“Thank him for what?” I asked once I had dismounted.

“For not joining the rebellion, of course!” Æthelstan said.

Ingilmundr waited as one of Æthelstan’s men translated the words, then took a simple wooden box from one of his companions. “It is a gift,” he said, “to celebrate your victory. It is not much, lord Prince, but it is much of all that we possess.” He knelt again and laid the box at Æthelstan’s feet. “We are glad, lord Prince,” he went on, “that your enemies are defeated.”

“Without your help,” I could not resist saying as Æthelstan listened to the translation.

“The strong do not need the help of the weak,” Ingilmundr retorted. He looked up at me as he spoke, and I was struck by the intensity of his blue eyes. He was smiling, he was humble, but his eyes were guarded. He had come with just four companions, and, like them, he wore plain breeches, a woolen shirt, and a coat of sheepskin. No armor, no weapons. His only decorations were two amulets hanging at his neck. One, carved from bone, was Thor’s hammer, while the other was a silver cross studded with jet. I had never seen any man display both tokens at once.

Æthelstan raised the Norseman again. “You must forgive the Lord Uhtred,” he said. “He sees enemies everywhere.”

“You are Lord Uhtred!” Ingilmundr said, and there was a flattering surprise and even awe in his voice. He bowed to me. “I am honored, lord.”

Æthelstan gestured, and a servant came forward and opened the wooden box, which, I saw, was filled with hacksilver. The glittering scraps had been cut from torques and brooches, buckles and rings, most of them ax-hacked into shards that were used instead of coins. A merchant would weigh hacksilver to find its value, and Ingilmundr’s gift, I thought grudgingly, was not paltry. “You are generous,” Æthelstan said.

“We are poor, lord Prince,” Ingilmundr said, “but our gratitude demands we offer you a gift, however small.”

And in his steadings, I thought, he was doubtless hoarding gold and silver. Why did Æthelstan not see that? Perhaps he did, but his pious hopes of converting the pagans exceeded his suspicions. “In an hour,” he said to Ingilmundr, “we will have a service of thanksgiving in the hall. I hope you can attend and I hope you will listen to the words Father Swithred will preach. In those words is eternal life!”

“We shall listen closely, lord Prince,” Ingilmundr said earnestly, and I wanted to laugh aloud. He was saying everything Æthelstan wanted to hear, and though it was plain Æthelstan liked the young Norseman, it was equally plain he did not see the slyness behind Ingilmundr’s handsome face. He saw meekness, which the Christians ridiculously count as a virtue.

The meek Ingilmundr sought me out after Swithred’s interminable sermon, which I had not attended. I was on Brunanburh’s wharf, idly gazing into the belly of a ship and dreaming of being at sea with the wind in my sail and a sword at my side when I heard footsteps on the wooden planks and turned to see the Norseman. He was alone. He stood beside me and for a moment said nothing. He was as tall as I was. We both gazed into the moored ship and, after a long moment, Ingilmundr broke our silence. “Saxon ships are too heavy.”