He strikes me as a very grumpy god, that one, even though his priests are forever claiming that he loves us. He makes rules, more rules, prohibitions and commandments, and he needs hundreds of black-robed priests and monks to make sure we obey those laws. They have their own squabbles and love affairs and seem to ignore us much of the time, but the Christian god has nothing better to do than to make rules for us. The other thing I like about our gods is that they are not obsessed with us. Thor and Odin walked our hills, slept in our valleys, loved our women and drank from our streams, and that makes them seem like neighbours. I was raised a Christian, but at ten years old, when I was taken into Ragnar’s family, I discovered the old Saxon gods who were also the gods of the Danes and of the Norsemen, and their worship has always made more sense to me than bowing down to a god who belongs to a country so far away that I have met no one who has ever been there. These days it does no good to confess that, for the bishops and abbots have too much influence and it is easier to pretend to a faith than to fight angry ideas. “Many of the most blessed saints are women.” “Of course there are, my lord,” he answered, happy that I was taking an interest in doctrine. I once asked a bishop whether there were any women in heaven. The Danes reckon their dead warriors are carried to Valhalla, the corpse hall of Odin, where they spend their days fighting and their nights feasting and swiving, and I dare not tell the priests that this seems a far better way to endure the afterlife than singing to the sound of golden harps.

Beocca always told me that it would be an ecstatic existence, but to me it seems very dull.

In heaven, they say, the saints occupy a privileged place, living on the high platform of God’s great hall where they spend their time singing God’s praises. “King Edmund of East Anglia is now remembered as a saint, as one of those blessed souls who live forever in the shadow of God.

Cornwell sword