“I don’t know,” I said, which was true, yet the long, sad face was somehow familiar. She glanced at me and seemed to recognize me, then quickly looked away as the cart lurched again. She appeared to be holding back tears. The older woman had just put an arm around the younger’s shoulders, while the priest was murmuring to her, presumably trying to comfort her.

“Damn, but she’s ugly,” Sigtryggr said. “She looks like a horse.”

“She’s cold and unhappy,” I said.

“So she looks like a cold and miserable horse.”

We followed the cart and its escort up the hill, through the arch where our swords were taken from us, and so to the great hall where smoke from damp firewood swirled among the high rafters. The tables had been stacked to one side and the benches had been arranged in a half circle around the big hearth to face the platform, where five high-backed chairs were draped with deep scarlet cloths. Close to a hundred men had already arrived and were sitting as near to the fire as they could, though a few were standing and talking quietly. They looked at us as we entered, recognized us, and started whispering. To most of these men we were the strangest of creatures; pagans, the dwellers of their bad dreams come to life.

“Where do we sit?” Sigtryggr asked.

“We don’t,” I said, “not yet.” The nobles of Edward’s three kingdoms would occupy the benches, and to let Sigtryggr sit with the ealdormen, bishops, and abbots would be to diminish his status. I assumed the platform was for royalty and, though Sigtryggr was undoubtedly royal, I did not want him to take one of the chairs and then be publicly ordered to leave it. He had attended a Witan before, at Huntandun, where he had sat on the dais with Edward, but on that occasion he had been a guest of Æthelflaed, and she had possessed a courtesy her brother lacked. If Edward wanted the King of Northumbria in a place of honor he would extend the invitation, and if not, then it was better that we should stand apart at the rear of the hall. “You know what you’re to say?” I asked him.

“Of course I know. You’ve told me ten times. Twenty times.” He was nervous and irritable, and I could not blame him. He was being treated with disdain, humiliated by Saxons. More men were arriving in the hall, and I saw how they looked at Sigtryggr with both curiosity and amusement. They had spent their whole existence in an unending war between the Christians and the pagans, and now the last pagan king was standing like a supplicant at the back of the king’s hall.

I saw Brunulf Torkelson, a West Saxon whose life I had saved, enter through the great doors and, leaving Sigtryggr flanked by Finan and the enormous Svart, I crossed to Brunulf’s side. He was carrying a spear and shield because he was one of the royal guards who would either line the hall’s sides or else stand in front of the platform. He greeted me warmly. “I heard you were here, lord, and hoped to meet you.” He hesitated, then frowned. “And I heard about your daughter, lord. I am sorry.”