“He thought I could be useful, lord,” he whispered.

“By telling me lies.”

“Yes, lord,” he said. “I’m sorry, lord. Please, lord.”

I held him above the shallow water for a few heartbeats, then pulled him back. “Why?” I asked. He was shaking so much that he seemed incapable of answering, and so I threw him hard against the palisade that edged the landward side of the wharf. He slid down to the planks. Wynflæd started toward him, then stopped when I drew Serpent-Breath.

“No!” she cried aloud.

I ignored her. Instead I pushed the sword’s tip against Beadwulf’s throat. “Why,” I asked, “did Arnborg want me at Ceaster?”

“So you would not be at Jorvik, lord.”

He had spoken so softly that I thought I had misheard. “So I would not be where?” I demanded.

“At Jorvik, lord. Eoferwic.”

Jorvik? That was the name that the Danes and Norse used for Eoferwic. I stared at Beadwulf, puzzled. “Why would I be at Eoferwic?” I asked, more to myself than to the miserable excuse of a man who groveled at my feet.

“You were there at Christmas, lord,” he answered, “and it’s known that you’re . . .” his voice dribbled away to silence.

“What is known?” I asked, lifting the sword-blade to touch the stubble on his chin.

“That you are often at Jorvik, lord.”

“Where my son-in-law rules and where my daughter lives,” I said, “so of course I visit Eoferwic.” And suddenly I understood. Maybe the cold had dulled my wits, because I had been gaping at Beadwulf like an idiot, his answers making no sense. But now it all made sense, too much sense. “Are you telling me,” I asked him, “that Sköll has gone to Jorvik?”

“Yes, lord,” his voice was so faint I could scarcely hear him.

“Sweet Jesus,” Finan said.

“Lord, please?” Wynflæd was crying.

“Quiet, girl!” I snapped. I pulled the sword back. “How many men does he lead?”

“Jarl Arnborg took sixty-three, lord.”

“Not Arnborg. You fool! Sköll!”

“I don’t know, lord,” Beadwulf said.

I rammed the sword forward, checking it as the tip pressed on his throat. “How many men did Sköll lead to Jorvik?” I asked. Beadwulf had pissed himself, and a yellow stain showed on the frost-covered planks of the wharf. “How many?” I asked again, keeping the blade at his gullet.

“They all went, lord!” Beadwulf said, gesturing across the cold estuary.

“All?”

“The Norse, the Danes, all of them, lord.” He gestured northward again. “All, lord! From here to the Hedene!”

The land north of the Ribbel was called Cumbraland, a wild land. It was supposedly a part of Northumbria, but Æthelstan had been right when he claimed that Cumbraland was lawless. Sigtryggr claimed it, but he did not control it. Cumbraland was a savage region of mountains and lakes where the strongest ruled and the weakest were enslaved. The River Hedene was the frontier with Scottish land, and between that border and the Ribbel were scores of Danish and Norse settlements. “How many rode to Eoferwic?” I asked.