The column was now spread over almost a mile of road. Skippers and helmsmen pushed and cursed the men into a thicker, shorter line, bowmen on both flanks, carts in the center. “They can’t hurt you,” Brand bellowed repeatedly. “Not with hunting bows. Just shout and bang your shields; they’ll wet themselves and run. Anyone gets hit in the leg, sling him on a packhorse. Dump some of that junk in the carts if you have to. But keep moving forward.”

Soon the English churls began to recognize what they could do. Their enemies were laden with gear, heavily wrapped and muffled. They did not know the country. The churls knew every tree, bush, path and patch of mud. They could strip to tunics and hose, rush in light-footed, strike and slash and be away before an arm was free of its cloak. No Viking would pursue more than a few feet into the gloom.

After a while some village war-leader organized the growing number of men. Forty or fifty of the churls came in together on the west flank of the column, beat down the few men they faced with clubs and billhooks, started to drag off the bodies like wolves with their prey. Furious, the Vikings rallied and charged after them, shields up, axes raised. As they straggled back, snarling, having caught no one, they saw the halted carts, the ox-teams poleaxed where they stood. The wagon tilts pulled open, their cargo of wounded men a burden no longer, the snow already blotting out the stains.

Prowling up and down the column like an ice-troll, Brand turned to Shef at his side. “They think they’ve got us now,” he snarled. “But come daylight I’ll teach them a lesson for this if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

Shef stared at him, blinking the snow from his eyes. “No,” he said. “You are thinking like a carl, a carl of the Army. There is no Army anymore. So now we must forget to think like carls. Instead we must think as you say I do, like a follower of Othin, orderer of battle.”

“And what are your orders, little man? Little man who has never stood in the battle-line?”

“Call over the skippers, as many as are within earshot.” Shef began to draw swiftly in the snow.

“We marched through Eskrick, here, before the snow got bad. We must be a short mile north of Riccall.” Nods, understanding. The area around York was well known from much foraging.

“I want one hundred picked men, young men, quick on their feet, not yet tired, to push ahead now and secure Riccall. Take some prisoners—we’ll need them—chase the others out. We will stay there the night. Not much, fifty huts and a church of wattles. But they will shelter a lot of us if we pack in close.