“What if he reaches Eoferwic?” Eadith asked.

“He’ll capture it,” I said bleakly.

“There’ll be a garrison? And the men of the town?”

“A small garrison,” I said, “and yes, the men of the town will help. But if you have úlfhéðnar climbing ladders you don’t want silversmiths and leather-workers waiting for them. You want warriors.”

“And what if he comes here?” Eadith asked.

“You don’t do what my daughter did,” I said grimly. “You hold the Skull Gate and wait for us to return.”

I led one hundred and eighty-four men to Heagostealdes, and with them went thirty of my tenants who were skilled hunters with their bows, and over ninety boys and servants. Our packhorses were heavy with shields, spears, food, and ale. Sihtric of Dunholm, who held that great fortress in my name, brought sixty-two men. Sigtryggr arrived with a hundred and forty-three household warriors, while his jarls, those men who held estates and owed Sigtryggr allegiance, brought another one hundred and four. That was far fewer than Sigtryggr had hoped. “So we have close to five hundred men,” he said gloomily on the night we gathered in the village. “I expected more. But those bastards in the south,” he left the sentence unfinished, but I knew he was talking of those Danes on Northumbria’s southern border who had made their peace with Christian Mercia. “We’re not fighting Mercia, but they still wouldn’t send men. Bastards.”

“And we can’t punish them,” I said, “because they’re under Edward’s protection.”

“Then I had to give Boldar Gunnarson ninety men,” Sigtryggr added gloomily, “and he needs double that number.”

Boldar was one of his commanders, an older man of sense and caution, who was leading the troops who were guarding the roads leading to Eoferwic in southern Cumbraland. “Boldar will let us know if he’s in trouble,” I said, “and five hundred men should be enough to take Heahburh.”

“You know that?”

“No.” I shrugged. “But Sköll will be lucky to have five hundred, so it should be enough.”

“Rumor says he has more than five hundred.”

“Rumor always exaggerates the enemy,” I said, and hoped I was right.

“And he has the úlfhéðnar.”

“And I have this,” I showed him the jar that Brother Beadwulf had made for me so many weeks before. The jar’s wide top was stoppered with a plug of wood and sealed with wax.

“What is it?”

“An ointment that turns a man into an úlfheðinn. Henbane.”

“Pig poison!” He hefted the jar. “How many men will this serve?”

“I don’t know. A dozen?”

“I tried it once,” he said ruefully, “and I was sick for a week.” He put the jar on the table, then stood and walked to the tavern door. It was nighttime and the street outside was lit by flaming torches. He leaned on the doorjamb, staring into the night. “There are times,” he said, “when I wish you’d never made me king.”

“I know.”

“I could have gone viking,” he said.