“Does he have sense?”

“Daft as a turnip,” I said, and then started laughing. A group of women burdened with firewood had stepped off the road to kneel as we passed, and they looked up at me in astonishment. I waved at them. “We’re about to make some of them widows,” I said, still laughing.

“And that’s funny?”

I spurred Tintreg into a trot. “What’s funny,” I said, “is that we’re two old men riding to war.”

“You, maybe,” Finan said pointedly.

“You’re my age!”

“I’m not a grandfather!”

“You might be. You don’t know.”

“Bastards don’t count.”

“They do,” I insisted.

“Then you’re probably a great-grandfather by now.”

I gave him a harsh look. “Bastards don’t count,” I snarled, making him laugh, then he made the sign of the cross because we had reached the Roman cemetery that stretched either side of the road. There were ghosts here, ghosts wandering between the lichen-covered stones with their fading inscriptions that only Christian priests who understood Latin could read. Years before, in a fit of zeal, a priest had started throwing down the stones, declaring they were pagan abominations. That very same day he was struck down dead and ever since the Christians had tolerated the graves, which, I thought, must be protected by the Roman gods. Bishop Leofstan had laughed when I told him that story, and had assured me that the Romans were good Christians. “It was our god, the one true god, who slew the priest,” he had told me. Then Leofstan himself had died, struck down just as suddenly as the grave-hating priest. Wyrd bið ful āræd.

My men were strung out now, not quite in single file, but close. None wanted to ride too near the road’s verges because that was where the ghosts gathered. The long, straggling line of horsemen made us vulnerable, but the enemy seemed oblivious to our threat. We passed more women, all bent beneath great burdens of firewood they had cut from spinneys north of the graves. The nearest campfires were close now. The afternoon’s light was fading, though dusk was still an hour or more away. I could see men on the northern city wall, see their spears, and knew they must be watching us. They would think we were reinforcements come to help the besiegers.

I curbed Tintreg just beyond the old Roman cemetery to let my men catch up. The sight of the graves and thinking of Bishop Leofstan had brought back memories. “Remember Mus?” I asked Finan.

“Christ! How could anyone forget her?” He grinned. “Did you . . .” he began.

“Never. You?”

He shook his head. “Your son gave her a few good rides.”

I had left my son in command of the troops garrisoning Bebbanburg. “He’s a lucky boy,” I said. Mus, her real name was Sunngifu, was small like a mouse, and had been married to Bishop Leofstan. “I wonder where Mus is now?” I asked. I was still gazing at Ceaster’s northern wall, trying to estimate how many men stood guard on the ramparts. “More than I expected,” I said.