“Let me think. Something strange is abroad in the world, don’t you suppose? That wind … it sounded liked the cry of a living soul.

Made me shiver right down through my skin. It made me think of a verse from the Holy Book, only I can’t remember it right, something about the seas boiling and the wind tossing down trees.”

Erkanwulf snorted. “Every deacon and cleric and frater I’ve ever met has a better memory than you, Lord Ivar, most noble cleric.”

He spoke mockingly, but the words didn’t sting. It was Erkanwulf’s way to tease. A year ago, a month ago, Ivar would have stewed and simmered, turning those words over and over, but not now.

“The verses spoke of the end of the world,” he said instead. “I feel we have been touched by a terrible, grand sword, a weapon wielded by God, or by those among humankind who don’t fear what they should fear. Did you ever see trees fall so? Like sticks kicked over by a boy!”

“I did not. Never in my life, and I’ve stood in forests when the wind howled on winter nights. I thought I would piss myself, I was so scared.”

Rain still drummed on the thatch roof of the hall, steady and ominous.

“That’s right,” agreed Ivar. “It wasn’t natural. Nor were those shades we saw before either. We have to keep our eyes open and be ready to act. We have to get back to Biscop Constance no matter what. And go quickly, as soon as the weather breaks.”

But in the morning, it rained. In the afternoon, it rained. All the next night, it rained. For five days it rained without letting up. The villagers kept busy with many tasks around the long hall and within the warren of huts and hovels and sheds they had erected within their log palisade. They ate the froth meat out of the horse in a series of soups that stretched the meat so that it would feed the two dozen or so folk across several days. Every evening as the light faded they gathered around the hearth fire and demanded Erkanwulf tell them the tale of Gent, or that Ivar regale them with the story of the ill-fated expedition east into the marchlands under the command of Princess Sapientia and Prince Bayan of Ungria.

“Look here, I pray you, my lord cleric,” said Martin late on the sixth day after he’d come in from outside. He stank of smoke. He’d been curing horse meat. He rummaged in a chest and brought out a Parchment tied with a strip of leather. This he rolled out on the table. Folk crowded around, whispering as they stared at the writing none of them could read. “It’s our charter! From the king himself, may God bless him and his kin. Do you see the seal here?” He touched the wax seal reverentially. “We just heard it the once, read by that Eagle that rode through here, the one with a dark face. She had to take it away so it could get the king’s seal. Another Eagle, a red-haired one like to you, rode through a year or so after and brought it back to us. But he couldn’t read. Can you read it for us, so we can hear it again?”