“And one more thing,” he shouted. “We know the Christians never keep their word to us, because they think that only the followers of their god will live after death. But I tell you what is more dangerous. They make other men start to forget their word as well. Start to think a man may say one thing one day and another another, and tell the priest and ask for forgiveness, and wipe away the past like a housewife wiping shit off a baby’s bottom. And I say this for you! For you, the sons of Ragnar!”
He turned to face the cluster of brothers, stepping closer to them in defiance—a brave man, thought Shef, and an angry one. He threw back his cloak deliberately to reveal the silver horn of Heimdall gleaming on his tunic.
“How have you remembered your father, who went to his death in the orm-garth here, inside this city? How have you remembered the boasts you made in the hall at Roskilde, when you stood on the stock and made your vows to Bragi?
“What happens to the oath-breakers in the world we believe in? Have you forgotten?
A voice supported him from the throng: a deep voice, a solemn one. Thorvin’s, Shef realized, quoting the holy poems.
“There men writhe in woe and anguish,
Murder-wolves and men forsworn.
Nithhögg sucks blood from naked bodies,
The wolf tears them. Do you wish more?”
“Men forsworn!” shouted Egil. He turned and walked to his place, showing the Ragnarssons his back. Yet they seemed pleased, almost relieved. They had known someone would say it.
“We have been challenged,” called Halvdan Ragnarsson, speaking for the first time. “Let us reply. We know well what we said in the hall at Roskilde, and this was it: I swore that I would invade England in vengeance for my father…” All four brothers, bunching together, began to call out the words in unison.
“And so I have. And Sigurth, he swore…”
“…to defeat all the kings of the English and bring them into subjection to us.”
“Two I have defeated, and the rest will follow.”
Yells of approval from the Ragnarsson followers.
“And Ivar, he swore…”
“…to wreak vengeance on the black crows, the Christ-priests who counseled the orm-garth.”
Dead silence, for Ivar to speak.
“And this I have not done. But it is unfinished, not forgotten. Remember: the black crows are now in my hand. I shall decide when to close it.”
Still dead silence. Ivar went on. “But Ubbi, my brother, he swore…”
The brothers in unison again. “…to capture King Ella and kill him with torments for Ragnar’s death.”
“And this we shall do,” called Ivar. “So two of our boasts will be completed, and two of us free before Bragi, the oath-god. And the other two we shall yet complete.”
“Bring out the prisoner.”
Muirtach and his gang were hustling him forward instantly. The Ragnarssons were counting on this, Shef realized, to alter the mood of the crowd. He remembered the youth who had shown him round the slave-pens back at the camp on the Stour, with his tales of the cruelty of Ivar. There were always some who would be impressed. Yet it was not clear that this crowd was.
They had Ella well out in front now, and were hammering a thick pole into the earth. The king was even whiter than before, the black hair and beard showing it even more clearly. He was not gagged, his mouth was open, but no sound came out. There was blood on the side of his neck.
“Ivar’s cut his voice-cords,” said Brand suddenly. “They do it with pigs so they can’t squeal. What’s the brazier for?”
The Gaddgedlar, hands padded, were lifting forward a brazier full of glowing coal. Irons projected from it ominously, already shining red-hot. The crowd surged and muttered, some pushing forward for a closer look, others’ sensing, apparently, that this was a distraction from their real business, but unsure how to reject it.
Muirtach whisked the cloak suddenly from the doomed man so that he stood naked before them, not even a loincloth to cover him. Some laughter, some jeers, some groans of disapproval. Four Gaddgedlar gripped him and spread-eagled him upright between them. Ivar stepped in front, a knife glinting in his hand. He bent towards Ella’s belly, between the king and Shef’s horrified gaze, not a dozen yards off. A mighty contortion, a thrashing of limbs, held mercilessly by the four apostates.