Hooves clattered on stone as the warband crossed the bridge, the river’s dark waters clogged with dressed timber, cut and ready to be shipped downstream. Faces peered over the palisaded wall as Jael and his shieldmen cantered onto a road that skirted the wall, taking them past the usual array of boats beached for repair, smokehouses, tanners’ yards and grain barns, eventually bringing them around to the southern approach to the hold. Ulfilas noted the glint of sunshine on iron along the wall. Ten armed men, at least.

‘More like a village than a hold,’ Jael said to Ulfilas and Dag.

‘It is, my lord.’

They rode alongside sweeping fenced meadows where herds of horses ran. Impressive, powerful horses, Ulfilas noted, remembering now the reputation Gramm’s hold had for more than just timber. Ulfilas eyed them covetously. They would make fine warhorses.

‘Magnificent. They are wasted up here,’ Jael said with a grin.

‘Just what I was thinking,’ Ulfilas replied.

The road sloped up the hill, the hold’s gates open and they cantered through the gateway into a wide courtyard. Guards with long spears stood on the palisade’s walkway, a handful more around the courtyard’s edge. Well-equipped guards, Ulfilas thought, taking in their coats of mail and weapons – all of them with swords hanging at their hips, spears in their hands. And all with an axe strapped across their back. Unusual. A dozen guards that I can see around the gate. Five more in the courtyard. Must have been another ten on the palisade wall as we passed. How many more here? Is this all of them, a display intended to impress us? They would have seen us coming, had time to prepare a welcome. Ulfilas smiled as Jael’s shieldmen filled the courtyard, which was big, but nevertheless hard-pressed to contain two hundred of the King’s shieldmen, all on proud warhorses. I think we will impress them more.

A figure emerged from the feast-hall and stood at the top of wide steps. He was thick muscled, though with a large belly as well, tall and fair, streaks of grey in his hair and braided beard. He wore plain breeches and a woollen tunic tied at the waist.

‘Greetings,’ the man shouted. ‘I am Gramm, lord of this hold, and I bid you welcome.’ He looked at the banner carried by one of Jael’s shieldmen, snapping in a stiff breeze from the north. A lightning bolt on a black field, a pale serpent entwined about it.

‘You are Jael’s men, then. I say welcome again. Come, enter. I will find you some food and drink.’

Ulfilas dismounted and climbed the steps, dipping his head to Gramm.