“Yet I cannot afford to wait. It is my Christian duty to act.” And also, he added silently, my duty to myself. A bishop who sits quiet and does nothing—how will he seem to the Holy Father in Rome, when the moment comes to decide who shall bear rule for the Church in England?
“No,” the bishop went on, “the heart of the trouble comes from the North-folk. Well, what the North-folk caused, the North-folk must cure. There are some who still know their Christian duty.”
“In Norfolk, lord?” asked the bailiff doubtfully.
“No. In exile. Wulfgar the cripple, and his son. The one lost his limbs to the Vikings. The other lost his shire. And King Burgred too, of Mercia. It was nothing to me, I thought, who should rule East Anglia, Mercia or Wessex. But I see now. Better that the pious Burgred should have the kingdom of Edmund the Martyr than it should go to Alfred. Alfred the Ingrate, I name him.
“Send in my secretaries. I will write to them all, and to my brothers of Lichfield and Worcester. What the Church has lost, the Church will win back.”
“Will they come, lord?” asked the bailiff. “Will they not fear to invade Wessex?”
“It is I who speaks for Wessex now. And there are greater forces than either Wessex or Mercia astir. All I offer Burgred and the others is the chance to join the winning side before it has won. And to punish insolence: the insolence of the heathens and the slaves. We must make an example of them.”
The bishop’s fist clenched convulsively. “I will not root out this rot, like a weed. I shall burn it out, like a canker.”
“Sibba. I think we’ve got trouble.” The whisper ran across the dark room where a dozen missionaries lay sleeping, wrapped in their blankets.
Silently Sibba jointed his companion at the tiny, glassless window. Outside, the village of Stanford-in-the-Vale, ten miles and as many preachings from Sutton, lay silent, lit by a strong moon. Clouds scudding before the wind cast shadows round the low wattle-and-daub houses that clustered round the thane’s timber one, in which the missionaries of the Way now slept.
“What did you see?”
“Something flashing.”
“A fire not dowsed?”
“I don’t think so.”
Sibba moved without speaking towards the little room that opened off the main central hall. In there the thane Elfstan, their host, a man who protested his loyalty to King Alfred, should be sleeping with his wife and family. After a few moments he drifted back. “They’re still there. I can hear them breathing.”
“So they’re not in on it. Doesn’t mean I didn’t see anything. Look! There it is again.”
Outside, a shadow slipped from one patch of darkness to another, coming closer. In the moonlight something flashed: something metal.
Sibba turned to the men still sleeping. “On your feet, boys. Get your stuff together.”
“Run for it?” asked the watchman.
Sibba shook his head. “They must know how many of us there are. They wouldn’t attack if they weren’t confident they could deal with us. Easier to do that outside than dig us out of here. We must try to break their teeth first.”
Men were scrambling to their feet behind him, groping for their breeches, buckling belts. One man undid a pack, began to haul from it strange, metallic shapes. The others queued in front of him, clutching the long pilgrim-staves all had carried openly.
“Force them down hard,” grunted the packman, struggling to push the first halberd-head on its socket over the carefully designed shaft.
“Move fast,” said Sibba. “Then, Berti, you take two men to face the door, one either side of it. Wilfi, you at the other door. The rest, stay with me, see where we’re needed.”
The movement and the clanking of metal had brought the thane, Elfstan, from his bed. He stared, wonderingly.
“Men outside,” said Sibba. “Not friendly.”
“Nothing to do with me.”
“We know. Look, lord, they’ll let you out. If you go now.”
The thane hesitated. He called to his wife and children, dressing hastily, spoke to them in a low voice.
“Can I open the door?”
Sibba looked round. His men were ready, weapons prepared. “Yes.”