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shouted.

      Sigefrid was too appalled to be angry. He could not believe what had happened. He must have realised by that moment that his opponent was a swordsman, but still he could not believe he had lost. He brought up his bleeding hands as if to seize Pyrlig’s blade, and I saw the Welshman’s blade twitch and Sigefrid, sensing death a hair’s breadth away, went still.

      ‘No,’ I repeated.

      ‘Why shouldn’t I kill him?’ Pyrlig asked, and his voice was a warrior’s voice now, hard and merciless, and his eyes were warrior’s eyes, flint-cold and furious.

      ‘No,’ I said again. I knew that if Pyrlig killed Sigefrid then Sigefrid’s men would have their revenge.

      Erik knew it too. ‘You won, priest,’ he said softly. He walked to his brother. ‘You won,’ he said again to Pyrlig, ‘so put down the sword.’

      ‘Does he know I beat him?’ Pyrlig asked, staring into Sigefrid’s dark eyes.

      ‘I speak for him,’ Erik said. ‘You won the fight, priest, and you are free.’

      ‘I have to deliver my message first,’ Pyrlig said. Blood dripped from Sigefrid’s hand. He still stared at the Welshman. ‘The message we bring from King Æthelstan,’ Pyrlig said, meaning Guthrum, ‘is that you are to leave Lundene. It is not part of the land ceded by Alfred to Danish rule. Do you understand that?’ He twitched Serpent-Breath again, though Sigefrid said nothing. ‘Now I want horses,’ Pyrlig went on, ‘and Lord Uhtred and his men are to escort us out of Lundene. Is that agreed?’

      Erik looked at me and I nodded consent. ‘It is agreed,’ Erik said to Pyrlig.

      I took Serpent-Breath from Pyrlig’s hand. Erik was holding his brother’s wounded arm. For a moment I thought Sigefrid would attack the unarmed Welshman, but Erik managed to turn him away.

      Horses were fetched. The men in the arena were silent and resentful. They had seen their leader humiliated, and they did not understand why Pyrlig was allowed to leave with the other envoys, but they accepted Erik’s decision.

      ‘My brother is headstrong,’ Erik told me. He had taken me aside to talk while the horses were saddled.

      ‘It seems the priest knew how to fight after all,’ I said apologetically.

      Erik frowned, not with anger, but puzzlement. ‘I am curious about their god,’ he admitted. He was watching his brother, whose wounds were being bandaged. ‘Their god does seem to have power,’ Erik said. I slid Serpent-Breath into her scabbard and Erik saw the silver cross that decorated her pommel. ‘You must think so too?’

      ‘That was a gift,’ I said, ‘from a woman. A good woman. A lover. Then the Christian god took hold of her and she loves men no more.’

      Erik reached out and touched the cross tentatively. ‘You don’t think it gives the blade power?’ he asked.

      ‘The memory of her love might,’ I said, ‘but power comes from here.’ I touched my amulet, Thor’s hammer.

      ‘I fear their god,’ Erik said.

      ‘He’s harsh,’ I said, ‘unkind. He’s a god who likes to make laws.’

      ‘Laws?’

      ‘You’re not allowed to lust after your neighbour’s wife,’ I said.

      Erik laughed at that, then saw I was serious. ‘Truly?’ he asked with disbelief in his voice.

      ‘Priest!’ I called to Pyrlig. ‘Does your god let men lust after their neighbours’ wives?’

      ‘He lets them, lord,’ Pyrlig said humbly as if he feared me, ‘but he disapproves.’

      ‘Did he make a law about it?’

      ‘Yes, lord, he did. And he made another that says you mustn’t lust after your neighbour’s ox.’

      ‘There,’ I said to Erik. ‘You can’t even wish for an ox if you’re a Christian.’

      ‘Strange,’ he said thoughtfully. He was looking at Guthrum’s envoys who had so narrowly escaped losing their heads. ‘You don’t mind escorting them?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘It might be no bad thing if they live,’ he said quietly. ‘Why give Guthrum cause to attack us?’

      ‘He won’t,’ I said confidently, ‘whether you kill them or not.’

      ‘Probably not,’ he agreed, ‘but we agreed that if the priest won, then they would all live, so let them live. And you’re sure you don’t mind escorting them away?’

      ‘Of course not,’ I said.

      ‘Then come back here,’ Erik said warmly, ‘we need you.’

      ‘You need Ragnar,’ I corrected him.

      ‘True,’ he confessed, and smiled. ‘See those men safe out of the city, then come back.’

      ‘I have a wife and children to fetch first,’ I said.

      ‘Yes,’ he said, and smiled again. ‘You are fortunate in that. But you will come back?’

      ‘Bjorn the Dead told me so,’ I said, carefully evading his question.

      ‘So he did,’ Erik said. He embraced me. ‘We need you,’ he said, ‘and together we can take this whole island.’

      We left, riding through the city streets, out through the western gate that was known as Ludd’s Gate, and then down to the ford across the River Fleot. Sihtric was bent over his saddle’s pommel, still suffering from the kicking he had received from Sigefrid. I looked behind as we left the ford, half expecting that Sigefrid would have countermanded his brother’s decision and sent men to pursue us, but none appeared. We spurred through the marshy ground and then up the slight slope to the Saxon town.

      I did not stay on the road that led westwards, but instead turned onto the wharves where a dozen ships were moored. These were river boats that traded with Wessex and Mercia. Few shipmasters cared to shoot the dangerous gap in the ruined bridge that the Romans had thrown across the Temes, so these ships were smaller, manned by oarsmen, and all of them had paid dues to me at Coccham. They all knew me, because they did business with me on every trip.

      We forced our way through heaps of merchandise, past open fires and through the gangs of slaves loading or unloading cargoes. Only one ship was ready to make a voyage. She was named the Swan and I knew her well. She had a Saxon crew, and she was nearly ready to leave because her oarsmen were standing on the wharf while the shipmaster, a man called Osric, finished his business with the merchant whose goods he was carrying. ‘You’re taking us too,’ I told him.

      We left most of the horses behind, though I insisted that room was found for Smoca, and Finan wanted to keep his stallion too, and so the beasts were coaxed into the Swan’s open hold where they stood shivering. Then we left. The tide was flooding, the oars bit, and we glided upriver. ‘Where am I taking you, lord?’ Osric the shipmaster asked me.

      ‘To Coccham,’ I said.

      And back to Alfred.

      The river was wide, grey and sullen. It flowed strongly, fed by the winter rains against which the incoming tide gave less and less resistance. The Swan made hard work of the early rowing as the ten oarsmen fought the current and I caught Finan’s eye and we exchanged smiles. He was remembering, as I was, our long months at the oars of a slave-rowed trading ship. We had suffered, bled and shivered, and we had thought that only death could release us from that fate, but now other men rowed us as the Swan fought around the great swooping bends of the Temes that were softened by the wide floods that stretched into the water meadows.

      I sat on the small platform built in the ship’s blunt bow and Father Pyrlig joined me there. I had given him my cloak, which he clutched tight around him. He had found some bread and cheese,

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