As they loaded curses on him, the worst of Alfred’s punishment was the feeling that what they said was true. He could not imagine, ever, the slightest recovery. This was the bottom from which no one could climb. Any future there was would not be for him and his like, the Christians of England. It would be decided between the Franks and the Norse, the Cross-wearers and the Way-folk. Alfred walked into the shelterless night, heart breaking with despair.

This time it was Shef who sat by the bed. Brand turned his head very slightly to look at him, face gray under the beard. Shef could see that even the tiny movements needed for that caused agony, as the poison spread inside Brand’s belly cavity to fight against the strength still locked in his massive frame.

“I need to know about the Franks,” said Shef. “We have beaten everyone else. You were sure they would beat Alfred.”

Brand’s head nodded, very faintly.

“So what is dangerous about them? How can I fight them? I have to ask you, for no one else in the army has met them in the field and lived. Yet many say they have had years of good plunder from the Frankish kingdom. How can they let themselves be robbed and still be enemies even you would rather not face?”

Shef could see Brand trying to work out not the answer, but how to say the answer in fewest words. Finally he spoke, in a gravelly whisper.

“They fight among themselves. That is what has always let us in. They are no seamen. And they breed few warriors. With us—a spear, a shield, an axe—you are a warrior. With them, it takes a whole village to arm one man. Mail-shirt, sword and lance and helmet. But most of all, the horse. Big horses. Stallions a man can hardly control. Have to learn to ride them with a shield on one arm and a lance in the other. Start when you’re a baby. Only way.

“One Frankish lancer, no problem. Get behind him, hamstring horse. Fifty of ’em, problem. A thousand …”

“Ten thousand?” asked Shef.

“Never believed it. Aren’t that many. Lot of light horsemen. Can be dangerous because they’re quick, turn up when you don’t think they’re near.”

Brand summoned his failing energies. “They’ll ride over you if you let ’em. Or cut you up on the march. Stick to rivers is what we do. Or keep behind a stockade.”

“To beat them in open field?”

Brand shook his head faintly. Shef could not tell whether he meant “Impossible,” or “I don’t know.” After a moment Ingulf’s hand fell on his shoulder, urged him out.