the hall from Æthelstan in Ceaster.

The message merely confirmed that Æthelstan was attending the Witan in Tamweorthin, and that, by the grace of God, King Sigtryggr of Northumbria had accepted King Edward’s summons to attend. The message requested that the priests, monks, nuns, and laity of Mameceaster pray for the success of the Witan’s deliberations.

So Sigtryggr was ready to grovel, and I had to talk to the squirrel.

There are two ways to hang a man, a quick way and a slow way, the first gives a merciful death, and the second provokes a dance of agony.

On the morning after our arrival, Osferth gave judgment in Mameceaster’s great hall, a gaunt and dark building of oak and thatch built on a Roman floor of stone. There were few prisoners, most of whom were accused of thievery, and those were condemned to a whipping in the square that stood between the hall and the new church. Father Oda promised to pray for each man, though much good that does when the lash is ripping the flesh off the bones.