“You being the poor?” I asked.

“The Son of Man hath nowhere to lay His head,” Ieremias said mysteriously, then turned on Swithred, who was looking appalled. “Are you married?”

“I am not,” Swithred said stiffly.

“I find a wife’s breasts make a fine pillow,” Ieremias said brightly. “Our Lord should have married. He’d have slept better.”

“Heretic,” Swithred spat.

“May maggots crawl up your arse,” Ieremias said, then turned to me, and for a moment I thought he was going to ask me about Eadith’s breasts, but it seemed he had other matters on his mind. “You have heard of Sköll the Norseman, lord?”

I was startled by the question. “Of course I have.”

“The heathen tyrant who calls himself a king,” Ieremias said scornfully. He had changed to his native Danish, presumably because he did not want Swithred to follow the conversation. “He is an enemy of God, lord. Have you met him?”

“I have.”

“And you live! God be praised!”

“How do you know of Sköll?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “How do I know? Lord, you do speak to your servants, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, I am God’s servant.”

“And he talks to you?”

“Of course he does! And at great length.” He glanced at Father Swithred as if to make sure the priest was not understanding what we said. “God brings me tidings, lord, but there are times,” he had lowered his voice, “when I wish He would speak less. I’m not married to Him!”

“So you’ve heard stories of Sköll,” I said, trying to move the conversation on. I doubted Ieremias’s god had whispered the news to him, but lurid tales of Sköll’s cruelty were spreading across Northumbria and could easily have reached Lindisfarena.

“The heathen has come from his high place,” Ieremias intoned, “and it is the Lord’s will that you smite him. That is God’s message for you, lord, that you smite him!” He hitched up his mud-stained cassock to reveal a pouch hanging from the belt of his breeches. He fished in the pouch and brought out a stone about the size of a walnut, which he offered to me. “This, lord, will assist in the smiting.”

“A pebble?” I asked.

“That, lord,” he said in an awed tone, “is the very same sling-stone with which David slew Goliath!”

I took the stone, which looked exactly like a million others on Lindisfarena’s beaches. I knew Ieremias collected relics, all of them worthless, but all, in his mind, were real and sacred. “Are you sure you want me to carry this?” I asked.

“God commanded me to give it to you, lord, to grant you great smiting. That stone is a very holy and very precious object and will give you the power to overcome all enemies.” He made the sign of the cross, and Father Swithred hissed disapproval. “Turds spew from your tongue,” Ieremias spoke English again, glaring at Swithred.

I thought back to something Ieremias had said a moment before. “You mentioned a high place.”