He hesitated, tempted to defiance, then decided sense was the better choice. “Helmstan,” he muttered. I waited and saw the resentment in his eyes. “Lord,” he added.

“Who do you serve?”

Again the hesitation, and it was the second man, younger and more frightened, who stammered the answer. “Grimbald, lord.”

“Grimbald,” I repeated the name, which was unfamiliar to me. “And who does Grimbald serve?” I asked. Helmstan was scowling at his companion and said nothing so I drew Wasp-Sting, my short-sword, and smiled at him. “This one hasn’t drawn blood tonight, and she’s thirsty.”

The priest started a protest, but went silent when I turned Wasp-Sting’s blade toward him. “Who does Grimbald serve?” I asked again.

“Grimbald serves Lord Æthelhelm, lord,” Helmstan said reluctantly.

“Did Grimbald lead you tonight?”

“No, lord.”

“Who did?”

“Torthred, lord.”

It was not a name I knew, and I assumed whoever Torthred was he was now dead in the street. “Did Torthred serve Grimbald?” I asked.

“Yes, lord.”

“And what were your orders tonight?” I asked. Neither man answered, so I took a pace toward them and lifted Wasp-Sting. “They call me the priest-killer,” I said. “Do you think I care a rat’s arse about sanctuary?”

“We were ordered to kill you, lord,” the more frightened man whispered the words. He moaned when I placed Wasp-Sting’s blade on his bruised cheek.

I left the blade there for a few heartbeats, then stepped back and sheathed the seax. “Tell Grimbald,” I told both men, “that he has two new enemies. Uhtred of Bebbanburg and Sigtryggr of Northumbria. Now go.”

They went.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“If we’re to crush Sköll,” Sigtryggr told me the next morning, “we must have peace with Edward. I can fight one or the other, not both.”

“Edward’s ill,” I said, “he won’t fight.”

“You’re certain of that?” Sigtryggr challenged me, and all I could do was shrug. “He might be ill,” Sigtryggr went on, “but his armies aren’t.” He paused as Svart opened the tavern’s shutters to let in sunlight. The rain had stopped. Sigtryggr leaned forward to blow out a rushlight. “If Edward can’t lead his armies,” he said gloomily, “his ealdormen can.”

“They’re fighting like starving dogs over who inherits the throne.”

“And the sure way to unite them,” Sigtryggr said, “is to give them a common enemy, me.” He speared a slab of bacon with his knife and stared at it moodily. “Why does he want peace? Why doesn’t he just invade?”

“Because his kingdom is a mess,” I said. “The Mercians are still grumbling, the East Anglian Danes are restless, he’s got a new wife with tits that smell of lavender, and he fears us.”

“Fears us?”

“Suppose he invades,” I suggested. “Suppose he marches an army north through Lindcolne and we beat his bones to powder?”

“Can we?” he asked gloomily. “They’ll outnumber us.”

“They’re Saxons,” Svart growled, “of course we can beat them.”

“He’ll outnumber us,” I allowed, “but you know as well as I do that numbers aren’t everything. He thinks he can beat us, but he isn’t certain of it.” I tore off a hunk of stale bread, decided I wasn’t hungry, and threw it to one of the tavern’s dogs. “And remember,” I went on, “we’re the dreaded Northmen. When I was a young man we reckoned a Danish warrior was worth three Saxons.”