The English party that had travelled with Harold was still here. The English wore their hair long; few had beards, but many had long moustaches that needed a lot of grooming. The Normans, who dressed so soberly they looked like priests, called the Englishmen women. This led to fewer deaths than Orm might have expected, as the English thegns kept control of their men, for they were few and a long way from home.

Orm glimpsed Harold himself, and his brother Gyrth. Their red hair long and moustaches luxuriant, they were tall, imposing figures who easily dominated the gaggle of housecarls and servants who followed them. The brothers were half Danish in blood, and they looked it. In fact the keeping of housecarls, professional soldiers and sworn companions, was a custom introduced by Cnut, a Danish king of England.

The Godwines were the most powerful family in England, it was said, more powerful and rich even than King Edward, who was descended from the famous Alfred. These handsome brothers shone, their glamour bright, even on this foreign soil.

William was less often spotted. The Duke did not rape or whore. It was said he had been faithful to his wife Mathilda for decades, and, always austere, the Bastard preferred to spend his time praying with his brother the bishop, or hunting, a sport to which he devoted hour after obsessive hour.

William's sons, though, were not as disciplined as their father. With their companions, none of them older than thirteen or fourteen, they crowed their way through Bayeux, arrogant, money-laden half-men with heavy swords and swollen pricks. Orm thought they were like a mockery of the Godwine brothers. Perhaps the world would be better off, he mused, without these packs of glamorous warrior-cubs.

It was with William's sons that Orm, calmly searching the town, came upon Godgifu.

They had caught her, evidently alone, and backed her against the stone wall of a church. She seemed unafraid, even contemptuous, but they were many, and they looked hungry.

Robert, the eldest son, stepped closer. 'English bitch,' he said in his guttural Frankish.

She looked down at him. 'What do you want, little boy?'

'I want you, you leathery old English bag.'

'If you want a whore go and find one, if you can raise your little pink worm for her.'

Robert's friends laughed at him, and he coloured. 'I've had all the whores in this pig-sty. You will kneel to me.'

She grinned. 'Why? So you can reach?'

'I am Robert, heir of Duke William!' he shouted. 'Kneel!' And he drew his sword, raising it towards her throat.

Suddenly she had a knife in her hand, a stubby blade of the type the English called a seax. She turned aside Robert's sword, grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and held her knife at his neck. 'Call me a bitch again,' she hissed. 'Go ahead, Robert heir of William.'

Robert struggled, enraged, but did not speak. The others stayed frozen for a heartbeat. Then they started reaching for their swords.

Orm strode into the circle. The boys, startled, backed off. 'Lord Robert. Your father is asking for you.'

'My father-'

'You know me. You need not doubt my summons. Go now.' Orm nodded to Godgifu. Cautiously she released the boy.

Robert glared at Orm. But he sheathed his sword and walked away from Godgifu.

Orm's heart was pounding. If his bluff had failed the consequences for him could have been lethal.

Godgifu didn't even seem to be breathing hard. She put away her knife calmly; Orm couldn't see where she hid it. She glanced up at Orm. 'Thank you.'

Sihtric came bustling up. He was wearing a black cassock, with a wooden crucifix at his neck. 'Well done, well done,' he said to Orm, puffing out his cheeks. 'I saw it all. You gave Robert a way to back out of the situation without losing face. Come. Let me buy you some wine – the least I can do…'

III

Sihtric led Orm and his sister to a tavern, where he bought them cups of wine, and meat sliced from a plundered Breton pig served on wood-hard chunks of bread. But Sihtric had to borrow money from his sister to do it. Her coins were English silver pennies, which everybody knew were the most solid currency in Europe and accepted everywhere.

Sihtric took a deep draught of his wine. 'Ah. Spiced the way William himself is supposed to prefer it. Filthy muck, isn't it? Give me good English ale any time. Well, that was a close thing. The death of one of Harold's party at the hands of William's own son could have been embarrassing. Very embarrassing indeed.'

Orm turned on him. 'Embarrassing? This is your sister. She could have been raped and murdered by those little arsewipes. I didn't notice you running to her aid.'

Sihtric laughed softly, as if the remark was utterly foolish.

Godgifu sipped her wine, her blue eyes pale in the gloom of the tavern. 'Orm, the truth is I'm here to look after Sihtric, not the other way around. Our father gave me the job when Sihtric joined Harold's court.'

'Your father?'

'Before he died. He was a thegn of Tostig Godwineson, Earl of Northumbria – brother of Harold. I was always a better fighter than Sihtric.'

'Perhaps she has a little Danish in her,' Sihtric said obscenely. 'You Northmen always did enjoy a bit of the old in-and-out as you rampaged across England, didn't you?'

'Sihtric-'

He ploughed on, 'Don't you think it's strange to find us all here like this, a mix of mongrel races? Earl Harold himself is half English, half Danish-and we English are really Germans – and the Normans are Northmen too, or were a hundred years ago when they stole this bit of land from the Frankish king. Even the Bretons we chased across the countryside are, it is said, descended from Britons who fled here to escape from my own Saxon forefathers, though I find that hard to believe…'

Orm glanced at Godgifu. 'What's he talking about?'

She rolled her unreasonably pretty eyes. 'History,' she said. 'Always history.'

'Priest, in Brittany – by the bog – you told me you had been looking for me. Why?'

Godgifu said, 'Tell him about the Menologium. I can see you're longing to.'

'The Menologium?'

'A prophecy,' Sihtric whispered. 'Possibly heretical. Two centuries ago it came into the possession of Alfred – our greatest king, you might have heard of him. It was already old then, and proven – and the years since have shown it to be no less truthful.'

'It's a family legend,' Godgifu explained to Orm. 'A story. One of our family, a priest called Cynewulf, was at Alfred's side in those days. Since then the sons of Alfred, the kings, have forgotten about the Menologium. But not us – not Sihtric, and our father, and a chain of grandfathers before him, going back to the cousins of Cynewulf.'

'So what's it got to do with me?'

Sihtric replied, 'Your forefather was involved too.'

He told Orm the story of Egil, who had raided Alfred's hall at Cippanhamm, and then fought the English at Ethandune. Orm knew the story, of course – or at least his family's flattering version of it. Egil had spawned many offspring, among them a long line of Egils, one of whom, six generations later, had been Orm's father, and the seventh Orm's own elder brother, also called Egil.

'Most Danes are no more literate than the Normans,' Sihtric said dismissively. 'But your family sagas preserve the memories of your ancestors. And if you are a soldier of fortune it does no harm to be bragging about the deeds of your forefathers, does it? Especially if one of them took on King Alfred himself. So it wasn't hard to track you down, Orm son of Egil son of Egil.'

'I still don't know what you want,' Orm said.

Sihtric began to speak hurriedly of his prophecy: of hairy stars and Great Years and enigmatic stanzas. 'The Menologium was authored by a Weaver – that is the name the scholars give him – who guides our actions in order to fulfil an epic plan, whose goals even I cannot yet discern…'