“A man called Beadwulf told us,” Osferth said, and that brought my eyes back to him.

“Brother Beadwulf?” I asked in surprise.

“Is he a monk? I think not. He travels with his wife.”

“It’s a nickname,” I said dismissively. So Beadwulf and the squirrel, far from fleeing back to Arnborg, had ridden south to look for help. I owed them thanks, and revealing to the pious Osferth that Beadwulf was a monk in love would not be kind. And Beadwulf, I reasoned, had told Osferth about Sköll, which explained why Osferth had known who was pursuing me. “So you rode to rescue me?” I asked.

“Once we learned you were being pursued, yes.”

I thought about what he had said as I gazed up at the western ridge. “You left Mameceaster,” I said, “to pursue cattle-raiders. So how did you meet Beadwulf?”

“The poor man was captured by them,” Osferth said, “he and his wife.”

I flinched at that news. “I suppose they took turns with her?”

He looked pained. “I fear so.”

Poor little squirrel, I thought. I had liked Wiburgh well enough, but if her husband raped captives then he deserved whatever death Osferth had given him. “I suppose you killed the raiders?” I asked.

“We captured six, the rest died.”

“Where are the six?”

“I sent them back to Mameceaster.”

“They raped a woman! Put them to death!”

“They must be tried when I return,” he said stiffly. “If they are found guilty, they will die.”

“Tried!” I said scornfully. “Just kill the bastards.”

“There is law in Mameceaster,” Osferth said, “the king’s law.”

A horn blared loud behind me, but I did not turn. “How many men, Finan?” I asked.

“Ninety-two,” the Irishman said, “and coming closer. Then there are some on the—”

“I know about them,” I interrupted him.

“Some men?” Osferth asked. “Where?”

“Scouts,” I said, “on the hill.”

He glanced at the western skyline where there were now just six men. He dismissed the half-dozen scouts as unimportant and looked back to Sköll’s main force. The horn sounded again, louder now and more persistent. “He wants us to look at him,” I said, meaning Sköll wanted us to ignore the western crest, beyond which his real attack was forming. I still had my back to the Norse leader and his horsemen. “Can you see him, Finan?”

“Aye, the big bastard’s right at the center of their line.”

“The man with the white cloak?” Osferth asked.

“Skinned from a white bear,” I said, “but he has the spirit of a wolf. He is an úlfheðinn.”

“An úlfheðinn?” Osferth said. “I thought they were just rumors.”

“The úlfhéðnar are not rumors, lord,” the priest said, “though they are rare. They are warriors of the wolf. They anoint themselves with a sorcerous ointment that makes them behave like madmen. My people call it berserkergang.”

“Your people, priest?” I asked.

“I am a Dane,” he said calmly. He was young, stern-faced, and I had an impression of intelligence and severity.