It was late February by the time they got back to Wessex. Though the days were longer the icy grasp of winter still clung firmly to the land, and the open ground seemed to suck the heat out of Cynewulf's body.

They crept past Cippanhamm in the night. The Danish Force was still wintering there.

They camped in a stand of wood, their horses tethered. They laid out blankets over leaves heaped up on the damp ground, and huddled together under their cloaks, pooling their warmth. They dare not strike a fire, so close to the Danes. Arngrim had shot a rabbit with his arrow earlier that day, but there had been no chance to cook it, and they tore at the bare flesh with their teeth, blood trickling over their chins.

So here they were, Cynewulf thought: Arngrim, Ibn Zuhr, Aebbe, Cynewulf, a thegn, a Moor slave, a freedwoman and a priest. But nobody looking at them from the outside could have detected the differing shapes of their souls. They were just four animals, huddling on heaps of leaves in the forest's sinister dark, eating raw meat like dogs.

This night, though, the Danes were unhappy. There was a stink of burning, and the cries of running men. Cynewulf detected exhaustion, irritation – and fear.

Cynewulf could sense a grin in Arngrim's voice as he whispered in the dark, 'Do you hear those Danes scuttle? Alfred's men are at work.'

Cynewulf, cold, dirty, hungry, depressed, hissed back, 'I don't see what there is to be cheerful about. Firing a few ships in the night, or burning down a food store or two, isn't going to make much difference.'

'You heard the fatigue; the Danes are losing sleep, night after night. These are pinpricks, but they are effective in a way.'

'In my country,' Ibn Zuhr said, his voice sinister, 'we have ways to kill a man with pinpricks.'

Arngrim whispered sternly. 'In the spring – after Easter perhaps – when the weather turns, and the fyrd can be raised, the West Saxons will rally to their King.'

'If he still lives,' Cynewulf muttered, determinedly gloomy.

'He must live,' Ibn Zuhr said. 'If not, there would be no raids. The nobles would be submitting to Guthrum, seeking to find the best positions they can in a new Dane-land.'

'Alfred must live,' Amgrim whispered. 'And he must prevail.' He reached out and clasped Cynewulf's shoulder, hard enough to hurt. 'And you, priest, have dragged us across the country in pursuit of a dream you believe will inspire Alfred to victory. Don't lose your courage now!' Cynewulf heard him moving in the dark, burying what was left of the rabbit carcass. 'No more talk. We must try to sleep.'

They huddled together for warmth, shifting, nudging each other, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard ground.

Cynewulf felt the warm mass of Aebbe behind him, her belly pressed against his back, her bent knees against his thighs, the whisper of her breath on his neck. Suspicious of all men, she stayed closer to the priest than to Arngrim or Ibn Zuhr, as if she distrusted him the least. Once such a presence would have filled him with helplessly sinful thoughts. But the harm that had been done to her by other men seemed to have scoured the last of his youthful lust from his body. Perhaps it made him a better priest, he thought, if, he felt wistfully, less of a man.

Her breath soon settled into the gentle rhythms of sleep. Since they had set off from Jorvik she had spoken not a single word.

It was a murky noon, two days later, when they returned to the boggy ground to which Alfred had fled, on that dismal night after the Twelve Days assault.

Before they found Aethelingaig, others found them. A party of a dozen men came riding over the broken ground, the legs of their horses heavy with mud. They had their cloaks thrown back, so their swords and axes were exposed.

Arngrim had his party dismount. 'Stand apart. Drop your cloaks to the ground. Keep your hands empty.'

Cynewulf's heart thumped as he complied. 'Are they Danes?'

'West Saxons. I think I recognise the lead man. That's not to say they won't run us through if we give them cause.'

The leader, a burly young fellow with a thick black beard, drew his sword and pointed it at Amgrim's chest. He called out, speaking in Danish, 'Who are you? What is your business here?'

Arngrim answered in his own tongue, 'I am English. So are my companions, save the Moor, who is my slave. I am Arngrim, son of Arngrim, thegn to Alfred. I think I know you.'

The man's eyes narrowed. 'My name is Ordgar.'

'Yes. You are Aethelnoth's man.' He glanced back at the priest.

'Aethelnoth is the ealdorman of the shire. If he is still supporting the King, it is good news.'

Ordgar kept his blade pointing square at Arngrim's chest. 'Why do you come to this place?'

'We seek the King. The Danes took this woman.' He indicated Aebbe. 'We have brought her back.'

Ordgar frowned, suspicious again. 'Why?'

Arngrim hesitated. 'It may be best if you hear it from the King. We were with Alfred in his hall, during the Twelve Nights. We were there when the Danes raided. I myself stood before their leader-'

'Egil. I remember you.' Ordgar lowered his sword, and Cynewulf let out a breath. 'Men still talk of you that night, Arngrim son of Arngrim. You stood your ground.'

Arngrim grinned. 'Actually I stood on a table. We have been away some weeks. What is the news?'

'Not good. Guthrum has occupied much of Wessex. He is stretched thin, and Alfred's assaults keep the Force pinned down. But they take animals – they even slaughter the pregnant ewes – they turn folk out of their cottages and feed the thatch to their horses.'

'It will be a hungry summer.'

'Yes. And there has been treachery. Aethelwold has allied with the Danes.' Aethelwold, another ealdorman, was Alfred's nephew, the son of one of his dead brothers. 'And there is news of another Danish Force, under Ubba, coming from the west.'

To Cynewulf this was scarcely believable. 'Another?'

'A thousand men or more, judging by the number of ships. Evidently Ubba and Guthrum mean to crush Alfred and Wessex between the two of them. Ealdorman Odda is preparing to stand against them. But…'

But if even Alfred's nephew had deserted him, nobody could be relied on; Ordgar left this conclusion unsaid.

Ordgar sheathed his sword. 'I will bring you to the King. But be careful how you behave. It is not only Danes who have tried to slaughter the King, but English too, men of our blood, who have sold their souls. It is a dangerous time, and men are cautious.'

They rode further west, into the half-drowned land. A mist lingered, even in the middle of the day, a low clinging dampness that stank of rot. At last they came to a place where open water glimmered in pale sheets, and the only scraps of dry land were islands that thrust out of the murk. Punts had been hauled up out of the water on to the dry land.

Here Ordgar had them dismount. 'That's the end for the horses,' he said.

They clambered into punts, Cynewulf and Aebbe together in one, Arngrim and Ibn Zuhr in a second, each with one of Ordgar's men. Two more punts followed them, so they were a little flotilla with no less than nine armed men, including Arngrim. Cynewulf had never liked water, and he clung to the sides of the punt as the thick green marshwater lapped into the low hull, and reeds scraped against the bottom. But even the Danes' famous shallow-draught ships could not penetrate this clinging morass.

The light was already fading when Aethelingaig loomed out of the mist. Cynewulf saw punts and other shallow boats coming and going from the island. He imagined them carrying instructions from the King to his supporters in the country, and bringing back information about the movements of the Danes. As they neared the island a huge crane flapped from the still water into the darksome sky.