bleed you for an English river spirit?'
Bjarni moved back to the stream, dropped his breeches and pissed into the water. 'Let the bastard feed on this,' he said, and the men took courage from his daring, except Asgot who looked horrified.
'There's your sacrifice, Asgot,' Sigurd said, as scar-faced Sigtrygg moaned at Bjarni for pissing in the stream before he'd had a chance to fill his water bottle.
'Fill it upstream, you witless fool,' Bjarni said. Sigtrygg's coarse reply was stopped short by his jarl.
'Dragon or not, we go on,' Sigurd said, 'unless you want to explain to the others why they'll be eating cheese and spitting mackerel bones again tonight.'
'The boy will do, Sigurd!' Asgot pleaded, his eyes wild. 'Let me have the boy. That should be enough. As you say, we are far from home. We must appease the local spirits, or at least try to make our own gods hear us.'
The other Norsemen turned to continue. Sigurd gestured to them as an end to the matter. 'I promised the boy his life, Asgot,' he said. He grinned. 'You know the gods, old man – you likely knew them when they were just men like us. But I do not think that Óðin wants Osric's blood. I would feel it if he did.'
Asgot shook his head. 'You walk a dangerous path, my jarl,' he warned, the bones in his greasy hair rattling.
'I know no other, Asgot,' Sigurd replied, looking at me, 'and none of my line ever died a straw death.' I nodded thanks, wondering about the men of my line, whoever they were, and whether they had died grey-haired and feeble, or with a sword in their hands. Then on we went, keeping our distance from the stream, and the Norsemen held their sword scabbards and kit to keep them from rattling as we followed the sleeping dragon onwards, hoping not to wake it with our passing.
Ivar led us. He was a tall, thin man renowned for his eyesight and it was not long before he spotted a brown smear against the light grey sky beyond the mound before us. Sigurd raised a hand and we crouched among the thickets and bracken. The jarl crawled to Ivar, his sword and mail jangling. The dark leaves of an elm rustled in the breeze. I inhaled the scent of hornbeam catkins wafting across the lowlands.
After a brief conversation Sigurd stood. 'On your feet, men. You wouldn't trust a snake sliding through the grass on its belly and neither will the English. Easy now.' We tramped up the hillock, through heather and gorse peppered with silver birch, always following the stream, which grew wider amongst a copse of budding beech and oak at the hill's plate. It was from this cover that we looked across at a clutter of thatched dwellings spilling off three rolling hills. The houses were well constructed, their roofs pointing to the sky like arrowheads running almost to the ground on either side. It was a busy place, maybe four times the size of Abbotsend, and this meant enough men to ruin Sigurd's day if things went wrong. It also meant there would be at least one butcher, and more likely several.
'I will take Floki, Osten, Ingolf, Olaf and Osric,' Sigurd said. 'No shields, helmets, mail or axes.' Some of the Norsemen began to complain at this. They prized their arms above all else, especially their mail, and hated being without them. But they knew they could not wear their brynjas and remain inconspicuous.
'Let me come, Sigurd,' Svein the Red pleaded, the ghost of disappointment in his huge, open face. 'I can carry twice what Floki can.'
'There's no better load a man can carry than common sense, Svein,' Olaf teased. Svein's huge shoulders slumped. 'Óðin's words, lad, not mine,' Olaf added defensively. 'You should be with the ships in case the English come,' he said. 'We'll need your axe if they do.' Svein stood a little taller then and Osten slapped the giant's shoulder in consolation.
Sigurd smiled. 'You would attract too much attention, Svein. The English have never seen muscles like yours. This land is so mild that
Bjarni moved back to the stream, dropped his breeches and pissed into the water. 'Let the bastard feed on this,' he said, and the men took courage from his daring, except Asgot who looked horrified.
'There's your sacrifice, Asgot,' Sigurd said, as scar-faced Sigtrygg moaned at Bjarni for pissing in the stream before he'd had a chance to fill his water bottle.
'Fill it upstream, you witless fool,' Bjarni said. Sigtrygg's coarse reply was stopped short by his jarl.
'Dragon or not, we go on,' Sigurd said, 'unless you want to explain to the others why they'll be eating cheese and spitting mackerel bones again tonight.'
'The boy will do, Sigurd!' Asgot pleaded, his eyes wild. 'Let me have the boy. That should be enough. As you say, we are far from home. We must appease the local spirits, or at least try to make our own gods hear us.'
The other Norsemen turned to continue. Sigurd gestured to them as an end to the matter. 'I promised the boy his life, Asgot,' he said. He grinned. 'You know the gods, old man – you likely knew them when they were just men like us. But I do not think that Óðin wants Osric's blood. I would feel it if he did.'
Asgot shook his head. 'You walk a dangerous path, my jarl,' he warned, the bones in his greasy hair rattling.
'I know no other, Asgot,' Sigurd replied, looking at me, 'and none of my line ever died a straw death.' I nodded thanks, wondering about the men of my line, whoever they were, and whether they had died grey-haired and feeble, or with a sword in their hands. Then on we went, keeping our distance from the stream, and the Norsemen held their sword scabbards and kit to keep them from rattling as we followed the sleeping dragon onwards, hoping not to wake it with our passing.
Ivar led us. He was a tall, thin man renowned for his eyesight and it was not long before he spotted a brown smear against the light grey sky beyond the mound before us. Sigurd raised a hand and we crouched among the thickets and bracken. The jarl crawled to Ivar, his sword and mail jangling. The dark leaves of an elm rustled in the breeze. I inhaled the scent of hornbeam catkins wafting across the lowlands.
After a brief conversation Sigurd stood. 'On your feet, men. You wouldn't trust a snake sliding through the grass on its belly and neither will the English. Easy now.' We tramped up the hillock, through heather and gorse peppered with silver birch, always following the stream, which grew wider amongst a copse of budding beech and oak at the hill's plate. It was from this cover that we looked across at a clutter of thatched dwellings spilling off three rolling hills. The houses were well constructed, their roofs pointing to the sky like arrowheads running almost to the ground on either side. It was a busy place, maybe four times the size of Abbotsend, and this meant enough men to ruin Sigurd's day if things went wrong. It also meant there would be at least one butcher, and more likely several.
'I will take Floki, Osten, Ingolf, Olaf and Osric,' Sigurd said. 'No shields, helmets, mail or axes.' Some of the Norsemen began to complain at this. They prized their arms above all else, especially their mail, and hated being without them. But they knew they could not wear their brynjas and remain inconspicuous.
'Let me come, Sigurd,' Svein the Red pleaded, the ghost of disappointment in his huge, open face. 'I can carry twice what Floki can.'
'There's no better load a man can carry than common sense, Svein,' Olaf teased. Svein's huge shoulders slumped. 'Óðin's words, lad, not mine,' Olaf added defensively. 'You should be with the ships in case the English come,' he said. 'We'll need your axe if they do.' Svein stood a little taller then and Osten slapped the giant's shoulder in consolation.
Sigurd smiled. 'You would attract too much attention, Svein. The English have never seen muscles like yours. This land is so mild that
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