“How many men do you need?” he asked. “It’s only a ditch and a fence. One good push and we’ll be through it. It doesn’t matter if we lose a few.”

The captain eyed his master-by-title sardonically. “Try telling that to the few,” he said. “Or maybe you’d care to try it yourself? Just take out that big fellow in the middle. The one laughing. With the yellow teeth.”

In the dim light, Alfgar stared across the cold water and the struggling men at Sigvarth, padding from side to side as he beat aside sword-strokes, sparred to get in a blow. Alfgar thrust his hand into his belt as it began to tremble.

“Bring my father forward,” he muttered to his attendants. “There is something for him to see.”

“The English are bringing up a coffin,” observed one of the Viking front-rankers to Sigvarth. “I would have thought they needed more than just one by now.”

Sigvarth stared at the padded box, held almost upright by its bearers, its occupant held in place by chest- and waist-straps. Across the water, his eyes met those of the man he had maimed. After a moment, he threw his head back in a wild cry of laughter, raised his shield, shook his axe, called out in Norse.

“What does he say?” muttered Alfgar.

“He is calling to your father,” translated Cwichelm. “Does he recognize the axe? Does he think it forgot something? Drop his breeches and he will do his best to remember.”

Wulfgar’s mouth moved. His son bent to hear the hoarse mumble.

“He says he will give his whole estate to the man who takes that one alive.”

Cwichelm pursed his lips. “Easier said than done. One thing about these devils. You can beat them, sometimes. But it’s never easy. Never, never easy.”

From the sky above them came a shrill whistling, dropping closer.

“Lower away!” barked the leader of catapult team one. The twelve freed thralls on the ropes thrust right hand over left hand over right hand, shouting hoarsely as they did so. “One—two—three.” The sling dropped into the leader’s hands. As it came down, the loader sprang from his kneeling position, shoved a ten-pound rock into position, leapt instantly back into his place, reaching for the next one.

“Take the strain!” Backs bent, the machine’s arm flexed, the leader felt himself pulled up on to his toes.

“Pull!” A simultaneous grunt, the lash of the sling, a rock whirling into the air. As it went, it span, the chipped grooves on its surface setting up an ominous whistling. In the same moment, the crew heard the cry from behind them of the leader of catapult two.

“Take the strain!”