“Father Oda,” Osferth said, “was converted to the faith in East Anglia where his family had settled.”

“God be praised,” Oda said.

“And he is now my interpreter,” Osferth went on, “and one of my chaplains.”

“How many chaplains do you have?”

Osferth ignored the question. He knew me well enough to know that I would respond to his answer with mockery, and he did indeed know me. Years before, when he came into manhood, his father had sent him to be trained as a priest, but the young Osferth had yearned to be a warrior and he had pleaded with me to take him under my wing. In truth he should have been a priest; he had the piety, the dedication, the belief, even the passion, but his reading of the Christian scriptures had convinced him that his bastard birth made him unworthy of the priesthood. But nothing in the holy book said a bastard could not kill Danes, and so he had shrugged off the robe and put on mail. He was clever, like his father, and that cleverness had made him a useful warrior. He was brave too. His bravery, I knew, came from a deep fear, but he possessed the discipline to overcome the fear, and I admired him for that. I not only admired Osferth, I liked him, but I suspected that, like many Christians, he could never like a man who worshipped a different god. He looked past me as the horn sounded again. I was showing no alarm, and he must have thought that meant I believed the Norsemen posed no threat. We did, after all, outnumber them. “This meeting is fortuitous,” Osferth said.

“You mean it’s a chance to kill Sköll?” I asked.

“I mean,” he said, sounding faintly annoyed, “that Prince Æthelstan said we might meet with you, and that if we did I was to give you a message.”

“Before you tell me,” I said, “can we line my horsemen beside your wall?”

He was startled by the question. He frowned. “Is that necessary?”

“Desirable,” I said, “if Sköll decides to attack.”

“He won’t,” Osferth said confidently.

“I’ll do it anyway,” I said, and told my men to form a line of horsemen on the right of Osferth’s shield wall.

“Do you want shields, lord?” Rorik asked me. The boys and servants were looking after our spare mounts and the packhorses that carried our shields.

“You won’t need shields,” Osferth said, “because they won’t fight.”

“We need shields,” I told Rorik.

“They won’t fight!” Osferth insisted, even though Sköll’s men were slowly advancing.

“You know that?” I asked.

“We outnumber them,” Osferth said, though he sounded uncertain.

“We outnumber them,” I agreed, “but they are the úlfhéðnar. They fight for pleasure.”

“This is true,” Father Oda put in. He made the sign of the cross. “The úlfhéðnar have no fear. Some might even desire death because they believe they will be given a place of honor in Valhalla’s feasting hall.”