text: [Themes: mystery / thriller, mystery]
  
  Cynehelm could wait. The dead ealdorman Grimbold could wait. Wulf only cared about Father Leofwine, and this merchant house was the key to solving his murder. He could not read Latin, but there were plenty of priests in the city who could, and perhaps one of them could explain why the book had been hidden away.
  
  He tucked it into his cloak, carefully replaced the grubby cloth and box exactly as they had been and shut the secret passageway door. When Wulf climbed the ladder, he found Merwal standing nearby, peering down, but as soon as his head poked back onto the main floor he glanced away nervously.
  
  "No murderous cooks," he said, and the merchant nodded. "If you see or hear anything connected with him, tell the king's men at once."
  
  Merwal followed him to the door, wearing a smile that was just a little too broad. "Of course." He bowed when Wulf left, no doubt racing down the ladder as soon as the door swung shut.
  
  Wulf took no chances and left at once, almost running in his haste to leave the wealthy part of the city behind. He passed several churches but decided to focus on putting more distance between himself and the man he had robbed. Finally, when he had almost come back to the main gate, he stopped. There were still plenty of men-at-arms searching for the cook and questioning townsfolk, and he could see that the guards still would let no one leave the city. A little group of monks stood beside the gatehouse, their brown robes flapping gently in the wind, and he approached them.
  
  "Trouble, brothers?" he said quietly, noting the annoyance in their faces.
  
  Their leader, an older man whose eyes were nearly glazed over, shook his head. "A trifle. No one may leave Winchester until a murderer is caught. Our abbey lies many miles from here, and it is ill luck to stuck inside the walls, but I pray for the soul of the murdered man."
  
  "And for all of Wessex," interjected a young monk. "The Danes will slaughter us all if the killings do not stop!"
  
  The old monk sighed. "I pray for Alfred as well, that God will give him strength to fight the heathens. We have lost too many brothers and too many monasteries already. Hundreds of books burnt, too. The Danes care not for learning."
  
  Wulf pulled the little book from his cloak and held it forward. "Nor, it seems, do many in Winchester. I found this lying in the street, but I cannot read the Latin."
  
  The old monk took it and bent close, but he shook his head and handed it to his younger brother.
  
  "Proslogion," the man read, furrowing his eyebrows, but when he opened it his expression changed to horror. "Here is one book that I hope the pagans do burn!"
  
  "Is it the Proslogion of Paulinus?" the old man asked, and when the young brother said yes, he sighed again. "How hardy are the errors of past centuries! They are no easier to defeat than the Danes."
  
  "Take it back," said the young monk suddenly, shoving the little book back into Wulf's hands. "I do not wish to read any more!"
  
  Sensing his confusion, the old man explained. "Paulinus was a brilliant theologian, born just after the Romans left Britain and educated on the Continent. He wrote many books, but it is this Proslogion, his Discourses, that proved his undoing. For Paulinus disagreed with Saint Augustine on original sin. He held that we humans do not suffer for Adam's disobedience, that our forefather's sin brought punishment on himself alone. He multiplied the heresies of Pelagius and ensnared many fools in Britain and across Christendom. But the holy Church and her saints fought back, and in the war of reason and of words, Paulinus was soundly defeated. But heresy never stays dead for long, and it seems that some in Wessex have revived his ancient errors." He shook his head. "It is a dangerous and evil book, entirely contrary to true religion and to the Holy Scriptures."
  
  Wulf regarded it again, his disappointment growing. "Why would someone own such a book?"
  
  "Why does anyone turn to heresy? We may blame intellectual pride, foolish curiosity, or the Devil himself, but the point is that this is a vile book, full of errors and obstructions of the truth. Little wonder God no longer favors our kingdom."
  
  Wulf pictured Merwal and Saewara's frightened faces and cursed himself for bothering with the little book. He had no interest in catching heretics, as the merchant and his wife surely were, only in catching Leofwine's killer. Now that he had stolen the book, the man would never let him back inside in house, which meant he could not use the passageway to get inside the castle. He had squandered his chance, Wulf realized, and all for this irrelevant Proslogion.
  
  "Thank you, I will burn it when I have the chance," he said to the monks, unable to keep a sliver of annoyance out of his voice, and then turned away. There was nothing to do now but find some way to speak with Cynehelm and hope that the nervous ealdorman was having more luck. He walked towards the castle, trying to come up with some kind of plan. Guards were everywhere, a bunch by the main entrance and others scattered across the hill. It would be impossible to sneak or fight his way in, but, in Wulf's experience, words could be as effective as swords. The only question was which words to try.
  
  > Outright lies
  The leader of the little pack of guards at the main gate was ugly, and his beady eyes narrowed on Wulf as he approached. He said something to his companions that made them chuckle, and two of them lifted their spears. "That's close enough," he barked, when Wulf was still nearly ten feet away. "No one is allowed in the castle."
  
  "Please sir," Wulf said softly, "I must speak with Lord Aldric about the war." He had never met the young ealdorman, but his reputation for brilliance stretched throughout England.
  
  The guard smirked. "Lord Aldric is with the king and can't be disturbed, not by riffraff at any rate. Tell me the message and I'll pass it along."
  
  "I'm not supposed to tell anyone but Aldric..."
  
  "Then I guess you're not going to be telling anyone, because no one is allowed in the castle. Now shove off before I give you a knock."
  
  Wulf let his voice rise to a shout. "The Danes are coming, you great fool! Now let me inside at once, or you'll be sorry when a pagan puts his sword through your neck."
  
  The guard looked at him for a second and then laughed. "Piss off."
  
  Wulf glanced at the other guards, but none of them seemed any more interested than their leader. He turned and let himself trip over a stone, spilling a few pieces of silver across the ground. "Would you help me with these?" he said to the ugly one, who bent down immediately and snatched them up. Wulf tried to walk through the gate, but the others jabbed their spears out once again, blocking the way.
  
  Their ugly leader spit. "I appreciate your kind of clumsiness, but it won't do you any good. No one is allowed in the castle, and I'm not going to risk my job and my head for you." He put his hand to his sword and spit again, making no move to give back the silver.
  
  Wulf felt a sudden stab of anger at himself, at whoever had killed Leofwine, and at this infuriating man. "I'll take my coin and go," he said, which made the guards laugh again. That only increased his temper, and his voice, usually quiet and calm, came out with real venom. "Hand it over." His own hand went to his short sword.
  
  The ugly guard did not flinch. "I said piss off, before you lose more than your silver."
  
  Wulf stood his ground, his eyes locked with the man's beady ones, for a tense few seconds. He did not see when one of the others hit him, hard, on the side of the head with his spear. The point only grazed his skin, but it was enough to draw a little blood, and the thin trickle of red felt hot against his cheek and was enough to spark his anger into rage. Wulf drew his sword and slashed at the one who had hit him, just nicking his wrist and making him drop the spear, but the others were too quick. Their ugly leader stood back, just watching, his fingers counting the silver pieces as his men rained down blows on Wulf with their fists and swords.
  
  "I warned you," he said without much interest. The pool of blood grew larger and larger. "That's enough now, he's learned his lesson." The others stepped away, the one whose wrist Wulf had cut aiming one last kick to his side. When he did not stir, the ugly leader bent down, trying and failing to avoid getting blood on his cloak.
  
  "You killed him," he said accusingly to the others, who shrugged. It was true, and the ugly guard even felt a little sorry for the dead stranger, his disfigured face still staring up at him. "You boys should learn a little restraint." Perhaps he had been telling the truth, unlikely as it seemed. The king should be warned, he supposed, that the heathen army might be approaching, and he went into the castle to tell him.