It was loud and it stank, but heathen and Christian were getting along better than anyone could have hoped. Even Wulfweard was there, though I did not see him talking to any of the Norsemen. He sat on a footstool drinking mead and fingering the wooden cross he wore round his neck as though the thing would keep him safe from the evil he saw all around him. He looked up at the roof suspiciously, seemingly fearful that the men's carousing would shake the old beams from their joints to fall and crush us. The hall had belonged to Lord Swefred, but he had been in the ground six years and had no sons. Now, shadow-shrouded cheese presses, butter churns and empty barrels cluttered one end, while the rest of the space was used for meetings, trade and private disputes. Any and all used the place and so none saw why they should pay for its upkeep. Weeds were bursting through the packed earth floor. There were no hangings to keep out the cold and the wattle was damp and rotting. But this night the place was alive.
