Ealhstan made to walk away, beckoning for me to follow, but I stood where I was beneath the rotting thatch. The carpenter made a low guttural sound in his throat and waved his arm bad-temperedly.
'You're going to let him poison the jarl?' I asked, horrified. 'He was lying about the burdock.' I sniffed the lingering musty scent of hemlock on my fingers as Ealhstan gestured again for me to come away. 'I'm not going,' I said. 'We can't let it happen. Wulfweard is mad! His head is full of spiders, Ealhstan.' Though the old man frowned, I did not wait to see what he would do, but followed the priest into the hall.
Inside, someone had thrown more logs on to the hearth. They were spitting and cracking and the flames were jumping again, gilding the spicy smoke that billowed across sleeping men and around smooth roof posts. Wulfweard was standing above Jarl Sigurd, a cup in his hands, and some of the others were stirring as though expecting trouble. Wulfweard turned to the sound of the door. He saw me and curled his lip before turning back to the Norseman. I moved into a space by the hearth, feeling the heat on my face as Ealhstan entered the hall and crouched beside Siward the blacksmith.
'Your people are stumbling in the darkness, Jarl Sigurd,' Wulfweard said, his voice like the rasp of a sword from its sheath, 'but is it not the shepherd's task to save his flock from the wolf?'
'Fuck off, priest,' Sigurd mumbled, scratching his golden beard. 'I did not cross Njörd's sea to listen to you. Your words fall from your mouth like droppings from a goat's arse.' Some of the Norsemen laughed hard enough to wake others still sleeping.
'Go back to your White Christ house and sleep on your knees,' said the warrior beside Sigurd.
For a few heartbeats Wulfweard just stared at Sigurd. By the firelight I saw that the priest was trembling with rage and his free hand was a tight fist.
'I have come here in peace, heathen,' Wulfweard rumbled, 'and I was hoping you might accept Christ's blessing. You will be gone tomorrow.'
'The White Christ is here?' Sigurd asked, grinning and looking around the hall.
'Our Lord is everywhere,' Wulfweard replied, shooting a warning glance at the Englishmen in the hall. 'I would bless you in Christ's name, Sigurd, and in the morning I would baptize you and cleanse you of the evil filth that suffocates your people.'
I wondered then if Wulfweard had had a change of heart, or if Ealhstan had been mistaken about the hemlock. Perhaps the priest had been picking burdock for his moulting hair.
'Away with your spells, priest!' Sigurd said, flicking a hand at Wulfweard as an old Norseman with bones plaited in his lank grey hair stood and walked over to the jarl, 'or I will have my own godi turn your guts to worms.' The heathen wizard grinned maliciously, but some of the other Norsemen put their hands on their spears and sword grips. I touched the pagan knife at my waist, letting my thumb follow the forms of the writhing beasts in its bone hilt. The Norsemen had similar hilts sticking from sheaths at their own waists. I looked at these strangers, trying to see myself in them. They were mostly yellow-haired with fair beards, though one had hair as black as my own.
'I see you are not yet ready to receive Christ's forgiveness,' Wulfweard said, forcing a smile. 'Well, I have tried,' he exclaimed, holding his arms wide, 'and perhaps I have struck the first blow in the battle for your blighted souls.' He turned away from Sigurd, stopped, then turned back to face the Norseman, extending the hand clasping the mead cup. 'Will you at least drink with me, Jarl Sigurd? To show all gathered here that there is peace between us?'
Sigurd pursed his lips, then shrugged his powerful shoulders. 'I'll drink with you, priest,' he said, accepting the cup, 'if you will then leave me in peace.' Wulfweard dipped his head and took a step back. Sigurd raised the cup to his lips.
'No, lord!' I called, stepping forward over a Norseman. 'Don't drink it!' From the corner of my eye I saw men clambering to their feet.
Wulfweard turned and hissed at me, his big face so full of hatred that it looked fit to burst. 'Go back to Hell, Satan's slave!' he shouted, his voice filling the old hall.
'Hold your tongue, priest,' Sigurd said, shrugging off a fur and getting to his feet wearily. The men in the hall were separating into knots of Norse or English and more than one of the heathens picked up their great war spears. 'Speak, redeye,' Sigurd commanded, beckoning me forward with an arm glittering with gold warrior rings.
The weight of men's stares pressed down on me, crushing my throat and squeezing my belly. Suddenly the only sound was the flapping of the hearth flames and my own heartbeat filling my head. I cleared my throat and pushed through the throng until I stood before Sigurd and Wulfweard. 'The mead is poisoned, lord,' I said in Norse.