“Another long hundred in four small groups to keep moving up and down on our flanks. The English won’t rush in if they even think there might be someone out there to cut them off. Without their cloaks they’ll keep warm running. Everyone else, just keep going and keep the carts going. As soon as we reach Riccall, use the carts to block all the gaps between the huts. Oxen and all of us on the inside of the ring. We’ll make fires and rig up shelters. Brand, pick the man, get everyone moving.”

Two crowded hours later, Shef sat on a stool in the thane’s longhouse of Riccall, staring at a grizzled elderly Englishman. The house was packed with Vikings, stretched out or squatting on their heels, already steaming as massed body heat dried the sodden clothes on their backs. As ordered, none paid any attention to what was going on.

Between the two men, on the rough table, stood a leather mug of beer. Shef took a pull at it, looked closely at the man facing him; he seemed to still have his wits about him. There was an iron collar round his neck.

Shef pushed the mug toward him. “You saw me drink, you know there is no poison. Go on, drink. If I wanted to harm you there are easier ways.”

The thrall’s eyes widened at the fluent English. He took the mug, drank deeply.

“Who is the lord you pay your rents to?”

The man finished the beer before he spoke. “Thane Ednoth holds much of the land, from King Ella. Killed in the battle. The rest belongs to the black monks.”

“Did you pay your rents last Michaelmas? If you did not, I hope you hid the money. The monks are severe with defaulters.”

A flash of fear when Shef spoke of the monks and their retribution.

“If you wear a collar, you know what the monks do with runaways. Hund, show him your neck.”

Silently Hund unslung his Ithun pendant and handed it to Shef, pulled back his tunic to reveal the calluses and weals worn into his neck by years of the collar.

“Have any runaways been here? Men who spoke to you of these.” Shef bounced the Ithun pendant in his hand, passed it back to Hund. “Or those.” He pointed to Thorvin, Vestmund, Farman and the other priest, clustered nearby. Following the gesture, they too silently displayed their insignia.

“If they did, maybe they told you such men might be trusted.”

The slave lowered his eyes, trembled. “I’m a good Christian. I don’t know about no pagan things … .”

“I’m talking about trust—not pagan or Christian.”

“You Vikings are men who take slaves, not men who set them free.”