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Thorfinn remained standing for a while but his grip became less firm and I could sense him relaxing.
    â€˜Let me go, Thorfinn,’ I said, ‘and there will be a reward for you from my father, Kveldulf Arnvidson of Becklund.’ He let go of one of my arms so I could straighten up. I turned my head to look at him. I recognised his squashed nose and heavy jowls. He was the ugly poet I had knifed when he tried to fondle me at the table. He didn’t recognise me but became interested when he noticed my jewellery, which marked me out as a woman from a prosperous family.
    â€˜I give you my word. If you take me to my father you will be richly rewarded.’
    I could almost see the thoughts tumbling round inside his greasy head. I twisted and did a sideways kick at his knee. As my foot made contact, his leg buckled and he toppled over. He swore and lost his grip on my arm. Before he could struggle up from the soft, muddy ground, I was by his horse grappling to free his bow. He limped towards me, his face contorted in fury and pain. I moved round so the horse was between us. I grabbed an arrow from the quiver and ran uphill. He followed me but now I had him in my sight. If he had stood still, as I told him to, he may have lived. But he lunged at me and I was too good a shot to miss his large, lumbering frame. He fell backwards and hit the ground with one of his own arrows through his neck. There was much blood but I didn’t wait to witness his death-throes. I grabbed the horse by its bridle and moved away as quickly as I could. I forgot all about my promises to the gods that I would return to Swanhill. I had one thought only: if Jarl Swein was at Becklund, so would Ragnar be and that’s where I had to go.
    The horse was lame and unwilling to move. I had to pull hard on its bridle to get it to walk. I struggled on the boggy ground, exhausted and trembling after my ordeal. I waited till I had put some distance between myself and Thorfinn before I stopped to catch my breath. I checked over his weapons, the shield was too heavy for me but the axe I could just about manage for a brief fight. I already knew his bow was well balanced and his arrows straight. As I hurried down Mosedale I kept looking behind me, thinking I could hear pursuers. I felt sick and my limbs were shaking so much I found it hard to continue. It was well after noontide and I’d had enough. By a clump of trees I put a halter on the horse and removed Thorfinn’s axe and his thick woollen cloak from behind the saddle. Then, thinking that people look down on the uneven path rather than up the side of the slope, I climbed a short way up. There, wrapped in Thorfinn’s cloak and with his axe next to me, I lay down to rest.
    I was woken by an angry voice and a foot in my back. ‘Thorfinn, you ugly goblin! Get up!’

4.
    I rolled over and grabbed the axe. As I leaped up, I trod on the long cloak and was pulled down again. I struggled to get out of the heavy garment but it seemed Thorfinn’s cloak was intent on his revenge, for it wrapped itself ever tighter around my legs. As I toppled over, I heard my assailant laugh and draw his sword. I cried out and the cry gave me strength. I rolled down the slope and, as I did so, managed to fight free of the cloak. I got to my feet and, trembling with fear, needed both hands to raise the heavy axe. I looked up. Above me hulked a tall, broad-shouldered figure with a halo of blonde hair. It was Ragnar.
    The relief was so great I lost my speech and burst out crying. Deep, rasping sobs forced their way from the very core of my body. The axe fell from my hands and I staggered towards my lost love to embrace him. He stood, sword in one hand, the other shielding his eyes against the setting sun.
    â€˜Odin’s beard! What’s this? Where is Thorfinn?’
    Still speechless, I buried my face in the folds of his tunic and clung to the safety of his presence.
    â€˜What’s