It had taken long hard days to prepare; days of sharpening swords, cleaning and repairing mail, binding willow-board shields with iron, honing arrowheads, and riveting spear-blades to ash shafts. The smithy made new war axes and fixed the heavy blades to extralong hafts. The women of Bebbanburg baked bread and oatcakes, we packed boxes with hard cheese, smoked fish, dried mutton, and bacon, all from the stores left over from a frugal winter. We made ladders because, as far as Ieremias could remember, the old Roman walls still protected the fort. “They’re not high, lord,” he told me, “they’re not like the walls of Jericho! No higher than a man. You could take small horns?”

“Small horns?”

“The ramparts of Jericho required large horns, lord, but the walls of Halfdan the Mad’s fort will fall to lesser instruments.”

I preferred to rely on ladders instead. We repaired saddles, wove seal-hide ropes for the packhorses, and brewed ale. We made two new wolf’s head banners and one day I had found Hanna, Berg’s young Saxon wife, busily embroidering a different banner, which showed an eagle with spread wings. She had used a large piece of pale linen onto which the eagle, cut from black cloth, showed bold. “I hate sewing, lord,” she greeted me.

“You’re doing a good job,” I said. I liked Hanna. “Where did you get the black cloth?”

“It’s one of Father Cuthbert’s cassocks,” she said. “He won’t miss it. He’s blind. Can’t count your cassocks if you’re blind.”

“And why,” I asked, “are we making an eagle flag? We fight under the sign of the wolf’s head.”

“Better ask Berg,” Hanna said, grinning. “I just do what I’m told.”

“You have changed then,” I said, and went to find Berg, who was practicing with one of the long-hafted axes.

“It’s clumsy, lord,” he said, hefting the long weapon, and he was right. The ax blade, with its deep beard, was heavy, and the whole weapon, with its sturdy ash shaft, was as long as a spear. “It needs two hands,” he went on, “so I can’t hold a shield while I use it.”

“And it might just save your life. Tell me about eagles.”

“Eagles?”

“A flag.”

He looked sheepish. “It was my father’s flag, lord. The banner of Skallagrimmr.” He paused, plainly hoping that was explanation enough, but when I said nothing he reluctantly continued. “And we’re going to fight against my people, the Norse.”

“We are.”

“And I would like them to know that the family of Skallagrimmr is their enemy, lord. It will frighten them!”

I hid a smile. “It will?”

“Lord,” he spoke earnestly, “my father was a great warrior, a famous warrior! My brothers are great warriors. Sköll knows this!”

“You’re a great warrior,” I told him, pleasing him. “Is your father still alive?”

“He went to sea, lord, and never returned. I think the goddess took him for her own,” he touched his hammer. “But I hear my brothers still live. And Egil and Thorolf are úlfhéðnar! When Sköll’s people see the banner of the eagle, lord, they will know fear!”