“Fate is a bitch,” I said, then fell silent as Æthelhelm the Younger strode through the doors followed by a retinue of a dozen men. He looked at me, seemed startled, and abruptly swerved to avoid passing near me. He wore the red cloak of his household troops, though his cloak had a fine collar of fur and was clasped with gold. He strode to the front of the hall, and men who had taken benches there hurriedly moved to let him sit. “Do you know Grimbald?” I asked Brunulf.

“I know three men with that name,” he said.

“A follower of Æthelhelm,” I added.

He turned and looked into the hall. “There,” he said, nodding toward the benches that Æthelhelm had taken. “The man wearing a fox-fur cap.”

I looked. “The one with the flattened nose?”

“That’s him,” Brunulf said. “You heard his men got into a drunken brawl last night? Five of them died.”

“Who were they fighting?”

Brunulf looked at me suspiciously, but with a half-smile. “You mean you don’t know, lord?”

“Me?” I asked. “Fight? Whatever makes you think I’d be part of a drunken street brawl? I’m an ealdorman of Northumbria, I’m respectable.”

“Of course you are, lord.”

I left him by the door and pushed my way through the growing crowd to the front of the hall. Æthelhelm saw me coming and turned to have an intense conversation with the stern-looking priest who sat beside him. Grimbald, sitting just a few paces away, began to stand, then realized he could not escape me, and sat again. I stopped right in front of him and just looked down at him, saying nothing. He gazed at my belt buckle, a wolf’s head cast in bronze. All around us men fell silent. I saw Grimbald tremble, so I smiled, bent down, and whispered in his ear, “You’re a dead man.”

He did not move, just sat. I turned to Æthelhelm and smiled at him too. “Some time,” I said, “you really must visit Bebbanburg and meet your nephew. He’s a fine little boy. You know how I look forward to welcoming you.”

Æthelhelm could not ignore me. He stood. He was a good-looking man, maybe thirty years old, with a narrow face and haughty eyes. A servant must have shaved him that morning because there were two small razor nicks on his chin. There was gold at his neck, on his red cloak, and on his fingers. He took a step toward me, evidently eager for a confrontation, but just then a horn announced the arrival of King Edward, and the seated men in the great hall stood, snatched off their caps, and bowed toward the platform. The blaring horn forced Æthelhelm to turn away from me and bow, though his bow was little more than a cursory nod. I neither bowed nor nodded, but just turned and walked back to Sigtryggr. “I just made someone wet himself,” I said.

Sigtryggr ignored the boast. “Is that a king?” he asked derisively. He was looking at the platform.