'We'll sing Coenwulf a lullaby, hey, Uncle!' Sigurd said. 'And he'll hand over the book with a smile and a plate of honeyed oat cakes, and two or three young women with soft thighs and hard tits.'
Olaf grinned, then scratched his thick beard and frowned. 'The little man has a point, Sigurd. There's going to be a river of blood before this thing is over.'
'Perhaps,' Sigurd replied, pursing his lips, 'but perhaps not. I have spoken with Mauger about these Mercians. It seems Coenwulf has his hands full dealing with King Eardwulf of Northumbria. This Eardwulf's people pick at his northern borders like crows on a gut string. Then there are the Welsh snapping at him from the west.' Sigurd leant forward, threw back his head and grabbed his long golden hair before tying it back. 'A man must command many spears to be a king of rich soil, like Coenwulf, hey, Mauger? It's easier to lay claim to the sea, I think.'
Mauger took an ale skin from his lips. 'They fight like dogs, Sigurd,' he confirmed, ale dripping from his beard as he raised the skin again.
Sigurd nodded and looked at Olaf as though assessing his friend's resolve, for Olaf had already seen his son killed and there was no denying the risk we were taking. 'Mauger and Raven will go to Coenwulf and tell him that Eardwulf's warriors have crossed into his lands from the north,' Sigurd said. 'Not just lone wolves, but a raiding party.'
'Raven, tell him that King Eardwulf himself is ploughing Mercian cunny,' Black Floki added with a smirk, still cleaning his mail.
'Oh yes, Sigurd!' Father Egfrith exclaimed. 'I shall write to the king confirming the raids. He's a Christian king after all and will believe the word of a servant of Christ.' He sniffed loudly and wiggled his fingers. 'Oh, I shall enjoy writing! There is none in Wessex with a finer hand, may the Lord strike me down and maggots spawn in my mouth if I lie.' He made the sign of the cross and raised his eyes to the sky, suddenly fearful, then grinned haughtily at Olaf as though Sigurd's plan was entirely his own. Mauger looked at Egfrith, his expression grim. 'Well, it's true, Mauger,' Egfrith said defensively, holding up his right hand to show off the ink-stained fingers. 'Who else round here knows his letters?' He made a strangled laughing sound. 'Not a stinking, foul-minded one of you, so help you God. But I do know mine.'
'Coenwulf will believe the word of a Christ monk?' Sigurd asked, shaking his head in wonder. Why any warrior would believe a man who wore no sword and prided himself on being able to scratch shapes into a dried calf's skin was beyond Sigurd.
'Oh yes, he'll believe me,' Egfrith confirmed with a wicked grin.
'And I was beginning to like this Coenwulf,' Sigurd said disappointedly, running a comb through his golden beard. 'Mauger tells me the man is never more cheerful than when sending his enemies screaming into the afterlife.' He turned to Olaf again. 'When the king takes his warriors north, we'll burn his hall and take the book . . . providing he doesn't take it with him. Who can say what a Christian is likely to do?' he asked, glancing at Father Egfrith.
Olaf smiled, taking a small whetstone from his scrip and spitting on it before running his knife across it. 'You should have told me you had the whole thing planned out,' he said, blowing across the blade. 'I like to know the details when it comes to arranging a fight.'
'The only thing you worry about is how you're going to fill your belly after a day's killing,' Sigurd replied, slapping Olaf's back. 'Now get some sleep, old friend. You too, Raven,' he added, fixing me with his fierce eyes. 'Tomorrow we wake the gods.'
The next morning, I set off with Mauger, leaving Sigurd and his Wolfpack to make their final preparations and pray to their gods of battle for a great victory or a good death. We would travel along the banks of the mighty river called the Severn, as this would enable us to cut round King Coenwulf's hall to approach from the north, making our story about Northumbrian raiders more believable.
I hoped that because we were just two men no one would confront us to ask our purpose, but I doubted we would go unnoticed, for we wore our battle gear and carried great round shields. Mauger had removed most of his silver warrior rings; such rewards would have marked him as a great fighter and the Mercians would wonder why they did not know him. Yet even without the rings the man looked ferocious.
We barely spoke at first, moving fast along the riverside where mosses, ferns and liverworts stirred with rats and voles. Damp-loving alder and willow lined the banks, providing perches for brightly coloured kingfishers. These birds streaked like arrows down to the ripples that betrayed fish breaking the surface to snatch at insects.
When Mauger did speak, it was usually a question about the Norsemen. 'Did it feel good the other night?' he asked, the sweat beading on his beard and the flushed face beneath. 'When you killed that ugly heathen bastard?'