LITMIR.BIZ

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comes to eat,’ I said.

      ‘And he says the bishop will take the land if we don’t pay the debt.’

      ‘The debt will be paid,’ I said.

      ‘When? We have the money!’ She gestured at the new hall. ‘When?’ she insisted.

      ‘When I want to,’ I snarled. I did not tell her when, or how, because if I had, then Wirken the priest would know, and the bishop would know. It was not enough to pay the debt. Mildrith’s father had foolishly donated part of our land’s future produce to the church, and I wanted that burden taken away so the debt would not go on through eternity, and to do that I needed to surprise the bishop, and so I kept Mildrith ignorant, and inevitably those arguments would end with her tears. I was bored with her and she knew it. I found her beating Iseult’s maid one day. The girl was a Saxon I had given to Iseult as a servant, but she also worked in the dairy and Mildrith was beating her because some cheeses had not been turned. I dragged Mildrith away, and that, of course, provoked another argument and Mildrith proved not to be so blind after all for she accused me of trying to whelp bastards on Iseult, which was true enough, but I reminded her that her own father had sired enough bastards, half a dozen of whom now worked for us. ‘You leave Iseult and her maid alone,’ I said, causing more tears. They were not happy days.

      It was the time when Iseult learned to speak English, or at least the Northumbrian version of English for she learned it mostly from me. ‘You’re my mon,’ she said. I was Mildrith’s man and Iseult’s mon. She said she had been born again on the day I came into Peredur’s hall. ‘I had dreamed of you,’ she said, ‘tall and golden haired.’

      ‘Now you don’t dream?’ I asked, knowing that her powers of scrying came from dreams.

      ‘I do still dream,’ she said earnestly, ‘my brother speaks to me.’

      ‘Your brother?’ I asked, surprised.

      ‘I was born a twin,’ she told me, ‘and my brother came first and then, as I was born, he died. He went to the shadow world and he speaks to me of what he sees there.’

      ‘What does he see?’

      ‘He sees your king.’

      ‘Alfred,’ I said sourly, ‘is that good or bad?’

      ‘I don’t know. The dreams are shadowy.’

      She was no Christian. Instead she believed that every place and every thing had its own god or goddess; a nymph for a stream, a dryad for a wood, a spirit for a tree, a god for the fire and another for the sea. The Christian god, like Thor or Odin, was just one more deity among this unseen throng of powers, and her dreams, she said, were like eavesdropping on the gods. One day, as she rode beside me on the hills above the empty sea, she suddenly said that Alfred would give me power.

      ‘He hates me,’ I told her, ‘he’ll give me nothing.’

      ‘He will give you power,’ she said flatly. I stared at her and she gazed to where the clouds met the waves. Her black hair was unbound and the sea wind stirred it. ‘My brother told me,’ she said. ‘Alfred will give you power and you will take back your northern home and your woman will be a creature of gold.’

      ‘My woman?’

      She looked at me and there was sadness in her face. ‘There,’ she said, ‘now you know,’ and she kicked back her heels and made the horse run along the ridge top, her hair streaming, her eyes wet with tears. I wanted to know more, but she said she had told me what she had dreamed and I must be content.

      At summer’s end we drove the swine into the forests to feed on the fallen beechnuts and acorns. I bought bags of salt because the killing time was coming and the meat of our pigs and cattle would have to be salted into barrels to feed us through the winter. Some of that food would come from the men who rented land at the edge of the estate, and I visited them all so they would know I expected payment of wheat, barley and livestock, and, to show them what would happen if they tried to cheat me, I bought a dozen good swords from a smith in Exanceaster. I gave the swords to my men, and in the shortening days we practised with them. Mildrith might not believe war was coming, but I did not think God had changed Danish hearts.

      The late autumn brought heavy rain and the shire-reeve to Oxton. The reeve was called Harald and he was charged with keeping the peace of Defnascir, and he came on horseback and with him were six other horsemen, all in mail coats and helmets, and all with swords or spears. I waited for him in the hall, making him dismount and come into the smoky shadows. He came cautiously, expecting an ambush, then his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and he saw me standing by the central hearth. ‘You are summoned to the shire court,’ he told me.

      His men had followed Harald into the hall. ‘You bring swords into my house?’ I asked.

      Harald looked around the hall and he saw my men armed with their spears and axes. I had seen the horsemen approaching and summoned my men and ordered them to arm themselves.

      Harald had the reputation of being a decent man, sensible and fair, and he knew how weapons in a hall could lead to slaughter. ‘You will wait outside,’ he told his men, and I gestured for my men to put their weapons down. ‘You are summoned …’ Harald began again.

      ‘I heard you,’ I said.

      ‘There is a debt to be paid,’ he said, ‘and a man’s death to make good.’

      I said nothing. One of my hounds growled softly and I put a hand into its fur to silence it.

      ‘The court will meet on All Saints’ Day,’ Harald said, ‘at the cathedral.’

      ‘I shall be there,’ I said.

      He took off his helmet to reveal a balding pate fringed with brown hair. He was at least ten years older than I, a big man, with two fingers missing from his shield hand. He limped slightly as he walked towards me. I calmed the hounds, waited.

      ‘I was at Cynuit,’ he said to me, speaking softly.

      ‘So was I,’ I said, ‘though men pretend I was not.’

      ‘I know what you did,’ he said.

      ‘So do I.’

      He ignored my surliness. He was showing me sympathy, though I was too proud to show I appreciated it. ‘The ealdorman has sent men,’ he warned me, ‘to take this place once judgment is given.’

      There was a gasp behind me and I realised Mildrith had come into the hall. Harald bowed to her.

      ‘The hall will be taken?’ Mildrith asked.

      ‘If the debt is not paid,’ Harald said, ‘the land will be given to the church.’ He stared up at the newly hewn rafters as if wondering why I would build a hall on land doomed to be given to God.

      Mildrith came to stand beside me. She was plainly distressed by Harald’s summons, but she made a great effort to compose herself. ‘I am sorry,’ she said, ‘about your wife.’

      A flicker of pain crossed Harald’s face as he made the sign of the cross. ‘She was sick a long time, lady. It was merciful of God, I think, to take her.’

      I had not known he was a widower, nor did I care much. ‘She was a good woman,’ Mildrith said.

      ‘She was,’ Harald said.

      ‘And I pray for her.’

      ‘I thank you for that,’ Harald said.

      ‘As I pray for Odda the Elder,’ Mildrith went on.

      ‘God be praised, he lives,’ Harald made the sign of the cross again. ‘But he is feeble and in pain.’ He touched his scalp showing where Odda the Elder had been wounded.

      ‘So who is the judge?’ I asked harshly, interrupting the two.

      ‘The bishop,’ Harald said.

      ‘Not the ealdorman?’

      ‘He

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