They did, and they were not happy. The family that lived in the hall was Danish, but only the womenfolk, their children, and three older men were there. The owner of the steading, we were told, had gone south with other men from the valley. “There’s easy pickings in Mercia,” Wiburgh, the mistress of the hall, told us. “Mercians are fighting each other, so we’ll help ourselves.” She watched as I looked around the hall. “And you’ll help yourselves too,” she added bitterly. “Who are you?”

“Travelers,” I said. “So how many men rode south into Mercia?”

“Twelve? Maybe more. Depends if the folk across the hill decided to help.”

“They rode to Mameceaster?”

“Is that the new Mercian fort?”

“It is.”

“My husband’s not a fool. He won’t attack a fort, but there’ll be pickings enough in the nearby country. They raid us, we raid them.”

“For cattle?”

“For cattle, sheep, slaves, for anything we can eat or sell.”

“And if you wanted to go to Jorvik,” I asked, using the city’s Danish name, “what road would you take?”

She laughed. “We have nothing to do with Jorvik! I don’t know a man who’s even been there. Why would we go? They’re all strangers over there. Besides,” she looked balefully at Finan’s cross, “there are Christians there.”

“You don’t like Christians?”

“They eat babies,” she said, touching a hammer necklace, “everyone knows that.”

We ate no babies, but she did feed us a mutton stew with oatcakes, though it took a while for her servants to cook the meal. She grumbled, of course, that there were so many of us, but her storehouse was well stocked, and she was confident her husband would be bringing more food from Mercia. She was a plump and resourceful woman, resigned to our presence, and clever enough to know that if she treated us well we would return the favor. “You surprised us,” she confessed to me after dark, “by coming from the hills. Not many come that way! If any come from the south we get warning.”

“You live well here,” I said.

“Few know we’re here. We keep to ourselves.”

“Except when you raid?”

“The brothers like to keep busy.” She was spinning wool, her hands deft. “My husband’s father, Fastulf, found the valley. There was a Saxon lord here then, but he died,” she gave a brief laugh, “and Fastulf had three sons. So three sons and three farms. We call it the valley of the brothers.”

I was gazing into the glowing embers beneath the burning logs, searching for an omen in the shimmering fire. “I had a brother,” I said quietly, “but he died.” She said nothing. “And I had a daughter too,” I went on, “and she died.”

She let the distaff drop and gave me a meaningful look. “You’re a lord,” she said, making it sound like an accusation. “Uhtred of Bebbanburg!”

“I am,” I said. There had been no point in hiding who we were. We had stayed at the steading all day and my men must have told Wiburgh’s servants who we were.