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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.
     
Sigurd frowned, thrusting the cup to arm's length.
     
And Wulfweard must have known I had warned the Norseman, for he made the sign of the cross. 'Lies!' he yelled. 'Whatever he's spewing! Lies from Satan's own pus-filled mouth! Lies!' He stepped towards me and I thought he would strike me down.
     
'Then drink some yourself, priest,' Sigurd growled in English, offering the cup to Wulfweard. 'We will share the mead, but you drink first.'
     
Wulfweard closed his eyes and turned his face to the old roof, gripping the wooden cross that hung over his chest. He was muttering something, prayers, I think, under his breath.
     
'Drink!' Sigurd commanded and that one word was so heavy with threat that I could not imagine how any man could disobey it.
     
'The mead is mixed with hemlock,' I said, glancing at Ealhstan who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. 'You would have drunk the mead and you would have slept, lord.' I took a deep breath. 'By noon you would be unable to stand, your legs would be cold to the touch and you would piss yourself.' I did not know if this last part was true, but I thought it would sting a proud man like Sigurd. I was deep in the mire now and saw no point in trying to drag myself clear.
     
'It would kill me?' Sigurd asked, his eyes boring into mine, as a spoon auger bores into timber.
     
'I think so, lord,' I said, 'yes. You would die and tomorrow Father Wulfweard would claim it to be the work of God.'
     
'And the bloated pig would shout that the Christians' god was more powerful than Óðin All-Father!' Sigurd roared, his hand falling to his sword's pommel. Then Wulfweard spat at me, reached into the long sleeve of his tunic and leapt at Sigurd. I saw the knife in the priest's hand, but Sigurd saw it too and jumped back with astonishing speed, drawing his sword at the same time.
     
'Father!' Wulfweard screamed as Sigurd stepped up and swung his sword into the man's head. The priest's legs buckled and he fell convulsing on the ground, clutching at his wooden cross as his grey brains spilled wetly from his skull.
     
The men of Abbotsend cursed and spat, looking to Griffin for leadership. And by the hearth light they must have seen doubt in the warrior's eyes.
     
'He was a servant of God!' Griffin yelled. Men were pouring out of the hall. 'A priest, Sigurd!' Griffin shouted, staring at the jarl as the Norsemen armed themselves and the Abbotsend men hurried into the night. Ealhstan was kneeling by Wulfweard and I grabbed the old man's shoulder and pulled him away, hardly believing what was happening, then pushed through to the door and out into the fresh air. Into the chaos. The Norsemen were forming a shieldwall, each man's shield overlapping that of the warrior to his right, and the speed and efficiency of their movements was frightening. But the village men were also forming a dense line in the shadows, gripping spears and swords, and more men were coming from their houses with