“The men you need are already in the camp,” said Godive. “But they aren’t men, they’re women. Hundreds of them. You find more in every village. They may be only drabs to you, as the jarl said before. Needle-pushers. But they are as good as men for some things. Put six with every catapult-team. The men released can go to Udd, to carry a crossbow, or the strongest of them to Lulla, to use a halberd. But I would also advise this to Udd: pick as many of the youngest women as you can, those who are not afraid, and put them with your crossbows as well.”

“We can’t do that,” said Cwicca incredulously.

“Why not?”

“Well—they aren’t strong enough.”

Shef laughed. “That’s what the Vikings said about you, Cwicca, remember? How much strength does it take to pull a rope? Turn a lever? Wind a pulley? The machine gives the strength.”

“They’ll get frightened and run away,” Cwicca protested.

Icily, Godive overrode him. “Look at me, Cwicca. You saw me climb into that dung-cart. Was I frightened then? And if I was, I still did it.

“Shef. Let me talk to the women. I will find the ones you can trust, and if need be I will lead them. Don’t forget, everyone”—she looked round the circle cha!!enging!y—“it may be that women have more to lose than any of you. And so more to gain.”

In the silence Thorvin said, still skeptically, “This is all very well. But how many men had King Alfred here when he marched against the Franks? Five thousand? Trained warriors. Even if we use every woman in the camp, how can a third of that number hope to win? People, men or women, who have never shot so much as a bird-bolt before? You cannot make a warrior in a day.”

“You can teach someone to shoot a crossbow in a day,” said Udd unexpectedly. “Just wind ‘em and point ’em.”

“Just the same,” said Geirulf, Tyr’s priest. “We learned this morning the Franks will not stand still to be shot down. So what are we to do?”

“Listen,” said Shef, drawing a deep breath, “and I will tell you.”

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Like a great steel reptile, the Frankish army moved out of its base at Hastings, a little after dawn. First, the light cavalry in their hundreds, armed only with steel caps, leather jackets and sabers: their duty, to search out the enemy, hold the flanks, exploit breakthrough. Then, file after file of archers, mounted like every man in the army, but expecting to dismount for battle, when they would close to within fifty yards of an enemy line and pour in the arrows from their breast-bows: their duty, to fix the enemy, make them raise shields to cover faces, crouch down to cover unarmored legs.