“I am he who will govern Christ’s kingdom on earth! I am the Lord’s anointed!”

“Father Swithred,” I intervened, “meet Bishop Ieremias.”

Swithred’s reaction was all I could have wished for. He took another backward step, sketched the sign of the cross toward Ieremias, and looked furious. “You heretic!” he spat. “You disciple of Satan!”

“Bishop Ieremias,” I rubbed salt into Swithred’s wounded pride, “is my tenant on Lindisfarena. You owe me rent, bishop.”

“The Lord will provide,” Ieremias said airily.

“You said that six months ago, and the Lord still hasn’t provided.”

“I will remind Him,” Ieremias said. In truth I never expected any rent from Ieremias, and I was not at all sure that Lindisfarena was mine to let anyway. It was church land, the home of Saint Cuthbert’s great monastery that had been ransacked and burned by the Danes a generation before. The church had yet to reoccupy the island, which, by tradition, fell under the protection of Bebbanburg and, much to the fury of most churchmen, I had allowed Ieremias and his followers to settle in the ruins of the old monastic house. Their fury, I suspected, was because Ieremias was about as good a Christian as I was.

His real name was Dagfinnr Gundarson, but Jarl Dagfinnr the Dane had turned himself into Ieremias, a self-appointed bishop. He had served Ragnar the Younger, whose father had raised me, and one morning Dagfinnr had appeared naked in Dunholm’s great hall and announced that he was now the son of the Christian god and had adopted the name Ieremias and demanded that Ragnar, a pagan, should worship him. Brida, Ragnar’s woman and a hater of all Christians, insisted that Dagfinnr should be put to death, but Ragnar had been amused and let Ieremias live. The bishop was mad, of course, but even the moon-touched can make some sense, and Ieremias had thrived. He had owned a ship that he renamed Guds Moder and used it to fish, and his success attracted a following of landless men and women whom he called his flock. “I have brought you a message from God, lord,” he now said, waving the angry Swithred to one side and explaining his visit to me, “but first I must tell you, with great joy, that the flock has been diligent and made salt, which you may buy from us.”

“I already have salt, bishop.”

“He’s no bishop!” Swithred hissed.

“May the devil fart in your mouth,” Ieremias said loftily, “and worms shit in your soup.” He turned back to me. “My salt is no common salt, lord. It is blessed by our Redeemer. It is our Savior’s salt.” He smiled triumphantly. “If you buy it, lord,” he added slyly, “I will have silver to give you as rent!”

I sometimes thought he was not mad at all, and, like Ragnar, I was amused by him. “I gave you silver last week,” I reminded him, “for the herring and salmon.”

“I gave those coins to the poor, lord, as the Lamb of God commanded me.”