'I couldn't eat another oatcake, lord,' I grumbled, holding my belly.
He laughed. 'What kind of jarl would reward his warriors with oatcakes? Still, such a man would have Olaf's loyalty!' He grinned at Olaf who was passing, then pulled a thick silver ring from his right forearm and handed it to me. I took it, staring in awe at the treasure that was in the form of a two-headed serpent, the heads snarling at each other where the circle was broken. I put my right hand through, but the ring was too big for my forearm, so I pushed it up above the muscle at the top of my arm. After a while my face ached from smiling.
That night, we made camp by an old charcoal pit. The earth that had been dug away to reveal the fuel had been piled up to make a great wall round the hollow, but it had long since been overrun by birch and pine and thorn so that it would provide perfect cover for us and our fires, so long as we were careful not to set fire to the ground itself. Sigurd sent four men up on to the mound to begin their watch, though none of us expected King Coenwulf to find us now. Mauger had advised Sigurd to cut south-west away from the Mercian king's lands to disguise the fact that we had come originally from Wessex, and that morning we had crossed the Severn, killing a pock-faced ferryman to take his craft from shore to shore.
'If Coenwulf learns that King Egbert was behind the raid, the treaty between our kingdoms will not be worth spit. It'll drown in a tide of English blood,' Mauger said, shaking his head. 'Our little diversion should confuse those Mercian bastards for a while, they're witless whoresons most of them, but they won't believe you're Welsh. Not when they realize it was all about the book. Christ's balls, Sigurd, the Welsh are devils. Wild-eyed sons of bitches who make your men look like monks!'
But there had been no sign of a Mercian war band and so we settled down beside our fires to sing our songs and feast on what remained of the food we had taken from Coenwulf's fortress. The night was cooled by a fresh breeze from the east and I sat with my friends, Svein, Bjarni, Bjorn, Black Floki, Bram, Olaf, Hakon, and the rest, staring into the glowing embers of a dying fire. Three empty skins lay over a birch branch, the ale that had filled them now swelling our own bellies. Two more were still being passed around the camp, but most of the men lay asleep beneath cloaks and oiled hides.
'I remember my first warrior ring, Raven,' Olaf said with a hiccup. His eyes closed and he held his chest dramatically before releasing a great belch. Only Sigurd and Bram had more silver arm rings than Olaf. 'Got it for killing a boar with this,' he slurred, drawing his long, antler-handled knife. 'Just this. I was younger than you, Raven,' he said, nodding his heavy head. 'Much younger.'
Bram batted the air. 'Pah! Your brother had put two arrows in the beast before you got a sniff of it, Olaf. I remember,' he said, wagging an accusing finger.
'Which only made it angrier! Anyway, what do you know, Bram? You were likely full of ale in some whore's bed,' Olaf slurred, forgetting that Bram would have been just a boy then too. He belched again. 'Best damn boar I ever tasted,' he said, cuffing my head.
'One day I'll have as many rings as you, Olaf,' I said, fingering the solid silver serpent that was now a part of my body.
'Maybe you will, lad,' he replied, scratching his thick beard. He nodded at Sigurd who was snoring a short distance away. 'He's as generous a lord as ever took a dragon across the sea. Stay near him, Raven. You'll earn your rings.'
'That's if you don't mind stepping in another man's guts,' Bjarni put in with a smile. 'Sigurd has made us all rich men.'
'Aye, and we'll soon be rich dead men,' Glum muttered, gesturing with his short, leather-sheathed arm.
'Watch your tongue, Glum!' Svein the Red barked, 'or you'll be using your feet to pick your teeth!' Glum's kinsman Thorgils scrambled to his feet and drew his sword and Svein stood up, inviting the man on. Another of Glum's kinsmen, a big man named Thorleik, stood and lowered his friend's sword arm. Glum sat glowering at Svein.
'Enough, cousin,' Thorleik said, gesturing for Svein to back down too.
'Put your damn blades away before I rip the ale-soaked skin from your backs, you blood-loving sons of whores,' Olaf growled, sweeping an arm through the air. Those asleep, including Sigurd, were stirring now, and my own hand found my sword's grip, part of me hungering for the chaos that would come with swords and fury, because I hated Glum for what he had done to Ealhstan. But Olaf doused the sparks before they could flame and the Norsemen settled down again, bristling but subdued by the ale in their bellies. Mauger was grinning, no doubt enjoying the prospect of heathens spilling each other's blood, whilst Weohstan also watched intently, though it was impossible to guess his thoughts. Cynethryth was asleep with her head on his shoulder, her blond hair covering half her face and falling across his chest. The sight of her quelled the bloodlust shivering through my body and, when Weohstan fell asleep, I watched the flame light play across her face.