“They think we’re Norse,” I said. Like them we showed no flag, and this far north most warriors were pagans, so they had to assume we were enemies. Besides, like the Northmen, even my Saxons liked to wear crests and plumes on their helmets. Half of my men were Christians, yet they looked like pagans.

“If not us,” Eadric said drily, “them,” and he pointed behind us.

I turned and saw a scattering of horsemen on the low hills to the east. There were about twenty of them, still far away, but galloping southward on the crest, then there were suddenly more horsemen on the western skyline. “Sköll,” Finan said flatly.

It could be no one else, and even as I watched them, I saw our scouts come hurrying along the drove road behind us. So Sköll had caught up with us. His scouts were coming south on either flank, while his main war-band would be advancing along the valley. We had a fearsome enemy behind us, while in front of us a shield wall began to clash sword-blades against willow-board shields. “They’re probably thinking we’re all Sköll’s men,” I said.

“If they think that,” Finan said, “they should run like shit. They’re outnumbered!”

Outnumbered or not the Christians seemed to be wanting a fight. They were still hammering their sword-blades against their cross-painted shields in a defiant invitation to come and test their wall.

Then the shield wall split, and two horsemen, both dressed in black, rode toward us. One was a priest, while the other, a black cloak draped over his gray mail, was a warrior. And I knew him.

It was Finan who spoke first. He was staring at the warrior with astonishment, then he made the sign of the cross because he believed he was seeing a ghost. “Lord,” he said to me, his voice scarce above a whisper, “it’s King Alfred!”

And he was almost right.

PART TWO

Eostre’s Feast

CHAPTER SIX

The warrior who approached us did look like King Alfred, though that King of Wessex had died years before the youngest of my warriors was even born. Yet this man had the same long, pale and stern face, the same disapproving eyes, the same short dark beard shot through with gray, the same air of containment that spoke of rigorous self-discipline, the same straight back, and the same reserve and calm.

His name was Osferth, and I knew him well. “Lord Prince,” I greeted him, knowing he would reject the rank.

“I am no prince, Lord Uhtred,” he said just as I had expected.

“You’re welcome anyway,” I said.

“Perhaps.” He even sounded like King Alfred. He had the same cold voice, precise and clear. A silver cross hanging from a chain studded with amber beads hung at his neck. It was the only decoration he allowed himself. His black cloak looked serviceable, but lacked a fur collar or embroidered hems. His mail was plain, his helmet plain, his boots plain, his horse’s saddlery and bridle were leather and iron, his sword’s hilt was wood and iron, his scabbard a plain sheath of wood. He looked past me, and I turned to see Sköll Grimmarson’s men appearing on the road a mile or so behind me. “Is that Sköll Grimmarson?” he asked.