'You are either useful to me, or you are not useful,' Sigurd said. 'Think about that, old man.'
'He'll fix it, lord,' I said, kicking Ealhstan, who mumbled something that would have been damned heathens, had he a tongue.
The Norsemen put on helms and mail, whilst Olaf dropped the anchor. Knut released the leather straps that ran through slits in the hull, holding the steerboard in position, then lifted the rudder from the water so as not to damage it in the shallows, for it ran deeper than the keel.
We had to cover our mouths and noses even before jumping from Serpent into water up to our waists, for the whale was rotten and the stink was terrible. Flies blanketed the corpse and two ravens stood on it, watching us between pecking at a great yellow eye.
'It's high tide, Sigurd,' Olaf said as the men ran two thick ropes to a couple of boulders. 'We have two hours before we risk getting stuck high and dry like him,' he said, nodding at the dead whale.
'We'll have filled our bellies by then, Uncle,' Sigurd replied, using his green cloak to wipe the seawater from his sword. 'What do the bones say, godi?' The strange old man had already found a flat rock on which he had strewn a handful of bones that looked like those from a man's backbone.
'They speak of blood, Sigurd,' he said in barely more than a whisper, his grey, watery eyes flickering over his chieftain's face. For a heartbeat Sigurd's brow furrowed, but then a smile came to his salt-cracked lips.
'Blood from the meat staining our beards, old man, that's what you see,' he said, glancing at Olaf who held his eye briefly.
Then Olaf rubbed his ample belly. 'I don't know about you whoresons, but I can almost taste it,' he called, and the other men grinned mischievously. Sigurd sent four men to keep watch along the high ridge. The others fished, played tafl, or trained with sword and spear whilst the rest of us prepared to set off in search of fresh meat.
Ealhstan called my name. It sounded like Ovrik when he said it, and when I turned he was staring at me and I thought he was about to curse me for leaving him alone with the heathens. But then he stepped up and hugged me and there was strength in his old arms. I gripped his frail body, my throat tightening.
'I'll be back, old man,' I said into his ear, smelling the oldness on him. 'Just fix their ship and stay out of their way. Don't be a stubborn old goat, you hear me?'
He mumbled his consent and I pulled free of his embrace, turning my back on him. And swords, spears and shields in their hands, Sigurd's wolves set off, forgetting about their godi's magic and his talk of blood.
Though it was April, the air still held a whisper of winter's bite, so I was grateful for the woollen cloak Sigurd had given me. It had belonged to Arnkel the shipwright and when the Norsemen opened their friend's journey chest to share out his belongings, no one had wanted it. The musty brown cloak had seen better days, but it was big and it kept me warm as I clenched a fist round its edges and set off behind the Wolfpack. I felt like a fish half out of water, for I was both Englishman and Norseman, and yet somehow neither. So I whispered one prayer to Christ and one to Óðin that we might find food for ourselves and not feed the carrion birds with the flesh of the dead.
In front of me strode the brothers Bjarni and Bjorn, their grey helmets dull and menacing in the weak spring morning's light. Their shields were slung across their backs, and their short ringmail coats were visible at their tunics' hems and sleeves. I was gazing at the wicked-looking battleaxes in their hands when Bjarni mumbled something to his brother and handed him his axe. He turned to face me and I stopped dead. The others began to climb a steep hillock, using great tufts of grass to pull themselves up, whilst I stood swaying on legs that still thought they were at sea. Suddenly I wished I were back on Serpent with Ealhstan.
'I have something for you, Osric,' Bjarni said. It was Bjarni's shoulder into which I had sunk an arrow during the raid on Abbotsend. His jaw was clenched and his hands made great fists. I thought he would kill me and I took a step back, but he grabbed the cloak at my neck and yanked me towards him. 'You'll need both hands to climb, unless you plan to command Óðin to send his flying horse to carry your arse up there,' he said, gesturing with his chin to the hilltop. Then he thrust something through the edges of my cloak and shoved me so hard that I fell on my arse. I looked down to see an arrowhead with some of the shaft still attached sticking through the cloak, fastening it as securely as any brooch. The remaining wood was stained dark with Bjarni's blood. 'It's your arrow, boy. You keep it,' he said. Without a smile or further word he turned, grabbed fistfuls of grass and began to climb.