“He took his men into the royal chapel, lord.” Harald nodded across the courtyard where an open door led into a chamber lit by candles. I could just hear the low chanting of monks beneath the insistent seethe of hard rain. So Æthelhelm would claim he was at his prayers while his men hunted me through Tamweorthin’s dark streets.

I gave Harald another coin, then the three of us left the palace. For a moment we sheltered from the rain by lingering under the big arch where burning torches guttered in the wind. The town lay dark beneath us, stinking of sewage and smoke. “You think Æthelhelm’s men have had time—” Berg began, then was interrupted by Finan.

“We were summoned over an hour ago,” the Irishman said. “So the bastard has had plenty time enough to send his dogs into the town.”

“But where?” I asked. The rain still pelted down. We were talking beneath the palace arch, and must have been visible to anyone in the lower town, so I moved into the rain and a deeper darkness where the old fort’s turf ridge stood at the top of the steep slope. “He won’t attack us close to the palace.”

“He won’t?” Berg asked.

“Too many royal guards within earshot.”

“So his men are waiting in the town?”

“Sigtryggr’s out there too,” Finan said, crouching beside me.

“But he can’t see us and we can’t see him.”

I was in a bitter mood. Brother Beadwulf had led me a dance across Britain, my daughter had died, Sköll had escaped my vengeance, and Eadgifu had toyed with me for her own ambitions. Now Æthelhelm was taking me for a fool, and I suspected his men were waiting for us. Or were they? The night was so foul and dark, perhaps he had decided to wait.

There had been a time when I was proud of my ability to stalk the night as a sceadugenga, a shadow-walker, but in this relentless downpour I would not stalk anyone, merely blunder. I cursed, then Finan touched my elbow. “Listen!” I listened and heard nothing but the beat of rain on the thatch below us. Finan must have had better hearing. “Who is it?” he called.

“Me, lord!” a voice called, and I dimly saw a shadowy figure scrambling up the slope. It was Rorik, my servant. He almost slipped back down the slick turf, but I grabbed his wrist and hauled him to the top. “King Sigtryggr sent me, lord.”

“Where is he?”

“Down there, lord,” Rorik said, and I suppose he pointed at the lower town, though much good that did us in the darkness. “He says there are seven men waiting in Saint Ælfthryth’s church, lord.”

“Do they have red cloaks?”

“I didn’t see them, lord.”

“And where’s this church?”

“Right there, lord! The closest church.”

“In the metalworkers’ street?” Finan asked.

“Yes, lord.”

“And Sigtryggr’s where?” I asked.

“He just said to tell you that he’s close by and waiting, lord.”