Conqueror

Harold held up a hand. 'Enough. Just tell me how we reach this promised land.'

'It is all in the prophecy,' Sihtric said. '"Step by step." The fifth stanza describes the coming of the Vikings to Lindisfarena. The copiers in the monasteries laboured for centuries to preserve the Menologium for you, lord, and the Menologium's own words gave the monks a chance to save it from the fire of the Northmen – which they did.

'That achieved, the Menologium survived to be presented to Alfred – and proved to him that he would prevail against the Danish force, when all must have seemed lost. Another step completed. And with that achieved, we come to stanza nine.'

'Which describes this very year,' Harold said, intrigued, disturbed. 'Which you claim predicts my actions.'

'Yes.' And the priest read again: "'End brother's life at brother's hand./A fighting man takes/Noble elf-wise crown./Brother embraces brother./The north comes from south/to spill blood on the wall."'

'Brother slaying brother,' Harold growled. 'We've discussed this before. I won't have Tostig killed, priest.'

Sihtric returned his glare steadily. 'But it may be necessary. The fighting man, the elf-wise – isn't that clear now? It was your duty to take the throne of Alfred.'

Harold glared at him. 'Move on, move on,' he snapped. "'Brother embraces brother." What does that mean? Must I forgive Tostig now?'

'No,' Sihtric said firmly. 'I have puzzled over this phrase, lord. It's not to be taken literally. I believe it means you must embrace the Northmen.'

'What, Harald Hardrada?' Harold laughed.

Sihtric pressed, 'Make your peace with him, lord, before he has a chance to strike for the crown.'

Harold glowered, clearly not liking what he was hearing. 'And then what?'

Sihtric took a deep breath. 'And then, when William comes, you will be ready. "The north comes from south/to spill blood on the wall."'

'Ah. You think this means the Normans? Northmen who will attack us from the south. Their blood spilled on our shield walls.'

'Yes! You have it, lord. English and Norse together will face the Norman Bastard, and crush him. And that will be the conclusion of the programme of the Menologium – the fulfilment of all these steps across the centuries – and the Rome of the north will be built.'

'And if not,' Harold said gloomily, 'if England falls to the Normans, what then? England will turn south, not north, I suppose, and will fall under the sway of the Popes. And the butcher of Normandy will be loose in our land… But I can't make peace with Hardrada. It would be like tupping a wild bear.'

Sihtric was sweating now, as he saw the prize was all but in his grasp. 'But we are brothers now,' he said. 'We and the Northmen. After two centuries of blood spilled and blood mixed – you yourself, King of England, are half Danish. And consider this.' He turned to Godgifu and Orm. 'My own sister, this Viking warrior – lovers! Here is the proof.' And he produced a scrap of blood-stained sheet. 'I don't preach omens, lord. But what is this but a symbol of the unity to come?'

Orm tensed. He was weaponless, here in the King's chamber, but he felt he could throttle the priest with his bare hands. But Godgifu held his arm, silently urging him to be still.

Harold, watching this, said evenly, 'I doubt your sister will forgive you for this, priest.'

Sihtric, sensing he had made a terrible blunder, rowed back. 'Lord-I only meant to show you that-'

'Put that disgusting rag away, you fool.'

Sihtric did so, and stood, tense. 'My case is made, lord.'

'Is it indeed? Well, I'll tell you what I think-'

The door crashed open, and a thegn rushed in. 'Lord – I am sorry – there is news.'

It was Tostig. The exiled brother had gathered a fleet and had sailed from Flanders. It appeared he was heading for the English south coast. Harold threw down his mead cup and walked out without another word.

Sihtric hurried after him. 'You should have killed Tostig,' he said, panicking. 'This is not in the prophecy. Everything could unravel. Even now, all could be lost…'

But the King did not look back.

XII

When Orm and Godgifu left the palace, it was evening. It had been cloudy for some days, but now the sky was clear, and a pale light filled the sky – the moon, perhaps.

'I grow sick of this place,' Orm said, his face tight. 'The stink of compromise. The hypocrisy. These fools who follow prophecies like gullible old women. And I am sick,' he said harshly, 'of your brother.'

'Well, I sympathise with that. What will you do?'

'I'll go back to Normandy. In training the English thegns' sons to fight I consider I have discharged my debt to Harold, and I tire of the disdain of these flabby men. At least with William you get a good clean war, and I am respected by his followers.' He studied her. 'Are you shocked that I'm thinking of joining the enemies of Harold?'

She looked into her heart. 'No. In fact,' she said slowly, coming to the decision even as she spoke, 'I'm thinking of going to join Tostig myself. My father was his thegn after all. I have a place there. Everything is too murky here. And I too would like to get away from my brother, after today.'

'So we are separating.'

'It's a year of war, I think. Not of love. When this is over, one way or the other-'

'We'll find each other.'

But she wondered if that could be true.

He turned, and in a moment was gone into the dark, narrow streets. She returned to her lodging-house, and prepared for bed alone.

In the middle of the night she was woken by Sihtric. He had received a new letter from Ibn Sharaf in al-Andalus. Sihtric brandished this before her, his face round in the spectral moonlight that filtered through the unglazed window. 'He has seen it,' he breathed. 'The comet. It has appeared in the southern skies of Iberia…'

Too impatient to light a lamp, he had her throw on a cloak, and they went outside to study the letter by the moon's glow.

'The comet was faint – and perhaps not visible from our latitude, or under our murky English skies. But it first appeared in March, just as the Menologium promised. It has come true! Now the empire of the north longs to be born-and Harold must do as I say.'

Godgifu felt chilled at this talk. 'You are arrogant, Sihtric. A priest who would command a king.'

Sihtric said, 'But even Harold is a mere tool to enable the fulfilment of the grand scheme of the Menologium.' His eyes were bright in the eerie light.

Not for the first time she wondered at the motives of the agent who was truly behind all this: the author of the Menologium, the Weaver. What kind of being was he, who dreamed of establishing an Aryan nation in the north?

And then she saw the King himself, standing by the wall of the church. Harold's tall figure was unmistakable, as he stood with close companions, a couple of housecarls and an archbishop or two, and peered up at the sky, revealed for the first time in days.

She looked up, the way they were looking. And her skin prickled with cold.

'Ah,' Sihtric breathed, staring at Harold. 'He looks every inch a king. See how the gold thread of his tunic glitters in the moonlight.'

Godgifu looked at Sihtric. In his grimy nightshirt, his tonsured hair tousled, he looked oddly vulnerable, much younger. 'You really are unworldly,' she said. 'You have obsessed over this comet all your life, and yet you don't even look up at the sky, do you? Sihtric, that isn't moonlight.'

Now he looked up, and saw a glowing silver cloud suspended in the sky, with tails like lengths of hair washing away from it. He gasped, and mumbled a prayer.

Godgifu explored her own emotions. For all Sihtric's elaborate interpretations she had never really believed in the Menologium. But with the comet in the sky, this was no longer just an intriguing game played out by an eccentric young priest. The prophecy's fundamental truth had been demonstrated. Everything was different now, she thought.