“Still pious,” he said curtly.

“Like her brother and her grandfather.”

“She doesn’t cry as much as she did. She endures me,” he said wryly, “and she even nags me!”

“Nags you?”

“She says I should wash more often. And you were right. She’s clever.”

“So you like her,” I said, amused.

“I feel sorry for her. She’s married to an unwashed king in a dying kingdom.”

“Now you’re the one talking nonsense,” I said.

But I feared he spoke the truth. Wyrd bið ful āræd.

I could not sleep that night in Heagostealdes, and for a time I walked the small streets wondering if Sigtryggr was right in thinking that Sköll had only ridden to Bebbanburg because he feared his own sorcerer’s prophecy. I wanted to believe that and searched for an omen, but found none.

There was a monastery in Heagostealdes, a surprisingly lavish building, and I heard singing as I neared it. The monastery’s outer gate was open and I walked to the big church from which candlelight leaked through a high arched doorway. I stood under the arch and saw that at least a hundred warriors were inside, kneeling on the flagstones with their heads bowed as they listened to the chanting of monks. Some went on their knees to the altar and kissed the white cloth, and I knew they were preparing themselves for death.

“You can go in,” an amused voice spoke behind me.

I turned and saw it was Father Swithred, the priest who had brought the message from Æthelhelm and who had ridden this far with us. In the morning he would carry on south to Mercia, while we struck westward.

“I like listening,” I said.

“It is a beautiful sound,” he agreed.

I nodded at the candlelit nave. “You know who those men are?”

“Warriors of Northumbria?”

“Half are mine,” I said, “and the other half? Some of them follow Jarl Sihtric, others are sworn to King Sigtryggr.”

“You want me to be impressed, lord,” he said drily, and for once he did not leave a pause before saying “lord.”

“Do I?”

“That Christians follow you, a pagan.”

I shrugged. “They do.”

“But what choice do you have?” Swithred asked. “If you refused to let Christians serve, then your armies would be weaker. They would be too weak. You keep your power, lord, because of Christians. You need Christian help.” He paused, wanting me to say something, but I kept silent. “Your son is in there, yes?” he asked, nodding at the kneeling men.

“Probably.”

“So one day, lord, Bebbanburg will be Christian too.”

“But my son,” I said angrily, “will still employ pagans.”

“Not if he’s a good son of the church, lord.”

Swithred had never liked me and he had succeeded in nettling me. I touched the hammer at my breast. “None of us knows the future,” I said curtly, and thought of three kings in the place of the eagle.

“But we do, lord,” Swithred said softly.

“We do?”