Instant confusion. Women running, snatching up blue-legged ragged children, men seizing spears, dropping them again, some racing for shelter down to the beach and the boats drawn up on the dirty snow-covered sand. Shef wheeled his horse and thrust the abbot forward like a trophy, instantly recognizable in his black robes.

“Peace,” he shouted, “Peace. I want Ordlaf.”

But Ordlaf was already there, the reeve of Bridlington, the capturer—though no one had ever credited him with it—of Ragnar. He stepped forward from his people, eyeing the Vikings and the monks with amazement, reluctantly taking responsibility.

“Show them the abbot,” Shef snapped to Guthmund. “Make those behind keep their distance.” He pointed at Ordlaf the reeve. “You and I have met before. The day you netted Ragnar.”

Dismounting, he drove his halberd-spike deep into the sandy soil. Putting his hand on the reeve’s shoulder, he drew him a little away, out of earshot of the wrathfully glaring abbot, began to speak in urgent tones.

“It’s impossible,” said Ordlaf a minute later. “Can’t be done.”

“Why not? It’s a high sea, and cold, but the wind is from the west.”

“Southwest a point west,” corrected Ordlaf automatically.

“You can run downcoast with it on your beam. To the Spurn. Twenty-five miles, no more. Be there by dark. Never out of sight of land. I’m not asking for a sea-crossing. If the weather changes we can drop sea-anchor and ride it out.”

“We’d be pulling into the teeth of it once we got to the Spurn.”

Shef jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Best rowers in the world, right with you. You can set them to it and stand back at the steering oar like lords.”

“Well … What happens when I get back and the abbot sends his men down to burn me out?”

“You did it to save the abbot’s life.”

“I doubt he’ll be grateful.”

“You can take your time coming back. Time enough to hide what we’ll pay you. Silver from the minster. Your silver. Your rents for many a year. Hide it, melt it down. They’ll never trace it.”

“Well … How do I know you won’t just cut my throat? And my men’s?”

“You don’t—but you have little choice. Decide.”

The reeve hesitated a moment longer. Remembered Merla, his wife’s cousin, whom the abbot behind him had enslaved for debt. Thought of Merla’s own wife and bairns, living still on charity with their man fled in terror.

“All right. But make it look as if you’re treating me rough.”