If there was no fish, then sausages were served-boiled or roasted, it made no difference. Occasionally, there was a kind of meat which was prepared by soaking whole pork haunches in brine for several months and then hanging them in the rooftrees over the hearth so that the smoke would preserve them. This treatment made the meat turn bright red, like raw beef, but the taste was magnificent-sweet and succulent and salty all at once. I always enjoyed the rokt skinka, and ate as much of it as often as I could.

The Danefolk liked their meat; they liked their bread, too-heavy and dark, served warm from hearth or oven. I soon grew to enjoy this strange custom. Karin's ale was the same as her bread: dark, rich, and filling, and with a sweet taste that reminded me of nuts. Once Karin put spruce berries in the brew, to produce a most unusual beer. I could not drink it, but Gunnar thought it a wonderful diversion from his normal drink. Sadly, they disdained wine-which, after all, was difficult for them to procure-but I made up for that lack by acquiring a taste for Karin's dark brown ale.

I ate, as I say, with the family. To his honour, Gunnar never stinted in his care of me where food was concerned, nor was I given inferior fare: I ate the same food as my master, and in similar portions. And it shames me even now to say that I indulged myself sinfully, utterly without regard to the Rule of Moderation. How often I asked for more!

I still see Karin's broad, kindly face glowing with pleasure-and the heat of the hearth-as she laid the food on the board, her hands red from work, but her braids neat and her clothing spotless as her kitchen. She was a meticulous, hard-working woman, and enjoyed nothing more than to have the fruit of her labour admired and made much over. Sure, this was no hardship at all for any fortunate enough to find a seat at her table; her offerings, while simple, were never less than superb.

There were two, however, not so fortunate in this respect-though in others perhaps they were far more so than I. These were Odd, the labourer, and Helmuth, the swineherd. Both were Saex-men, and both slaves. Odd was a large fellow, patient, tireless, and very nearly mute. Helmuth, a man of mature years, was a well-mannered and even-tempered soul, who, despite all appearances, happily possessed a smattering of learning, as I soon discovered.

Owing to the pig stink that permeated his clothing and person, poor Helmuth was never allowed inside the house. When it rained or snowed he slept in the barn, but when the days were fine and warm, Helmuth slept outside with heaven's vast starfields his only roof. Even had he not preferred it, he would have done so anyway to guard his precious swine from the wolves. Odd, when he was not working, stayed always with Helmuth.

That I should take meals with the family while my brother slaves ate alone outside or together in the barn, caused me some little anguish on their account. But as no one else seemed to think it any hardship, and Odd and Helmuth were apparently content, I very soon came to accept the arrangement.

After breaking fast that first day Gunnar, accompanied by young Ulf and the two hounds, went out to examine the state of his domain. In all it was a handsome holding, everything well made and neatly ordered; he was justly proud of what he had accomplished in the harsh northland. For his part, little Ulf was proud of his father; I observed that he never left his father's side the whole day long.

We walked the fields together, Gunnar and Ulf chattering away, myself lagging behind as, now and again, my master stopped to inspect some part or portion of his holding: a ploughed field, a new calf, an iron binding for a door, the level of grain in the granary, the fishpond, a length of newly-woven hurdle fencing-anything that came to hand. A blind man could have perceived how much this rough brawny Dane loved his land, concerning himself with every detail of its husbandry.

All that first day we traversed the boundaries of Gunnar's realm-a lonely island fortress, as it seemed to me, set in an evergreen sea, cut off from the wider world. As the days passed, I felt more and more distant to the world I had known. Our little abbey, by contrast, was a busy port on a well-travelled route where trade was conducted not in silver, but in words.

Gunnar had saved me from certain death, that I will not deny. But the cost of my salvation was high indeed. I felt lost and very, very alone. Accordingly, I began to pray the daily round, and to say psalms when I had the chance. One night, at table, I prayed aloud over the meal while my master and his family looked on in amazement. So taken aback were they by this peculiar behaviour, it did not occur to them to prevent me. In time, they came to expect it and waited for me to say the prayer before eating. The ritual, I suppose, appealed to them. I have no idea what they made of it.

That first evening, however, when I raised my head from the prayer, I found Gunnar staring at me. Karin stood at his shoulder, also gazing at me, and prodding her husband insistently. He spoke a few words to her and she desisted.

The next morning, my master took me to Helmuth and, using a complicated series of gestures, indicated that I should pray again as I had the night before.

This I did.

The effect this produced upon the swineherd was extraordinary. He threw down his stick, sank to his knees and cried out, clasping his hands, his lips quivering in thanksgiving as huge wet tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Then up he leaped, clutching me by the arms and crying, "Alleluia! Alleluia!"

Gunnar watched this with a bemused expression on his face. Helmuth subsided after a moment, and fell to murmuring to himself. Gunnar spoke a few words to him, whereupon the swineherd seized his master's hand, kissed it, and blubbered enthusiastically. The baffled Dane nodded curtly to his slave, then turned on his heel and left us there together with the pigs.

"Master Gunnar says I am to be…" Helmuth paused, searching his dusty memory for the proper word. "Heya! I am to be pupil-nay, not pupil…scolere, nay…teacher! Alleluia!" He beamed ecstatically, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was seeing zealous Brother Diarmot in another guise.

"I am to be the teacher of you," Helmuth continued. "You are to be pupil to me." He studied me for my reaction.

"Forgive me, friend, I mean no offence," I replied, "but how is it that every skald and swineherd knows and speaks good Latin?" I then went on to tell him about Scop.

"Scop!" he cried. "Scop it was who taught me. An excellent man, Scop. I was sent to him as a boy to sit at his feet and learn the mirabili mundi! I was one of his best pupils!"

"He was still a priest then."

"Priest he was, yes," Helmuth confirmed, "and his name was Ceawlin, a most holy and righteous man-a Saecsen, like me. He taught me the love of Jesu and the veneration of the saints, and much else. I thought to be a priest myself," he halted, shaking his head sadly, "but that was not to be." He looked at me. "Though it is long since I have heard the Mass, I still believe. And I often speak to the All Father-I ask him to send me someone to talk to. He has sent you, I think."

We talked as best we could: despite what I had said, Helmuth's Latin was not good, and it was polluted with many strange words in several languages. Even so, in the days to follow, we began to understand one another better and I pieced together the story of how he came to serve Gunnar. With many hesitations and much misunderstanding on both sides, Helmuth eventually explained about the war that left old Ake the Reticent and his bellicose son, Svein, dead, and Rapp the Hammerer on the throne. "Rapp was no believer in anything save the war hammer in his hand," Helmuth observed bitterly. "Rapp made slaves of all the undead. No, ah-he made slaves of those who yet lived-"