I stood and walked to the hall door. I pulled it open and just stared at the glow of fire above the eastern ramparts. Much of that glow came from the encampment where Cynlæf’s men sheltered from the snow that was slanting fast from the north. Braziers burned on the ramparts, where cloaked spearmen kept a watch on the cowed enemy. The brighter light of two flaming torches just outside the hall’s great doors showed the new snow piling against the house walls.

So Brother Osric had lied. We had brought the monk south with us, but I had gotten tired of his endless complaining about the cold and about his saddle sores, and we had let him leave us at Mameceaster, where, he claimed, the church would shelter him. I should have killed the bastard instead. I shivered, suddenly feeling the night’s cold. “Rorik,” I shouted back into the hall, “bring my cloak!”

Brother Osric had lied. The monk had told me that Æthelstan had fewer than a hundred warriors, but in truth he had twice as many, which was still a very small garrison for a place the size of Ceaster, but enough to stave off the feeble assaults Cynlæf had made. Brother Osric had told me the garrison was starving, but in truth they had storehouses still half-full with last year’s harvest. A lie had brought me to Ceaster, but why?

“Your cloak, lord,” a mocking voice said, and I turned to see it was Prince Æthelstan himself who had brought me the heavy fur garment. He was cloaked himself. He nodded to one of the sentries to close the hall door behind us, then stood beside me to watch the snow fall soft and relentless. “I didn’t send for you,” he said, draping the thick fur across my shoulders, “but thank you for coming.”

“So who did send the monk?” I asked.

“Maybe no one.”

“No one?”

Æthelstan shrugged. “Perhaps the monk knew of the siege, wanted to summon help, but knew you’d mistrust him, so he invented the tale of Father Swithred.”

I shook my head. “He wasn’t that clever. And he was frightened.”

“You frighten many Christians,” Æthelstan said drily.

I stared at the snow whirling around the corner of the house opposite. “I should go to Hwite,” I said.

“Hwite? Why?”

“Because the monk came from the monastery there.”

“There’s no monastery at Hwite,” Æthelstan said. “I’d like to build one, but . . .” his voice trailed away.

“The bastard lied,” I said vengefully. “I should have known!”

“Known? How?”

“He said Father Swithred walked south from here. How could he? The bridge was broken. And why send Swithred? You’d have sent a younger man.”

Æthelstan shivered. “Why would the monk lie? Maybe he just wanted to summon help.”

“Summon help,” I said scornfully. “No, the bastard wanted to get me away from Bebbanburg.”

“So someone can attack it?”

“No. Bebbanburg won’t fall.” I had left my son in command, and he had twice as many warriors as he needed to hold that gaunt and forbidding fortress.