Hakon’s men bound the hands of Einar, the Wolf Coats and the others. Then they were marched into the settlement. They were taken up a steep hill past houses and a marketplace to the gates of the burh.
Unlike the much smaller burhs Einar had stayed in to the south, Edin’s burh was an impressive fortress perched on the top of a rock that looked impregnable. It was surrounded by a wooden palisade with a fighting platform behind it along which warriors patrolled. The defensive walls looked about three times the height of a man.
Through the fortified gate they were led to a stone building. Inside, steps led down to a line of rooms that must have been carved into the rock the burh stood on. The iron bars on the doors showed they were made for keeping prisoners in. Before long they were inside one of these dank rooms, surrounded by slime-covered rock walls, the door closed and was locked behind them.
Einar kept some hope alive that at least they were not all prisoners. Ulrich and Ayvind were still somewhere outside. However, not long after, the door clanged open and Ulrich, now with a more serviceable crutch under one arm, hopped into the room. The door slammed shut behind him and they heard the rattle of the lock once again.
Soon after that, the door opened again and Ayvind was shoved into the room.
‘Like you suspected, Einar, Jarl Hakon did not approve of what I’ve been up to with you lot,’ the skald said, a glum expression on his face. ‘It seems I will be sharing the fate of this company.’
From the redness of his face and the smell of his breath, Einar surmised that Ayvind had spent the time since leaving them to be baptised touring the taverns of the town.
With no windows in their cell, it was hard to tell how long they were locked in. Einar judged it to be at least one night. Despite the miserable surroundings they were well fed. Several times meat, bread and ale were delivered into the room by guards. They also got new clothes, cloaks and fresh straw for the floor, as well as leather bags for sleeping in.
‘They’re making sure we don’t die of hardship, anyway,’ Skar said.
Einar was dozing on the floor when the door was unbolted once more and a warrior poked his head in.
‘Come with us,’ he said.
Hakon’s armed cohort waited outside. Einar and the others were marched out of their prison and into the courtyard of the burh. Like other burhs there were barrack huts, stores, stables and the other buildings you would expect in a stronghold manned by warriors. Unlike many of the other newly built burhs, Edin Burh had grown from an existing stronghold that had guarded the rock for centuries and had many buildings.
First, they were led to a long house fronted by a pair of heavy wooden doors and more guards. Inside was a treasure trove of weapons. Everything from mail coats, helmets and leather jerkins to shields, spears, swords and knives were laid out on tables, stacked in piles or spilled from inside chests.
‘Choose what you need,’ the commander of Hakon’s men said.
‘You’re going to arm us?’ Ulrich said.
Hakon’s man smiled. ‘We can’t have you going into battle in just those wolf skins. Don’t get any ideas though. You won’t be getting any of this today. Once you pick what you want it will be packed and sent on the ship you’ll be sailing on.’
Einar saw the Wolf Coats all look to Ulrich. It seemed like they were talking with their eyes and he knew exactly what they were thinking. Should they grab the weapons before them and try to break out?
He caught his breath as anxiety rose in his chest. No matter how good the Wolf Coats were, they were outnumbered several times over. Even if they managed to overcome Hakon’s men they were still in the middle of their enemy’s fortress, which was within a hostile town, in a foreign country. They would not get far.
To Einar’s relief he saw Ulrich make a brief shake of the head. The other Wolf Coats accepted his order and set to work choosing swords and trying on armour.
Einar was in the process of admiring a sword with the word INGELRII embossed in runes on the blade when Skarphedin laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘A word of advice, lad,’ the big man said. ‘Unless you’ve got an awful lot better with the sword since that last fight in Iceland, I’d recommend you look for a good axe.’
Einar frowned and was about to object. It was a beautiful sword and he longed to wield it. He would look like a great hero. Then he thought more. They were going into battle. Decisions like these could result in life or death not just for him but those who relied on him. He needed to use his head not his heart. He nodded to himself, deciding to take both.
Bodvar held up a Saxon helmet, running his hand through the wolf’s tail that hung from the top as a crest.
‘This is good war gear,’ he said. ‘We’re going to look a bit Aenglish though.’
‘Make sure you get yourself a decent bow, your ladyship,’ Ulrich said to Affreca. ‘We’ll need more than you slinging stones this time when we fight the Scots.’
When they were done, some of Hakon’s men began packing the gear they had chosen into chests. Einar and the others were then led out of the building and over to a large feasting hall.
‘Are you going to feed us again?’ Ulrich said. ‘This is the best captivity I’ve ever had to endure.’
The commander just smiled and pushed open the doors of the hall. They went in, past the barrels of ale stacked in the entrance hall and into the main part of the building.
The room was longer than it was wide. Wooden pillars lined the floor, supporting the roof above over the open space of the hall. There were long benches, tables and fire pits but there was no feasting here today. Instead the air was musty with old grease and stale ale. The fire pits held only cold ashes.
Around a table in the centre of the hall was a group of men. They were dressed in rich clothes, comfortable furs and colourful woollen shirts. They were not lined on benches but each had his own seat around a table that bore silvered drinking horns. They held themselves in the confident, relaxed manner of men used to commanding respect. Hakon was there. The big lad lounged in his chair, chin resting on his fist as if he was battling to stay interested in what was going on around him. There was a short, dark-haired man with no moustache but a square black beard sitting beside him. Next were four men with long, Aenglish-style moustaches, two who were clean shaven and a man dressed in the robes of a monk, though they were trimmed with fur. Another two men with long hair whose blond beards had been woven into plaits that hung down to their chests completed the company. Einar also noticed several other Christian priests and monks lurking not far from the table and another seated at a nearby desk with a writing parchment before him. Even here in the far north, it seemed, Aethelstan’s network of clerics was at work.
Sitting at the head of the table was the man himself. Einar recognised straight away the same tall man with the lined face and white streaks in his brown hair and long moustache he had last seen in Jorvik. It was Aethelstan, King of Wessex. He recognised Einar as well and he watched him in particular as they all filed in and lined up before the table.
‘Ah,’ the king said, leaning back in his chair. ‘So here are the heroes who will lead us into battle.’