“Then they’re idiots,” he said. He was right, of course. Cynlæf, if he still commanded here, should have sentries posted on every approach to the besiegers’ camp, but the long cold weeks of the siege had made them lazy and careless. Cynlæf just wanted to capture Ceaster, and had forgotten to watch his back.

Finan, who had the eyes of a hawk, was gazing at the city wall. “That monk was full of shit,” he said scornfully. “I can see fifty-eight men on the north wall!”

The monk who had brought me the news of the siege had been certain that the garrison was perilously small. “How small?” I had asked him.

“No more than a hundred men, lord.”

I had looked at him skeptically. “How do you know?”

“The priest told me, lord,” he said nervously. The monk, who was called Brother Osric, claimed to be from a monastery in Hwite, a place I had never heard of, but which the monk said was a few hours’ walking south of Ceaster. Brother Osric had told us how a priest had come to his monastery. “He was dying, lord! He had gripe in his guts.”

“And that was Father Swithred?”

“Yes, lord.”

I knew Swithred. He was an older man, a fierce and sour priest who disliked me. “And the garrison sent him to get help?”

“Yes, lord.”

“They didn’t send a warrior?”

“A priest can go where warriors cannot, lord,” Brother Osric had explained. “Father Swithred said he left the city at nightfall and walked through the besiegers’ camp. No one challenged him, lord. Then he walked south to Hwite.”

“Where he was taken ill?”

“Where he was dying as I left, lord,” Brother Osric had made the sign of the cross. “It is God’s will.”

“Your god has a strange will,” I had snarled.

“And Father Swithred begged my abbot to send one of us to reach you, lord,” Brother Osric had continued, “and that was me,” he finished lamely. He had been kneeling in supplication, and I saw a savage red scar crossing his tonsure.

“Father Swithred doesn’t like me,” I said, “and he hates all pagans. Yet he sent for me?”

The question had made Brother Osric uncomfortable. He had blushed, then stammered, “He . . . he . . .”

“He insulted me,” I suggested.

“He did, lord, he did.” He sounded relieved that I had anticipated an answer he had been reluctant to say aloud. “But he also said you would answer the garrison’s plea.”

“And Father Swithred didn’t carry a letter?” I asked, “a plea for help?”

“He did, lord, but he vomited on it.” He had grimaced. “But it was nasty, lord, all blood and bile.”

“How did you get the scar?” I had asked him.

“My sister hit me, lord.” He had sounded surprised at my question. “With a reaping hook, lord.”

“And how many men in the besieging force?”

“Father Swithred said there were hundreds, lord.” I remember how nervous Brother Osric had been, but I put that down to his fear at meeting me, a famous pagan. Did he think I had horns and a forked tail? “By God’s grace, lord,” he went on, “the garrison fought off one assault, and I pray to God that the city hasn’t fallen by now. They beseech your help, lord.”