'Fetch the grey-beard I spoke with yesterday!' he commanded.
'I am here, Sigurd,' came the reply as the guard appeared spear in hand. 'What do you want from us? There is nothing for you here. My king will soon return and when he does you and your men will die where you stand.'
'Go on, old man,' Sigurd called, 'you shrivelled goat's prick!' He held up a hand and snapped his fingers together. 'Use your old tongue while you still have it!' This brought the hint of a smile from the warrior, who must have been one of King Coenwulf's household men and therefore an experienced fighter, for it is customary to hurl insults before a fight, and the Norsemen are good at it. 'Open the gates and let me in, you squirrel's turd,' Sigurd demanded. 'I will bring ten men with me, no more. You have my word.'
'The word of a heathen means nothing to me,' Grey Beard replied, spitting over the battlements. 'You are all the Devil's turds and you will be washed away by a holy rain, just like the bastard Welsh.'
Sigurd muttered to the others and as one they turned on their heels to walk away.
'Wait!' Grey Beard shouted. 'Where is the man who yesterday wore that red cloak? He is a man of the Holy Church if my eyes did not deceive me.'
'He was the bishop of Wilton,' Sigurd replied, holding out his fist and letting the silver cross fall until the chain pulled taut. 'And a more pathetic worm I have never come across. Here, take this if you believe it will do you any good. I will have it back soon enough.' With that, he threw the cross into the sky and for a brief moment it reflected the rays of the new sun before disappearing over the wooden palisade.
'Did you murder the good bishop?' Grey Beard asked, his face betraying revulsion at the thought even as he sent a man after the small treasure.
'I would have,' Sigurd answered, 'if fear or some other feeble sickness had not done it for me. And may your White Christ use the man as a footstool in the afterlife,' he finished, before turning away once again.
For the rest of the day nothing happened and that night some of the men began to say that if the Mercians did not surrender soon, they would be in for a hard fight against a vengeful king. But Sigurd seemed not in the least worried. Sigurd had asked a favour of Loki god of mischief, whom most men shun because they are afraid, and even the gods have their pride.
The next day, a man was heard calling from atop the main gate. After a long time, Sigurd went forward to hear what he had to say. It was Grey Beard and he looked tired and agitated.
'Let me see the bishop,' the Mercian said.
'Why?' Sigurd replied, holding out his hands. 'That toad is beginning to stink! I have told my men to cut off his limbs and hang them in the forest for the ravens.'
'Let me see him,' Grey Beard pleaded, to which Sigurd shrugged and called for Svein to bring Egfrith to the gate, wrapped in the old skin, his face pale in death. Svein dumped the body on the ground and I was amazed that Father Egfrith did not give a yelp.
'Here is your corpse, Mercian,' Sigurd spat. 'Your god found no reason to keep this one alive, it seems.' Then Olaf covered his nose and mouth as though the body stank, and even Sigurd stepped away from it, grimacing.
'I will buy the bishop from you,' Grey Beard said, 'for thirty silver coins.'
'Pah!' Sigurd said, batting the words away with his hand. 'I will soon have all the silver I want. Enough to bury you in, Grey Beard.'
'Not if King Coenwulf returns whilst you stand there watching the grass grow tall,' Grey Beard said with a grim smile.
Sigurd tilted his head in the pretence of considering the offer.
'You can have the priest for all I care,' he said. 'It will save my men the unpleasant task of cutting him up. I don't think even the ravens would want him. His stink would make their beaks fall off.'
Grey Beard nodded. 'I will have a coffin lowered over the wall,' he said, 'and you will have your thirty silver coins.'
Before the pale sun had fully risen, Svein the Red and Bram the Bear hefted a heavy oak coffin to the place where our makeshift shelters most obscured the Mercians' view.
'Are you sure you want to do this, Raven?' Sigurd asked, putting a hand on my shoulder. 'If they discover you, they will kill you.'
I nodded. 'The only thing I fear is the Mercians putting me straight in the ground,' I said. Though I feared much more than that. I had lived amongst Christians and my head had been soaked with their rantings about their god being the one true god, a god of inconceivable power. And here I was about to steal a treasure belonging to that god.
'No, no, they won't do that,' Egfrith said, wagging his finger. His skin was still covered with chalk, which made the whites of his eyes and his teeth look even more yellow. 'Why would they buy the body only to bury it?' he asked scornfully. He sniffed. 'After treating the corpse with spices, they will display it in their church crypt in the hope that pilgrims and good Christian folk will pay to come and behold the martyr.' He looked at Sigurd, his expression stern. 'For they will announce that the bishop was cruelly slain by the heathens.' Sigurd shook his head in disbelief, then shrugged as though it mattered nothing to him. 'Now, Raven,' Egfrith continued, 'if the book is there, it will be by the altar, or in some other place of prominence. You should expect someone to be guarding it, keeping a vigil. A child if you're lucky, or even a woman.'