The squirrel flinched, but she was listening.

“So the quick way is merciful, I said, “and usually messy. Then there’s the slow way. That’s much simpler and much more painful. You simply throw a rope over any branch that’s high enough, tie one end around the prisoner’s neck, and haul him up! He chokes to death. It takes a long time! He’ll piss himself while he’s dying, and his legs will jerk, and you hear him struggling for breath. Have you ever seen a man hanged?”

She shook her head. “No, lord.”

“Now,” I went on, “I have a decision to make.” I nodded at the six prisoners who were trudging ahead of us. “Do I hang them quickly? Or slowly?” I looked at her expectantly, but she just gazed back wide-eyed. “What do you think we should do?” I asked.

For a moment I thought she would not answer. She was looking at the prisoners, then suddenly turned back to me. “The slow way, lord.”

“Good girl.”

“But not him,” she pointed at the youngest man.

“Not him,” I agreed, then turned in the saddle. “Do you agree, Father Oda?”

“They are pagans, why should I care how they die? Kill them how you please, lord.”

“It’s not what pleases me,” I said, “it’s what Wynflæd wants.” I looked back to her. “You’re sure now? The slow way?”

“The very slow way,” she said vengefully.

And revenge is sweet. The Christians preach some utter nonsense about revenge. I have heard their priests solemnly advise folk to meekly accept a beating, to even offer the other cheek so the beating can continue, but that is merely to grovel. Why would I grovel to Sköll? I wanted revenge, and only revenge would satisfy Stiorra’s spirit. Revenge is justice, and I gave Wynflæd justice.

Most of the men who had raped her were already dead, left to rot in whatever place Osferth’s men had found them, and now the others died before her eyes. I stripped them naked, then made her watch as they danced on the ropes and pissed themselves and as their bowels loosened and as they choked, and by the time the second one died she was smiling, and the last noise the fifth one heard was her laughter. Good little squirrel.

That left the youngest. I waited till the last of the five was dead, then put a rope around the boy’s neck. He was shivering, despite still being clothed. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Immar Hergildson.”

“You just watched your father die.”

“Yes, lord.”

“You know why he died?”

Immar glanced at Wynflæd. “Because of her, lord.”

“You didn’t protest when they raped her.”

“I wanted to, lord, but my father . . .” He started to cry.

I hauled on the rope, making Wynflæd gasp. I hauled again, pulling Immar Hergildson a fingernail’s breadth above the leaf mold. “Can you wield a sword, Immar?”

“Yes, lord,” he choked.

“Father Oda!” I called.

“Lord?” the Danish priest seemed unmoved by anything he had seen beneath the oak trees.