'A wedding?'
'They were dancing,' he growled, 'and the devil turned them to stone.'
'Why did the devil do that?' I asked cautiously.
'Because they wed on a Sunday, of course. Folk never should wed on a Sunday, never! Everyone knows that.' We rode on in silence, then, surprising me again, he began to talk about his mother and father and how they had been serfs of Odda the Elder. 'But life was good for us,' he said.
'It was?'
'Ploughing, sowing, weeding, harvest, threshing.'
'But Ealdorman Odda didn't live back there,' I said, jerking my thumb towards Steapa's destroyed homestead.
'No! Not him!' Steapa was amused I should even ask such a question. 'He wouldn't live there, not him! Had his own big hall. Still does. But he had a steward there. Man to give us orders. He was a big man! Very tall!'
I hesitated. 'But your father was short?'
Steapa looked surprised. 'How did you know that?'
'I just guessed.'
'He was a good worker, my father.'
'Did he teach you to fight?'
'He didn't, no. No one did. I just learned myself.'
The land was less damaged the farther we went south. And that was strange, for the Danes had come this way. We knew that, for folk said the Danes were still in the southern part of the shire, but life suddenly seemed normal. We saw men spreading dung on fields, and other men ditching or hedging. There were lambs in the pastures. To the north the foxes had become fat on dead lambs, but here the shepherds and their dogs were winning that ceaseless battle.
And the Danes were in Cridianton.
A priest told us that in a village huddled near a great oak-covered hill beside a stream. The priest was nervous because he had seen my long hair and arm rings and he presumed I was a Dane, and my northern accent did not persuade him otherwise, but he was reassured by Steapa. The two talked, and the priest gave his opinion that it would be a wet summer.
'It will,' Steapa agreed. 'The oak greened before the ash.'
'Always a sign,' the priest said.
'How far is Cridianton?' I broke into the conversation.
'A morning's walk, lord.'
'You've seen the Danes there?' I asked.
'I've seen them, lord, I have,' he said.
'Who leads them?'
'Don't know, lord.'
'They have a banner?' I asked.
He nodded. 'It hangs on the bishop's hall, lord. It shows a white horse.'
So it was Svein. I did not know who else it could have been, but the white horse confirmed that Svein had stayed in Defnascir rather than try to join Guthrum. I twisted in the saddle and looked at the priest's village that was unscarred by war. No thatch had been burned, no granaries emptied and the church was still standing. 'Have the Danes come here?' I asked.
'Oh yes, lord, they came. Came more than once.'
'Did they rape? Steal?'
‘No, lord. But they bought some grain. Paid silver for it.'
Well-behaved Danes. That was another strange thing.
'Are they besieging Exanceaster?'
I asked. That would have made a sort of sense. Cridianton was close enough to Exanceaster to give most of the Danish troops shelter while the rest invested the larger town.
'No, lord,' the priest said, 'not that I know of.'
'Then what are they doing?' I asked.
'They're just in Cridianton, lord.'
'And Odda is in Exanceaster?'
'No, lord. He's in Ocmundtun. He's with Lord Harald.'
I knew the shire-reeve's hall was in Ocmundtun that lay beneath the northern edge of the great moor. But Ocmundtun was also a long journey from Cridianton and no place to be if a man wanted to harry the Danes.
I believed the priest when he said Svein was at Cridianton, but we still rode there to see for ourselves. We used wooded, hilly tracks and came to the town at mid afternoon and saw the smoke rising from cooking fires, then
