The mead-hall was the usual miasma of sweat and smoke and stale beer, the dirty rushes strewn about the floor unchanged for weeks, making the place reek with decay. It was a scene all too familiar to Erlan. He had spent the whole winter here, listening to the songs and stories and listless talk of the men in Osvald’s retinue. They were like caged wolves, with little to do but drink and eat and swive their way through the dark months, waiting for the spring. And none took to this winter work with more commitment than Lord Osvald himself.

Erlan flung his cloak over his shoulder and wove his way to the high table, around bodies already sunk into an ale stupor and hall-hounds coiled under the benches hoping for a scrap of mutton to reach the floor. At length he stood before Osvald, the noble King of the Livi.

His new oath-lord was slouched behind a long table scattered with the ruins of his supper. At first Osvald didn’t notice him; his nose was buried in the fulsome bosom of the bed-thrall sat astride him, his hand busy under her robes which had ridden up to reveal a pale, puckered thigh.

‘My lord?’ Words on his tongue that irked Erlan like stones in his shoe.

Osvald removed his mouth from the woman’s teat and squinted past her. ‘Erlan Aurvandil.’ He snorted. ‘You took your time. Well?’

Erlan dumped the knapsack on the table. Osvald shoved the bed-thrall off him and shooed her away with a slap to her rump. He seized the bag and tipped out its contents over the discarded platters. ‘Is that it?’

‘That’s all he had.’

Osvald’s nostrils flared. ‘Then why the Hel didn’t you bring him here before me?’ He was still young, under thirty winters, though already he had the look of a man gone to seed. His teeth were blunt nubs of brown and yellow. His flaxen hair was thin and dull, his beard two greasy yellow braids. ‘If he can’t pay, he should be taught a lesson.’

‘He won’t be learning any more lessons.’

The expression on Osvald’s face changed from irritation to understanding, then wry amusement. ‘Go on.’

‘They were armed. Things got. . . complicated.’

Osvald sniggered. ‘You’re a cold son of a bitch, Aurvandil. Hah! Maybe that’s why I like you.’ Abruptly he lurched to his feet and thumped his fist on the table. ‘Give ear, you pack of ale-washed hogs! Stir yourselves, you wastrels!’ Slowly his hirthmen fell silent and lent him a grudging ear.