'Mauger is right,' Sigurd said. 'They must not know we want the book. But they're headless now, like a dandelion in a strong wind. Their king has gone.' He pursed his lips. 'When we attack, these Mercians will be trying to save their own sallow skins. We breach the walls, we go in hard, and we take the book.' He looked at Svein the Red, who wore a silver hammer at his throat. 'Thór would approve of such a plan, I think,' he said with a smile. Svein grinned. 'Are we all agreed?' the jarl asked, lingering a moment on Glum who nodded, his ruined arm bound in a leather sheath. Every man gave a grunt or a nod and the Wolfpack readied itself to fight.
'Did it escape your mind to tell me how stout the wall is, Raven?' Sigurd asked when I pointed to the distant settlement. It was dusk and the drizzle had become rain which dripped from the nasals of our helmets as we stood taking in King Coenwulf's lair.
'It's big, lord,' I admitted, 'and well made. But the ditch is shallow.'
'It won't burn easily in this rain, Sigurd,' Olaf said. 'Looks like we'll have to wait for an invitation.'
'Don't worry, old man,' Bjarni put in, 'the womenfolk will pull us over the walls and into their beds now their men have gone.' He grinned wickedly. 'But it'll take three or four of them to help me up. My balls are heavy as a bag of silver.'
'English women would sooner straddle their swine than climb aboard you,' his brother Bjorn said, receiving a cuff around the head in return.
'Whatever we're going to do, we'd better do it fast,' Glum said, waving his short, sheathed arm. 'No time to starve them out. When Coenwulf realizes we've made a fool of him, he'll be shitting blind fury. The man's pride will bear him back here faster than Sleipnir.'
Asgot had told me of Sleipnir, the eight-legged grey horse of Óðin, faster than all other beasts. Glum was right, we did not have much time.
The Mercians could not see us yet, for we were still a distance off and our painted shields were slung across our backs. Furthermore, we stood in a hollow of open pasture amongst docks, nettles and cowslip stems cropped short by cattle. Father Egfrith started when a yellowhammer burst from a nearby patch of sedge, trilling madly as it took to the sky.
Sigurd watched the bird for a moment, then nodded. 'Asgot! Let them see us for what we are,' he commanded, and the old godi produced Sigurd's banner, a wolf's head on a red cloth, and tied it to the point of a long ash spear. Then Sigurd turned to Father Egfrith. 'Start praying to your god that the book is in there, Englishman,' he said through his teeth, 'for if I lose a man for nothing, I'll take your head.' The monk blanched and we set off up the far side of the hollow, our mail and arms jangling, leather belts and straps creaking, and our stride forewarning of death.
We crested the swell of land two bow shot lengths from the fortress. Some men who had been working in the fields saw us and fled back across the ditch and bank, leaving an earthen kiln belching yellow smoke, and by the time we stood before the stout wooden palisade a sparse forest of spears topped the defences. Sigurd wasted no time. He sent five Wolfpacks of five warriors round the edges of the fortress to cover any other gates, and, though we were too few to properly surround the place, it would take a brave man or a fool to risk hopping over the wall in a bid for freedom. Before long, the grey-bearded face of a warrior appeared above the main gate.
'Who are you?' the man demanded in a clear, strong voice. It was a voice that betrayed no panic, yet the spear blades atop the palisade swayed uneasily, suggesting that the men who gripped them did not share Grey Beard's mettle. 'What do you want here?' he called.
Sigurd paced forward purposefully, his mail polished to a shine and his golden hair plaited for battle. Týr himself could not have looked like a greater warrior.
'I am Sigurd, son of Harald the Hard,' he boomed. 'You will open this gate, or everyone within will die.'
'What do you want from us, Dane?' Grey Beard asked, casting his eye over the rest of us. Olaf cursed the man under his breath. The Mercian's gaze lingered on Father Egfrith who I saw now wore a rich scarlet cloak instead of his habit. A silver cross wet with rain hung at his neck, positioned to catch the eye and reflect what remained of the pale sunlight. But beneath this new finery, the monk looked more frail than I had ever seen him.
'Open the gate, Mercian!' Sigurd demanded. 'Then I will tell you why we have come to Coenwulf's hall.'
'King Coenwulf is at table and will not welcome your presence here, Sigurd son of Harald,' Grey Beard said sharply. 'Leave now before someone informs him. You must know our king's reputation. He is a great and fearless warrior. A Christian warrior.' These last words were heavy with threat. 'King Coenwulf could deal with you as a man squashes a louse between finger and thumb. Go now! Go whilst you still can, and even then I would watch my back.'