“Sköll has really killed your missionaries?” I asked Swithred. I talked to him in the sunlight outside the great hall. I had sent his escort and the nervous young priest to find food and ale.

“He has martyred them,” Swithred said in disgust.

“Strange,” I said, “because some Christian Saxons have allied with him.”

“The devil stalks the land,” Swithred said, “and works his mischief.”

I read the letter again. It was formal and cold, which suggested to me it was not Æthelstan’s work, even though it bore his seal and signature, but had probably been written by a priest. “Did you write this?” I asked Swithred.

“To the prince’s orders, yes.”

“And a copy was sent to King Edward?”

“Of course.” I waited until at last, reluctantly, “Lord.”

The letter, I thought, was really intended for Edward, assuring him of Æthelstan’s loyalty, but nevertheless it confirmed that Sköll was getting stronger, and it also hinted that Sköll’s savagery might give the Saxons reason to declare that the treaty had been broken and so provide them with an excuse to invade Cumbraland, and, if that invasion happened, Northumbria would never again rule the western part of its own land. By conquest it would become a part of Saxon Englaland.

“I trust you will extirpate this heathen,” Father Swithred said when I had finished reading, then added, again reluctantly, “lord.”

“I am sworn to kill him,” I said curtly. I did not need a Saxon priest to tell me my duty.

“You say that and you do nothing!” Swithred retorted, and then his eyes opened in amazement as a gangly man climbed the steps to the rock platform in front of Bebbanburg’s great hall where we talked.

The approaching man had white hair that hung to his waist and an aged face that was alight with enthusiasm, but what had astonished Father Swithred were the man’s clothes, for he was dressed in a cassock, a chasuble, a pallium, and a miter, and he carried a bishop’s crozier in his left hand, while on his right he wore a heavy silver ring studded with amber. He seemed excited to see Father Swithred, and, ignoring me, held his right hand toward the tall priest. “Kiss it!” he ordered. “Kiss it, man!” Father Swithred was so taken aback and, perhaps, so overwhelmed by the stranger’s radiant garments, that he half bowed and dutifully kissed the bishop’s ring. “Have you come from Rome?” the long-haired man demanded sternly.

“No,” Swithred stammered, still confused.

“You’re not from Rome!” The newcomer was outraged.

“From Ceaster.”

“What earthly or heavenly use is Ceaster! The papal throne is in Rome, you benighted fool, you goat-dropping, you spawn of Beelzebub! The keys of the fisherman shall be mine. God has decreed it!”

Father Swithred, hearing the man speaking English with a Danish accent, was recovering his wits. He stepped back, frowning. There were enough Danes who had become Christians, but none, so far as I knew, had yet been made into a bishop. “Who are you?” Swithred demanded.