'And now he is dead and we have the book anyway,' I said, holding his dark eyes. 'Aelfwald was a fool.'
'Be careful, boy,' Weohstan hissed. 'This rope won't hold me for ever.'
'But it holds you now,' I said, handing a hunk of bread to Cynethryth, 'and so you need a woman to feed you.' His hatred was almost a living thing, writhing in the space between us.
'Raven, get them up,' Olaf called as a buzz spread through the camp, 'time to go.' I yanked Weohstan to his feet and we set off in the darkness to put as much ground as possible between us and the king of Mercia.
The next days passed peacefully as we entered the heart of the old forest. Asgot pleaded with Sigurd to sacrifice the Mercians, but Sigurd wanted them alive as surety against an attack by Coenwulf, which grew less likely with every step southwards.
'You do not honour the gods as a jarl should,' Asgot complained. His hair rattled with new, small, white bones, and it sickened me to think they might have been Ealhstan's. 'It is your duty to make sacrifices, Sigurd! My hands were never clean of blood in your father's time.' He grinned wickedly. 'If it moved, Harald slit its throat and offered it up.'
'Aye, then it's a wonder you are still breathing, old man,' Sigurd answered. 'You buzz in my ear like a fly. One day I will tire of you.'
'No you won't,' Asgot said, scowling. 'Even with your arrogance you would not dare lay a hand on me.' But there was doubt in the old godi's eyes and I smiled to see it. For Asgot had hung Ealhstan's flesh in the sacrificial oak and it was only my loyalty to Sigurd that kept me from taking his head. No, that is not the whole truth. The truth is I feared Asgot. He was a bloodthirsty old hawk, and where to my mind Sigurd embodied the illustrious inhabitants of Asgard, Asgot the godi gave flesh to the gods' vicious sides. Their malevolence came off him like a foul stench.
Every night I listened to the Norsemen talk of their gods. They loved the old stories, the legends which each of them embroidered in the telling, and mostly they loved having fresh ears to try their tales on. They spoke of Thór's battles against the giants, of Loki's mischief-making and Óðin's wanderings amongst men, and the creation of the nine worlds, all of which are held together by the giant ash tree called Yggdrasil. For my part, I could not get enough and even though the stories were somehow familiar to me, like half-remembered dreams, I drank every uttered word like a man with an insatiable thirst.
The other thing I did every night was fight – against Bjorn and Bjarni mostly but sometimes the others too. Even Aslak, whose nose I had broken, taught me his favourite moves so that soon I could disarm a man of his shield using the onehanded axe. Weohstan always watched these bouts, I believed searching for my weaknesses so that he might kill me when the chance came.
I was aching and bruised one morning from fighting Bjarni when I walked at the head of the Wolfpack with Weohstan and Cynethryth. Black Floki had warned Sigurd that the girl would slow us down and I had thought he was probably right, seeing as Cynethryth was clearly a nobleman's daughter and would in her everyday life have had someone to walk for her. But as it turned out, the girl was strong and defiant and kept up easily. And of course she was not burdened with shield and mail and arms as we were. I had left her hands untied despite Bram's calling me a soft fool. But I knew Cynethryth would not run without Weohstan. She still clutched the blue flowers he had pulled from the dew-laced forest litter at daybreak, their weak stems now bound by a strip of birch bark, and I felt her beginning to take a grip on me too as we pushed further into pungent-smelling, thick forest little touched by sunlight or man.
'The Englishman, Raven,' Sigurd said, gesturing towards Weohstan, 'he would give his eyes to put a blade in your throat.' He grinned wickedly. 'But I think it would not be easy. You are a natural fighter. I think Bjarni Soulripper would agree.'
'Ah, I was being easy on the lad, Sigurd,' Bjarni said, winking at me.
'It's true, lord,' I said, embarrassed. 'He feigns tiredness. Drops his shield on purpose to encourage me.'
'Only so I can turn you when you come blundering on,' Bjarni said. 'Svein has more subtlety!'
I smiled at Bjarni, then turned to Sigurd. 'I am grateful, my jarl,' I said, gripping my sword's hilt, 'for everything.' I meant that I was grateful that these Norsemen taught me their skills, that they gave me their fine arms, that they had taken me into their Fellowship. But I did not know how to say it.
'I know, Raven,' Sigurd said, 'I know. And you will be a great warrior one day. When you were born, the Norns wove it into your life's thread, into your destiny. I am sure of it.' He stopped, gripped my shoulders and stared into my eyes as the others continued past us like a stream around a boulder. 'There is something I have been meaning to give you since that night at King Coenwulf's hall,' he said.