I looked too and was shocked. I had seen Edward the previous night, but he had been slumped on the table, his body cloaked, and his face half hidden, but now, in the sunlight coming through the large eastern windows, I could see him far more clearly. He had become fat, he limped, his dark hair was lank and gray under the emerald-encrusted crown, his beard was gray, and his once handsome face was lined and blotched. He could not live long, I thought, and when he died, the cockfight for the crown would begin.

I had thought the five chairs would be for Edward, his wife Eadgifu, and his eldest son Ælfweard, with one of the others to be offered to Sigtryggr, but I was wrong. Queen Eadgifu and Prince Ælfweard were indeed to sit at either side of the king, but the two outer chairs were reserved for the archbishops, who followed the royal family onto the platform, both men swathed in richly embroidered robes. I did not know the new Archbishop of Contwaraburg, Athelm, a West Saxon who had a lean, ascetic face and a beard long enough to hide the pectoral cross on his breast. He looked sternly into the hall before taking his seat, while Hrothweard of Eoferwic smiled at the assembly, then waited for Eadgifu to take her seat before sitting himself. “They brought their sorcerers,” Sigtryggr grumbled.

“They always do.” I looked around the hall, searching for Æthelstan, but to my surprise he was nowhere to be seen. I assumed he reckoned his father would not welcome him and so had stayed away. I leaned close to Sigtryggr. “Grimbald is on the front bench,” I whispered, “to the right of the hearth, he has a flattened nose and a fox-fur cap.” Sigtryggr just nodded.

The day’s business began, as it always did at a Witan, with a prayer and then a sermon. Athelm preached, and I wandered into the courtyard rather than listen to his tedious harangue. Sigtryggr, Svart, and Finan joined me, and we sat on the edge of a stone horse trough and I stopped a passing servant and demanded ale. Sigtryggr was apprehensive and sometimes paced the courtyard, watched by the royal guards who were posted all about the courtyard’s edge. We must have waited for at least an hour before a nervous steward came into the sunlight and bowed to Sigtryggr. “Lord King, your presence is requested.”

Sigtryggr rammed his crown over his unruly fair hair. “Shall we go?” he asked.

“Home?” Svart suggested.

“Into the hall,” Sigtryggr said grimly, and went to learn his fate. We followed and stood at the back of the hall as Sigtryggr, now escorted by two guards, walked through the benches, around the hearth, and took his place in front of the platform. Now, I thought, we would learn just what humiliation the Saxons would demand of him.

Hrothweard, Archbishop of York, had been deputed to tell Sigtryggr of Wessex’s terms, and that, at least, showed some tact on Edward’s part. Hrothweard knew Sigtryggr well, and the two men respected and liked each other. Sigtryggr ruled in a city that had far more Christians than pagans, and he had ever followed Hrothweard’s advice on how to curb antagonisms between the two, while the archbishop sternly demanded of his clergy that they did not preach hate against their fellow Northumbrians. Now Hrothweard smiled at Sigtryggr. “It is good to see you here, lord King,” he said. He spoke in Danish, which surprised me.