“Aye,” said Shef compulsively.
“He’s not a freeman,” snarled Alfgar from his place by his father.
“Then he damned well should be. Or he shouldn’t be here. Can’t you people make your minds up about anything? You’ve heard your king’s commands.”
But Edrich’s words were drowned by a slow, reluctant mutter of assent from sixty throats.
In the Viking camp by the Stour, things were very different. Here the four sons of Ragnar made the decisions. They knew each others’ minds too well for more than the briefest discussion.
“They’ll pay in the end,” said Ubbi. He and Halvdan were very much like the rest of their army, in both physique and temperament. Halvdan ruddy, the other already grizzled, both of them powerful and dangerous fighters. Not men to be trifled with.
“We must decide now,” grunted Halvdan.
“Who shall it be then?” asked Sigurth.
All four men considered for a few moments. Someone who could do the job, someone experienced. At the same time someone they could afford to lose.
“Sigvarth,” said Ivar finally. His pale face did not move; his colorless eyes remained fixed on the sky; he spoke only the one word. What he said was not a suggestion, but the answer. He who was called the Boneless One, though never in his presence, did not make suggestions. His brothers considered, approved.
“Sigvarth!” called out Sigurth Snake-eye.
A few yards away the jarl of the Small Isles bent over his game at knucklebones. He finished his cast, to show a proper spirit of independence, but then straightened and walked hopefully over to the little group of leaders.
“You called out my name, Sigurth.”
“You have five ships? Good. We think the English and their little King Edmund are trying to play stupid games with us. Resisting, trying to bargain. No good. We want you to go out and show them who they’re dealing with. Take your ships up the coast, then round to the west. Push inland, do as much damage as you can, burn some villages. Show them what could happen if they provoke us. You know what to do.”
“Yes. Done it before.” He hesitated. “But what about spoils?”
“Anything you get, it’s yours. But loot isn’t what this is about. Do something that they will remember. Do it as Ivar would do it.”
The jarl grinned again, but more hesitantly, as most men did when the name of Ivar Ragnarsson the Boneless was mentioned.
“Where will you land?” asked Ubbi.
“Place called Emneth. I was there once before. Found me a nice little chicken.” The jarl’s grin was cut off this time by a sudden movement from Ivar.
Sigvarth had given a stupid reason. He was not going on this mission to repeat the escapades of his youth. It was unwarriorlike. It was also the kind of thing Ivar did not discuss.
The moment passed. Ivar leaned back in his chair and turned his attention elsewhere. They knew Sigvarth was not the best in the Army—one of the reasons they were letting him go.
“Do the job and never mind chickens,” said Sigurth. He waved a hand in dismissal.
At least Sigvarth knew the mechanics of his profession. At dawn two days later his five ships were sweeping cautiously into the mouth of the river Ouse, with the tide still on the flow. An hour’s rowing at high tide took them as far inland as the water would bear, until the boats’ keels grated on the sand. The dragon-prows nuzzled in, the men poured ashore. Instantly the assigned ship-guards backed water, pulled their wave-coursers offshore to the mudbanks, and waited there for the ebb tide to ground them out of reach of any counterattack from the local levies.
The youngest and swiftest men of Sigvarth’s command had already moved out. Finding a small stud of ponies they cut down the lad in charge and raced off to round up more. As they captured the horses they sent them back to the main body. By the time the sun struggled through the morning mists a hundred and twenty men were pounding along the twisted and muddy paths towards their goal.
They rode in a hard, disciplined group. Keeping together, without advance or flank guards, counting upon strength and surprise to drive through any resistance. When their path took them up to any inhabited place—farmhouse, garth, or hamlet—the main body halted for as long as it might take a man to piss. The lighter men on the better horses swept round to the flanks and rear and halted, to prevent any escapes that might raise the alarm. Then the main body attacked. Their orders were simple, so simple that Sigvarth had not even bothered to repeat them.