‘The men going upstairs—’ Benedetta began.
‘Yes,’ Oda said curtly.
‘They’re young men,’ I said, ‘far from home.’
A drab girl came to our table and we asked for ale, bread, and cheese. ‘Is Wulfred still alive?’ I asked her.
She peered at me, seeing nothing under the deep shadow of my hood. ‘He died, father,’ she said, evidently mistaking me for another priest.
‘Pity,’ I said.
The girl shrugged. ‘I’ll bring you a rushlight,’ she said.
I made the sign of the cross towards her. ‘Bless you, my child,’ I said, and earned a disapproving intake of breath from Oda.
The East Anglians began singing as the evening wore on. The first song was in Danish, a lament by seafarers for the women they had left behind, but then the Saxons in the alehouse drowned the Danes with an old song that was plainly intended for our ears, and Father Oda, hearing the words, frowned into his ale. Benedetta took longer to understand, then gazed at me wide-eyed. ‘It’s called the “Tanner’s Wife”,’ I said, beating my hand on the table in time with the song.
‘But the song is about a priest?’ Benedetta asked. ‘No?’
‘Yes,’ Father Oda hissed.
‘It’s about a tanner’s wife and a priest,’ I said. ‘She goes to him for confession and he says he doesn’t understand what she’s confessing so he tells her to show him.’
‘To do it with him, you mean?’
‘To do it with him,’ I said, and to my surprise she laughed.
‘I thought we were here to learn news,’ Father Oda growled at me.
‘The news will come to us,’ I said, and sure enough a moment later, when the rowdy troops had moved to a new song, a middle-aged man with a cropped grey beard brought an ale-jug and a beaker to our table. He wore a sword with a well-worn hilt and had a slight limp that suggested a spear-thrust taken in a shield wall. He looked quizzically at Father Oda, who nodded permission, and the man sat on a bench opposite me. ‘I apologise for that song, father.’
Oda smiled. ‘I have been with soldiers before, my son.’
The man, who looked old enough to be Oda’s father, raised his beaker. ‘Then your good health, father,’ he said.
‘I pray God it is good,’ Oda answered carefully, ‘and yours too.’
‘You’re Danish?’ the man asked.
‘I am Danish,’ Oda confirmed.
‘Me too. Jorund,’ he introduced himself.
‘I am Father Oda, this is my wife and my uncle.’ Oda was speaking Danish now.
‘What brings you to Lundene?’ Jorund asked. He was friendly, with no suspicion in his voice, but I did not doubt that the East Anglians had been warned to look for enemies in the city, but, just as Oda had claimed, a priest and his wife looked the most unlikely of enemies and Jorund seemed merely curious.
‘We seek a ship to carry us across the sea,’ Oda said.
‘We are going to Rome,’ I put in, telling the tale we had agreed on.
‘We are pilgrims,’ Oda explained. ‘My wife ails.’ He reached out and put a hand over Benedetta’s hand. ‘We seek the blessing of the Holy Father.’
‘I’m sorry for your wife, father,’ Jorund said sincerely and, watching the priest’s hand, I felt another pulse of jealousy. I looked at Benedetta and she looked back, her eyes sad, and for a moment we held each other’s gaze. ‘It’s a long way you have to travel,’ Jorund went on.
‘A long journey indeed, my son,’ Oda answered, looking suddenly startled because Benedetta had drawn her hand sharply away. ‘We seek a ship here,’ the priest went on, ‘to cross to Frankia.’
‘There are plenty of ships,’ Jorund said, ‘I wish there weren’t.’
‘Why?’ Father Oda asked.
‘That’s our job. Searching them before they leave.’
‘Searching them?’
‘To make sure no enemy escapes.’
‘Enemy?’ Father Oda pretended surprise.
Jorund took a long drink of his ale. ‘There was a rumour, father, that Uhtredærwe was in Lundene. You know who he is?’
‘Everyone knows.’
‘Then you know that they don’t want him as an enemy. So find him, they tell us, find him and capture him.’
‘And kill him?’ I asked.
Jorund shrugged. ‘Someone will kill him, but I doubt it will be us. He’s not here. Why would he be here? It’s just a rumour. There’s a war coming and that always means rumours.’
‘Isn’t there already a war?’ Father Oda asked. ‘There was fighting here, I’m told.’
‘There’s always fighting,’ Jorund said morosely. ‘I mean a proper war, father, a war of shield walls and armies. And it shouldn’t be, it shouldn’t be.’
‘Shouldn’t be?’ Oda enquired gently.
‘It’s not so far off harvest time, father. We shouldn’t be here, not now. We should be at home, sharpening sickles. There’s real work to be done! Wheat, barley, and rye don’t harvest themselves!’
The mention of barley made me touch my hammer, only to find the wooden cross. ‘You were summoned here?’ I asked.
‘By a Saxon lord,’ Jorund said, ‘who won’t wait for harvest.’
‘Lord Æthelhelm?’
‘Coenwald,’ Jorund said, ‘but he holds land from Æthelhelm so yes, it’s Æthelhelm who summoned us and Coenwald has to obey.’ He paused to pour ale from the jug.
‘And Coenwald summoned you?’ I asked.
‘Didn’t have much choice did he? Harvest or no harvest.’
‘Did you have a choice?’ Oda asked.
Jorund shrugged. ‘We swore fealty to Coenwald when we converted.’ He paused, perhaps reflecting on how the Danish settlers of East Anglia had lost their war to keep a Danish king. ‘We fought against him and we lost, but he let us live, he let us keep our land and he lets us thrive, so now we have to fight for him.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe it’ll all be over by harvest.’
‘I pray so,’ Oda said quietly.
‘Maybe there’ll be no war?’ I suggested.
‘When two men want one chair?’ Jorund asked scathingly. ‘Good men will have to die just to decide which royal arse warms the damned thing.’ He turned as angry voices sounded, then a woman’s shriek made
