“They came in the back,” shouted Shef, “They never followed us this morning at all. They broke in the west gate while we attacked the north!”
“Broke in, nothing,” snarled a furious voice. “They were let in. Look!”
Out from the minster door, as composed as ever, still dressed in scarlet and grass-green, strolled Ivar. By his side paced a figure in a garb Shef had not seen since the death of Ragnar a year before: a man in purple and white, a strange, tall hat on his head, a gold-decorated crook of ivory in his hand. As if automatically, he raised his other hand in benediction. The Archbishop of the Metropolitan Province of Eoforwich himself, Wulfhere Eboracensis.
“We’ve done a deal,” said Ivar. “The Christ-folk offered to let us into the town on condition the minster itself was spared. I gave my word on it. We can have everything else: the town, the shire, the king’s property, everything. But not the minster or the belongings of the Church. And the Christ-folk will be our friends and show us just how to wring this land dry.”
“But you are a jarl of the Army,” bellowed Brand. “You have no right to make deals for yourself and leave the rest of us out.”
Theatrically, Ivar moved one shoulder, rotating it and grimacing with exaggerated pain.
“I see your hand is recovered, Brand. When I too am fit we will have several matters to talk over. But keep your side of the rope! And keep your men in hand or they’ll suffer for it.
“Boys too,” he added, his eyes falling on Shef.
From behind the minster men had been pouring, the Ragnarssons’ personal followers in hundreds—fully armed, fresh, confident, eyeing their scattered and weary comrades coldly. The Snakeeye stepped out from among them, his two other brothers flanking him—Halvdan looking grim, Ubbi for once shamefaced, eyes on the ground as he spoke.
“You did well to get here. Sorry you got a surprise. It will all be explained in full meeting. But what Ivar says is right. Stay outside this rope. Keep away from the minster. Apart from that you can get as rich as you like.”
“Small chance of that,” shouted an anonymous voice. “What gold do the Christ-priests leave for anyone else?”
The Snakeeye made no reply. His brother Ivar turned, gestured. Behind the Ragnarssons a pole rose into the sky, was driven firmly into the packed earth in front of the minster doors. A jerk on a rope and from it spread—fluttering limply in the damp wind—the famous Raven Banner, the brothers’ personal ensign, wings spread wide for victory.
Slowly, the once-united group who had stormed the wall and fought their way through the city lost cohesion, began to break up, mutter among themselves, count their losses.
“Well, they may have the minster,” muttered Shef to himself. “But we can still get at the machines.”
“Brand,” he called. “Brand. Now can I have those twenty men?”