Then forth went the host, mighty in battle

Spearmen in armor, following their lords,

The host of the Northmen, eager were their blades.

King Sigtryggr led them, strong in resolve . . .

That is how a poet, a young priest from Eoferwic, began his description of our leaving Heagostealdes, which only proves that you can never trust a poet. He made it sound as if we rode out in good order, but in truth it was a shambles. Sigtryggr might have been strong in resolve, but he was also irritated and impatient, as packhorses were reloaded, ropes broke, men sheltered from a drizzling rain by waiting in the taverns where they demanded more ale, two of his jarls got into a fight over a missing horse and their followers turned it into a brawl that left two men dead and six wounded, and it was almost midday by the time the host went forth. Sigtryggr’s men were the vanguard, while mine brought up the rear, following the vast herd of packhorses. But, despite the weather and the delays, the mighty host of the Northmen was at last moving. With two women.

There were probably many more women, there usually are, but these two made no attempt to conceal themselves among the boys and servants, instead they rode on gray horses and wore mud-spattered white robes. They were both young, perhaps about sixteen or seventeen years old, and wore their hair long and unbound like unmarried girls. “Dear Christ above,” Finan said when he saw them.

They were led by a third extraordinary figure, Ieremias, dressed in his bishop’s finery, who galloped recklessly alongside my column waving frantically. “Lord, lord, lord,” he greeted me happily as he tried to curb his horse. “Whoa, Beelzebub. Whoa!” He finally brought the horse under control and smiled at me. “I have brought the angels, lord.”

“Angels,” I said flatly.

“Elwina and Sunniva, lord,” Ieremias said, gesturing at the two girls and plainly believing he had solved whatever problems I might have. “They are angels, lord,” he insisted, sensing my disbelief.

“They look like women to me,” I said. Good-looking women too, which suggested the angels could cause trouble among my men.

“You must look with the eyes of faith,” Ieremias chided me. “I could not let you ride against Sköll without the help of angels. God commanded me! He told me that even the stone of David will not give you victory without my angels.” He paused, frowning. “You do still have the stone, lord?”

“Of course I do,” I lied.

“Then we shall smite mightily,” he said smugly.

“I also have something from a pagan sorcerer,” I said to tease him.

He stared at me in horror. “You have . . .” he paused and made the sign of the cross. “What do you have?”

“A jar of ointment that turns men into wolves.”

“No, lord, no! It is the devil’s unguent! You must give it to me!”

“My servant has it,” I said carelessly. In truth I was not quite sure why I had brought the jar and certainly had no intention of trying the ointment, but I had still been reluctant to discard it.