“Now, you may be thinking that I just ditched you, and that’s true, I did. But then I didn’t know you were there. I didn’t know how you’d grown up. But now you’re here, and I see how you’ve turned out, well, I reckon you’ll be a credit to me. And to all our kin.

“So, say the word. I’m offering to recognize you as my true son. You’ll have the same rights you’d have had if you’d been born on Falster. Leave the English. Leave the Christians. Forget your mother.

“And, as my son, I’ll speak for you to Ivar. And what I say, the Snakeeye will back up. You’re in trouble here. Let’s get you out of it.”

Shef looked over his father’s shoulder, considering. He remembered the horse-trough and the beatings. He remembered the curse his stepfather had laid on him, and the accusation of cowardice. He remembered the incompetence, the dillydallying, the exasperation of Edrich at the way the English thanes preened and hesitated. How could anyone be victorious with people like that on one’s side? Over his father’s shoulder he could see, in the front of the group that Sigvarth had left, a young man gazing at them—a young man with decorated armor, a pale face, strong, projecting front teeth like a horse. He too is a son of Sigvarth, Shef thought. Another half brother for me. And he does not like what is going on.

Shef remembered the laugh of Alfgar from the thickets. “What do I have to do?” he asked.

“Say what the king Jatmund told you. Or find out from him what we need to know.”

Deliberately, Shef took aim, blessing the draft of beer that had moistened his mouth, and spat on his father’s leather shoe.

“You cut Wulfgar’s arms and legs off while men held him. You let the men rape my mother, after she had borne you a son. You are no drengr. You are nothing. I curse the blood I had from you.”

In an instant the Snakeeye’s men were between them, hustling Sigvarth away, holding his arms down as he struggled to draw his sword. He did not struggle very hard, Shef thought. As they forced him back he was still staring at his son with a kind of baffled longing. He still thinks there is more to be said, thought Shef. The fool.

“You’ve done it now,” remarked Dolgfinn, the Snake-eye’s emissary, jerking his captive along by the rawhide round his wrists. “All right. Take him along to the wapentake. And get the kinglet out of there and let’s see if he’s decided to be reasonable before the assembly sees him.”