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do you want, Haesten?’ I asked him.

      ‘Sigefrid and his brother,’ he said, ignoring my question, ‘want to conquer Wessex.’

      ‘The old dream,’ I said scornfully.

      ‘And to do it,’ he said, disregarding my scorn, ‘we shall need men from Northumbria. Ragnar will come if you ask him.’

      ‘He will,’ I agreed.

      ‘And if Ragnar comes, others will follow.’ He broke a loaf of bread and pushed the greater part towards me. A bowl of stew was in front of me, but I did not touch it. Instead I began to crumble the bread, feeling for the granite chips that are left from the grindstone. I was not thinking about what I did, just keeping my hands busy while I watched Haesten.

      ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’

      ‘East Anglia,’ he said.

      ‘King Haesten?’

      ‘Why not?’ he said, smiling.

      ‘Why not, lord King,’ I retorted, provoking a wider smile.

      ‘King Æthelwold in Wessex,’ Haesten said, ‘King Haesten in East Anglia, and King Uhtred in Mercia.’

      ‘Æthelwold?’ I asked scornfully, thinking of Alfred’s drunken nephew.

      ‘He is the rightful King of Wessex, lord,’ Haesten said.

      ‘And how long will he live?’ I asked.

      ‘Not long,’ Haesten admitted, ‘unless he is stronger than Sigefrid.’

      ‘So it will be Sigefrid of Wessex?’ I asked.

      Haesten smiled. ‘Eventually, lord, yes.’

      ‘What of his brother, Erik?’

      ‘Erik likes to be a Viking,’ Haesten said. ‘His brother takes Wessex and Erik takes the ships. Erik will be a sea king.’

      So it would be Sigefrid of Wessex, Uhtred of Mercia and Haesten in East Anglia. Three weasels in a sack, I thought, but did not let the thought show. ‘And where,’ I asked instead, ‘does this dream begin?’

      His smile went. He was serious now. ‘Sigefrid and I have men. Not enough, but the heart of a good army. You bring Ragnar south with the Northumbrian Danes and we’ll have more than enough to take East Anglia. Half of Guthrum’s earls will join us when they see you and Ragnar. Then we take the men of East Anglia, join them to our army, and conquer Mercia.’

      ‘And join the men of Mercia,’ I finished for him, ‘to take Wessex?’

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When the leaves fall,’ he went on, ‘and when the barns are filled, we shall march on Wessex.’

      ‘But without Ragnar,’ I said, ‘you can do nothing.’

      He bowed his head in agreement. ‘And Ragnar will not march unless you join us.’

      It could work, I thought. Guthrum, the Danish King of East Anglia, had repeatedly failed to conquer Wessex and now had made his peace with Alfred, but just because Guthrum had become a Christian and was now an ally of Alfred did not mean that other Danes had abandoned the dream of Wessex’s rich fields. If enough men could be assembled, then East Anglia would fall, and its earls, ever eager for plunder, would march on Mercia. Then Northumbrians, Mercians and East Anglians could turn on Wessex, the richest kingdom and the last Saxon kingdom in the land of the Saxons.

      Yet I was sworn to Alfred. I was sworn to defend Wessex. I had given Alfred my oath and without oaths we are no better than beasts. But the Norns had spoken. Fate is inexorable, it cannot be cheated. That thread of my life was already in place, and I could no more change it than I could make the sun go backwards. The Norns had sent a messenger across the black gulf to tell me that my oath must be broken, and that I would be a king, and so I nodded to Haesten. ‘So be it,’ I said.

      ‘You must meet Sigefrid and Erik,’ he said, ‘and we must make oaths.’

      ‘Yes,’ I said.

      ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, watching me carefully, ‘we leave for Lundene.’

      So it had begun. Sigefrid and Erik were readying to defend Lundene, and by doing that they defied the Mercians, who claimed the city as theirs, and they defied Alfred, who feared Lundene being garrisoned by an enemy, and they defied Guthrum, who wanted the peace of Britain kept. But there would be no peace.

      ‘Tomorrow,’ Haesten said again, ‘we leave for Lundene.’

      We rode next day. I led my six men while Haesten had twenty-one companions, and we followed Wæclingastræt south through a persistent rain that turned the road’s verges to thick mud. The horses were miserable, we were miserable. As we rode I tried to remember every word that Bjorn the Dead had said to me, knowing that Gisela would want the conversation recounted in every detail.

      ‘So?’ Finan challenged me soon after midday. Haesten had ridden ahead and Finan now spurred his horse to keep pace with mine.

      ‘So?’ I asked.

      ‘So are you going to be king in Mercia?’

      ‘The Fates say so,’ I said, not looking at him. Finan and I had been slaves together on a trader’s ship. We had suffered, frozen, endured and learned to love each other like brothers, and I cared about his opinion.

      ‘The Fates,’ Finan said, ‘are tricksters.’

      ‘Is that a Christian view?’ I asked.

      He smiled. He wore his cloak’s hood over his helmet, so I could see little of his thin, feral face, but I saw the flash of teeth when he smiled. ‘I was a great man in Ireland,’ he said, ‘I had horses to outrun the wind, women to dim the sun, and weapons that could outfight the world, yet the Fates doomed me.’

      ‘You live,’ I said, ‘and you’re a free man.’

      ‘I’m your oath-man,’ he said, ‘and I gave you my oath freely. And you, lord, are Alfred’s oath-man.’

      ‘Yes,’ I said.

      ‘Were you forced to make your oath to Alfred?’ Finan asked.

      ‘No,’ I confessed.

      The rain was stinging in my face. The sky was low, the land dark. ‘If fate is unavoidable,’ Finan asked, ‘why do we make oaths?’

      I ignored the question. ‘If I break my oath to Alfred,’ I said instead, ‘will you break yours to me?’

      ‘No, lord,’ he said, smiling again. ‘I would miss your company,’ he went on, ‘but you would not miss Alfred’s.’

      ‘No,’ I admitted, and we let the conversation drift away with the wind-blown rain, though Finan’s words lingered in my mind and they troubled me.

      We spent that night close to the great shrine of Saint Alban. The Romans had made a town there, though that town had now decayed, and so we stayed at a Danish hall just to the east. Our host was welcoming enough, but he was cautious in conversation. He did admit to hearing that Sigefrid had moved men into Lundene’s old town, but he neither condemned nor praised the act. He wore the hammer amulet, as did I, but he also kept a Saxon priest who prayed over the meal of bread, bacon and beans. The priest was a reminder that this hall was in East Anglia, and that East Anglia was officially Christian and at peace with its Christian neighbours, but our host made certain that his palisade gate was barred and that he had armed men keeping watch through the damp night. There was a shiftless air to this land, a feeling that a storm might break at any time.

      The rainstorm ended in the darkness. We left at dawn, riding into a world of frost and stillness, though Wæclingastræt became busier as we encountered men driving cattle to Lundene. The beasts were scrawny, but they had been spared the autumn slaughter so they could feed the city through its winter. We rode past them and the herdsmen dropped to their knees

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