Shef woke as the sun began to pierce through the branches. He rose, careful not to disturb the still-sleeping girl, and crawled out of the shelter. Concealed beneath the boughs he found flint and steel. Should he risk a fire? he wondered. Better not. They had water and warmth, but there was no food to cook. He would take what he had found with them when they left. Slowly, Shef was beginning to think of the future. He owned nothing now, save his breeches, so every single possession he accumulated would be precious.

He did not think they would be disturbed, not this day. They were still well within range of the Viking fighting patrols he had seen on his way into the camp, but the Vikings would have other things to think about for a while. Everyone would be at the camp, counting casualties, deciding what to do—probably fighting among themselves for control of the Army. Had Sigurth the Snakeeye survived? Shef wondered. If he had, even he might have trouble in reimposing his authority on a shaken army.

As for the English, Shef knew that as he and Godive had left the river and started to make their way into the woods there had been- other folk about. The refugees from King Edmund’s army, the ones who had fled, or at any rate decided to retreat before the crisis of the battle. They were all making their way to their respective homes as fast as ever they could. Shef doubted if there would be an Englishman within five miles of the Viking encampment by now. They had guessed that their lord’s attack had failed, and that he was dead.

Shef hoped so, remembering what his pirate guide had told him about Ivar’s ways with defeated kings.

He lay in the sun on the blanket, feeling his body relax. A muscle jumped irregularly in his thigh. He waited for it to stop, looking at the puffed blisters on both hands.

“Will it be better if I prick them?” Godive was at his side, kneeling in her shift, holding up a long thorn. He nodded.

As she began to work on his left hand and he felt the slow tears rolling down his arm, he held her warm shoulder with his right.

“Tell me,” he said. “Why did you stand between me and Ivar? How was it with you and him?”

Her eyes lowered, Godive seemed unsure what to say. “You know I was given to him? By—by Sigvarth.”

“By my father. Yes. I know. What happened then?”

She kept her eyes down, studying his blisters attentively.