“Not stalks,” said Dolgfinn. “That is a sheaf. Do I need to tell you who that is for? His name was often in your mouth a few weeks ago.”

Ivar nodded. “Thank you for the reminder. Have you heard it said, Dolgfinn, the old saying: ‘A slave takes vengeance at once, a coward never’?”

I did not think you were a coward, thought Dolgfinn, but he did not say it. It would have sounded too much like an apology. If Ivar meant to take offense, he would.

“Have you heard another old saying, Ivar Ragnarsson?” he countered. “‘Often from a bloody bag come bad tidings.’ Let us riddle this bag to the bottom.”

Ivar reached again, pulled out a third and last object. This time he stared at it with genuine puzzlement. It was an eel. The snake-like fish of the marshes.

“What is this?” Silence.

“Can anyone tell me?” Still only headshakes from the warriors crowding round. A slight stir from one of the slaves of the monks of York, crouching by his machine. Ivar’s eyes missed nothing.

“I grant a boon to whoever can tell me the meaning of this.”

The slave straightened up doubtfully, realizing all eyes were now on him.

“One boon, lord, given freely?”

Ivar nodded.

“It is what we call in English an eel, lord. I think it may mean a place. Ely, down the Ouse, Eel-island, only a few miles from here. Perhaps what it means is that he, the Sheaf, that is, will meet you there.”

“Because I must be the capon?” inquired Ivar.

The slave gulped. “You granted a boon, lord, to whoever would speak. I choose mine. I choose freedom.”

“You are free to go,” said Ivar, stepping back from the ship’s thwart. The slave gulped again, looking round at the bearded, impassive faces. He stepped forward slowly, gained confidence as no one moved to hinder him, leapt to the side of the ship, and then, in two moves, to a trailing oar and to the side of the river. He was off like a flash, heading for the nearest cover, running in awkward bounds like a frog.

“Eight, nine, ten,” said Ivar to himself. The silver-mounted spear was in his hand; he poised, took two paces sideways. The leaf-blade took the running slave neatly between shoulders and neck, hurling him forward.

“Would anyone else care to call me a capon?” inquired Ivar generally.

Someone already has, thought Dolgfinn.

Later that night, after the ships had moored a cautious two miles north of the challenge-ground, some of Ivar’s most senior skippers were talking quietly, very quietly, round their campfire well away from Ivar’s tent.

“They call him the Boneless,” said one, “because he cannot take a woman.”

“He can,” said another. “He has sons and daughters.”

“Only if he does strange things first. Not many women survive them. They say—”