“More?”

“Men on the wall,” I explained. I could see at least forty men on the ramparts, and knew there must be just as many on the eastern wall, which faced the bulk of the enemy.

“Maybe they were reinforced?” Finan suggested.

“Or the monk was wrong, which wouldn’t surprise me.”

A monk had come to Bebbanburg with news of Ceaster’s siege. We already knew of the Mercian rebellion, of course, and we had welcomed it. It was no secret that Edward, who now styled himself King of the Angles and Saxons, wanted to invade Northumbria and so make that arrogant title come true. Sigtryggr, my son-in-law and King of Northumbria, had been preparing for that invasion, fearing it too, and then came the news that Mercia was tearing itself apart, and that Edward, far from invading us, was fighting to hold onto his new lands. Our response was obvious; do nothing! Let Edward’s realm tear itself into shreds, because every Saxon warrior who died in Mercia was one less man to bring a sword into Northumbria.

Yet here I was, on a late winter’s afternoon beneath a darkening sky, coming to fight in Mercia. Sigtryggr had not been happy, and his wife, my daughter, even unhappier. “Why?” she had demanded.

“I took an oath,” I had told them both, and that had stilled their protests.

Oaths are sacred. To break an oath is to invite the anger of the gods, and Sigtryggr had reluctantly agreed to let me relieve the siege of Ceaster. Not that he could have done much to stop me; I was his most powerful lord, his father-in-law, and the Lord of Bebbanburg, indeed he owed me his kingdom, but he insisted I take fewer than a hundred warriors. “Take more,” he had said, “and the damned Scots will come over the frontier.” I had agreed. I led just ninety men, and with those ninety I intended to save King Edward’s new kingdom.

“You think Edward will be grateful?” my daughter had asked, trying to find some good news in my perverse decision. She was thinking that Edward’s gratitude might persuade him to abandon his plans to invade Northumbria.

“Edward will think I’m a fool.”

“You are!” Stiorra had said.

“Besides, I hear he’s sick.”

“Good,” she had said vengefully. “Maybe his new wife has worn him out?”

Edward would not be grateful, I thought, whatever happened here. Our horses’ hooves were loud on the Roman road. We still rode slowly, showing no threat. We passed the old worn stone pillar that said it was one mile to Deva, the name the Romans had given Ceaster. By now we were among the hovels and campfires of the encampment, and folk watched us pass. They showed no alarm, there were no sentries, and no one challenged us. “What’s wrong with them?” Finan growled at me.

“They think that if relief comes,” I said, “it’ll come from the east, not the north. So they think we’re on their side.”