“There must be two conditions on that,” said Alfred. “We cannot march under your Hammer alone, for I am a Christian. Nor will I march only under the Cross, for that has been defiled by the robbers of Frankland and Pope Nicholas. Let us remember this woman and her grief, and march under the sign of both. And if we conquer we will let our peoples find comfort and consolation wherever they can. In this world there can never be enough for everyone.”
“What is the other condition?”
“That.” Alfred pointed to the whetstone-scepter. “You must get rid of it. When you hold it, you lie. You send your friends to their deaths.”
Shef looked at it, looked again at the cruel, bearded faces that ornamented each end: faces like that of the cold-voiced god in his dreams. He remembered the mound where he had got it, the slave-girls with their broken spines. Thought of Sigvarth sent to die by torture, of Sibba and Wilfi sent to the burning. Of Alfred himself, whom he had knowingly allowed to march to defeat. Of Godive, rescued only to be used as bait.
Turning, he hurled the scepter end over end into the deep undergrowth, there to lie once more among the mold.
“As you say,” he said. “We will march under both signs now, win or lose.” He held out his hand. Alfred drew his dagger, cut free his purse, threw it with a thump onto the wet ground by the woman’s feet. Only then did he shake hands.
As they left the woman struggled with feeble fingers to pry at the lashings of the purse.
They heard the commotion before they had gone a hundred yards down the path: clash of weapons, shrieking, horses neighing. Both men began to run toward the Wayman camp, but the thorns and thickets held them. By the time they arrived, gasping, at the edge of the wood, it was over.
“What happened?” said Shef to the men who turned disbelievingly toward them.
Farman the priest appeared from behind a slashed tent. “Frankish light cavalry. Not many of them, maybe a hundred. They knew we were here, came all at once out of the wood. Where were you?”
But Shef was looking past him, at Thorvin pushing through the crowd of excited men, holding Godive firmly by one hand.
“We came just after dawn,” said Thorvin. “Got here just before the Franks attacked.”
Shef ignored him, looked only at Godive. She raised her chin, stared back at him. He patted her shoulder gently. “I am sorry if I have forgotten you. There are things—if… soon… I will try to make amends for what I did.
“But not now. Now I am still the jarl. First we must set guards on the camp, so we are not surprised again. Then we must march. But before that—Lulla, Farman, all priests and leaders to me as soon as the guards are set.
“And Osmod, one thing before that. Send twenty women to me now.”
“Women, lord?”
“Women. There are plenty with us. Wives, friends, drabs, I don’t care. As long as they can push a needle.”
Two hours later, Thorvin, Farman and Geirulf—the only priests of the Way present among a half dozen English unit commanders—stared unhappily at the new device hastily stitched onto the army’s main battle-banner. Instead of the white Hammer standing upright on a red field, there were now a Hammer and Cross, set diagonally, one across the other.
“It is dealing with the enemy,” said Farman. “More than they would ever do for us.”
“It is a condition made by the king for his support,” said Shef.
Eyebrows raised as the priests looked at the shabby, solitary figure of the king.
“Not just my support,” said Alfred. “The support of my kingdom. I may have lost one army. But there are still men who will fight against the invaders. It will be easier if they do not have to change religion at the same time.”
“We need men, for sure,” said Osmod the camp marshal and leader of the catapulteers. “What with this morning and the desertions we’ve had—seven, eight men to a team left, where we need a dozen. And Udd has more crossbows in store than men to use them. But we need ’em right now. And where are we to find them? In a hurry, like?”