Floki has built a boat. It is fat and tall, with sides like the flank of a pregnant cow. This great, dark animal sits on flat planks of wood that slope down to the water at the forest-edge. It is twice as wide as their ships, and longer by half. Loose wool-sails hang at the sides of two masts and the back end of it is squared off, with a small platform. Perhaps that is where Ragnar will sit.

There is a greenness to the oakwood which matches the colour of Floki as he watches the ropes be thrown over the sides. He bites his nails, looking at Ragnar, moving as if maggots crawl under his clothes.

Always so nervous before a launching. As if Helga herself lies there on the planks, legs apart, ready to birth it.

'She is beautiful. As beautiful as both of my wives.' Ragnar says it quietly enough for Lagertha, standing nearby, not to hear, and slides a grin along to him.

Men ready themselves with the ropes – his people, Lagertha's people, their slaves – gathering themselves in human chains, ready to help the beast into the water.

'Beautiful is one thing,' says Floki, not smiling back. 'Seaworthy is quite another.'

V*V*V*V*V*V

Slowly, the season turned. Only the tops of the mountains now were coated with a snow that shone like set honey in the sun, and below them, they spread green, a green infused with the shimmer and spell of water. The streams and the pools gulped up the blue sky, and all the colours were caught in Athelstan's eyes as Sansa helped him through the village.

He was walking for the first time since the battle. He gently complained of headaches and seemed to find the sun an opponent after so long lying in the dark, but she coaxed him outside nonetheless. Members of the village not over at Floki's came up to him, an old woman touching his hair, another holding his arm as if he were her son, and he smiled at them sheepishly.

'It is better. To be outside.' He carefully twisted his body towards Sansa – the bandage padded with sheep's wool on his neck meant he couldn't turn his head. 'Thank you.'

'I'm just glad you are up. I was getting very bored of your bed. I mean – with you lying there -' she flushed and grinned at the same time.

His smile made her think of an early spring harebell. 'I know what you mean. I think.' His eyes flickered past her and a tiny breath caught in his throat. 'Now I definitely am glad I got up.' He nodded out to sea.

Sansa couldn't quite see anything at first, with the sun dinting itself brightly into the water. She brought a hand up to her eyes. There – a dark curved shadow. Moving.

A boat. Floki's new boat, and hers, in a way, with her early drawings. It was sliding across the bay, far up at Floki's side of the mountain, with two pale, square sails. As they watched, it turned slightly, as if a great hand was curved around it, coaxing it further out to sea.

V*V*V*V*V*V

'Louder!'

You sat on the porch of the longhouse, working a carved elm bowshaft into shape and mostly watching two girls fight like tree sparrows in the middle of the village. Thorunn had her strong legs dug into the path, Sansa her shield outstretched on one arm. They were in breeches and boots, leather straps spiralling round their ankles. You liked them both better this way.

It had been a while since you had been in Kattegat properly. You had spent a lot of time up in the forest at Floki's, overseeing the boat-making, getting the slaves to work, working a little yourself. It was better, throwing yourself into hacking at the trunks, watching them shatter themselves, making clouds of pine needles rise. You made yourself a dark presence amongst the trees, delivered threats to those who did not work, sometimes delivered more than threats.

The boat sailed, and sailed well, and Ragnar made his plans – your plans, too – for the voyage to England.

When you did return to your own house, you were usually asleep before you had even fallen into bed properly. Siggy could not haunt you if you were in your dead state, tired enough not to dream, not to visit other worlds.

Thorunn was trying to get the raf refr to scream. 'If you want blood, you have to show it in your lungs, not just your arms.' She jabbed her fingers towards Sansa's face, making her flinch. 'And in your eyes.'

You didn't hide your smile, though you looked down at your work when Sansa turned her head.

'Stop laughing at me,' she said, her cheeks the colour of catchfly. She was holding the short sword that you had given her many months ago.

You shook your head, kept your small smile, continued stretching the slim band of wood.

'Ignore him, he can't do anything without stuffing his stomach full of mushrooms first,' said Thorunn.

You put the bowshaft down by your feet, clasped your hands. 'Is that what you think?'

Thorunn folded her arms, gave a dark grin. 'Yes. We don't need that. We can bezerkr on our own. We find our own rage.'

You could imagine her teeth on your earlobe. 'I'm sure of it. But you won't get very far on just your woman-rage using your shield like that.'

Sansa lowered her arm, her hair lifting off in strands, the pale shield in front of her as if she was Borghild, mist and moon. 'What do you mean?'

You picked up some bowstrings and began to twist them. 'She's teaching you wrong.'

'I am not,' said Thorunn.

You didn't look up. 'You're holding it too low. Your shield. It needs to come to just over your mouth.' The mouth you didn't want to imagine full of her own blood in battle, only full of breath-cries as you kissed her stomach.

The warrior-girl made a sound like someone punching her in the teeth. 'She was doing that.'

'Not enough. And it's too much in front of you. Both of you. You should have it on the side if you are using swords as well.'

The raf refr was looking uncertainly at Thorunn. She glared at her, and at you. 'Fine. You show us.'

V*V*V*V*V*V

For the first time in many turns of the moon, Sansa was truly at a loss for words. She could not think of any, not in her own language, in the Northern, or Athelstan's, or anything else. Words had flown, birds escaping the winter. The reason for this flight was in front of her.

To her surprise, Rollo had agreed to train them a little. And here he was now, standing at the lip of the tide, a shield latched onto one forearm, an axe hanging casually from his fingers.

And no tunic on.

Why was he tunic-less? Sansa couldn't think of a single reason. It wasn't even that warm. She and Thorunn stood in front of him, both a little astonished.

She had always known that he was built like a warrior. It was easy enough to know from the way he moved in the battle, from the way he walked on the paths as if the wind was a shield wall to be shouldered. But she hadn't been prepared for the sheer announcement of himself. The broad chest and rash of hair. The stomach that made her think of the sides of a longship.

But it was the tattoos that stole her tongue away. There were large dogs on both of his upper arms, facing inwards, their jaws open. On the left side of his chest was a small black sun and on the other a crescent moon. One side of his torso had sweeping lines of dark colour, interlinking like the shallow waves he was currently standing in. He was like one of the books Athelstan talked of making in England. She had a sudden image of Athelstan painting on Rollo's skin by tallowed light and bit down on her lip hard. Gods.

Rollo turned to face the sea, swinging his axe casually, his wrist circling. His back. Thorunn glanced at Sansa with her eyebrows raised and she could only widen her eyes back. Athelstan was slimmer and more pale, though still strong, the undertow of a calm river. Rollo's strength was – visible. He turned back to them with a quick, flint-strike glance. Sansa looked very seriously at the sand. The grains of sand. The thick, dark grains of sand.

Of course it was Thorunn who spoke first. 'If you want to pay us back you will have to do more than that.'

His eyebrows tugged in together a little. 'Pay you back for what?'

'The day you –' she flashed a crow-dart look at Sansa. 'Found us. At the waterfall.'

Rollo's jaw tightened. Sansa elbowed Thorunn in the arm, and she felt her own bone dig back into her in return. His eyes gave the faintest roll, a boat at the beginning of a sea-storm.

Thorunn gave a grin that made her think of the grubby stream that guttered along one edge of the village. 'Come on then, show us your bezerkr skills.'

'No. Something more simple.'

V*V*V*V*V*V

You had them stand in front of you, facing the sea.

'Think of it as part of you. Not as a defence. It is a weapon.' You showed them with your own shield, which had many iron clamps to repair the edges after the fight-that-was-not-a-fight at Horik's brother's village.

'I know that,' said Thorunn under her breath, glaring at the sand.

'It should touch hand, arm and shoulder.' You moved Sansa's shield a little more to the side of her, and she looked up at you with a – you were not sure what the look meant. 'Like this you can attack and defend.' Her eyes flickered to your upper arm before she nodded.

It made you remember your old self, seeing her look on you like that. Like many girls had looked on you, here in Kattegat, at Uppsala, on your travels to the other villages on Ragnar's behalf. It wasn't why you had removed your tunic – it was good to train this way, show them you could take a hit, make them not afraid to try and strike you. Mostly.

'Don't keep your shield too close to your body. Hold it out –' you stretched your arm. 'Then you can move with it, break a blow.' You nodded to Sansa. 'Attack me.'

Her eyes flew to Thorunn, a fledgling out of its nest for the first time. 'I –'

Thorunn rolled her eyes. 'Fine. I will go first.' She raised her sword and came at you too fast.

You raised your shield just a little, turned, watched her bounce off you. She came again and her sword glanced off the edge of your shield and out of her hand. A fire-hiss breath as she collected it. The third time her sword stuck fast in your shield, though not with enough force for you to see its point on the inside wall. She gave an angry, strangled yell as she tried to wrench it free and get at you with her shield, but you twisted and shoved at her until she went backwards, falling with a splash into the shallow water.

You stood over her. 'You look very comfortable down there.' She went to move and you put your axe close to her neck. 'Wet and on your back.'

The warrior-girl stared at you, two small sea-salted pebbles. 'You are an idiot.'

You grinned and removed the blade from her neck, holding your hand out to her.

She ignored it, rolling onto her side and upwards, water falling heavily from her sleeves. Her teeth chattered. 'Do you know the story of Helgi Droplaugarson?'

You did, but you let her tell you it anyway.

'He hurled a spear between his enemy's legs. It pierced his balls to the snowdrift and he hung there for a whole day.' She stalked off, her tunic clinging to her back, shoulder-blades like juts on a mountain. It was the most fun you had had in a long time.

The raf refr stood alone now, her shield hanging awkwardly, the edges of her hair damp at her forehead, turning her face to yours.

V*V*V*V*V*V

'I'm sorry. She gets - quite angry.' Sansa watched Thorunn disappear, before half-turning to Rollo.

She still couldn't look at him properly, at his skin that had a cool greyness to it in this light. The muscles in his back as he had twisted away from Thorunn made her think of something moving under the sea, or the wind sweeping over it.

There were small diagonal scars across his stomach, as if he had been struck by Mjöllnir, just enough. She felt like Thor's hammer had grazed her, too.

'Anger is good,' he said. 'You just have to know how to use it.'

'What do you think about?'

The hint of rain in the air made his hair a dark waterfall down his back, and rope-like tendrils clung to his shoulders. 'It's usually easy to be angry when the other person is trying to kill you.'

'Is it true that you wanted to kill Ragnar?' She said it before she could stop herself, remembering what Athelstan had told her once.

It was as if she had slammed a shield up under his chin. The green in his eyes turned to winter fir. 'Yes. Once.' He sat down, just at the edge of the water.

Sansa slid her shield off her arm. It had made pale red dents on her wrist and she was sure that she would feel its ghost there for days.

Rollo was staring out to sea, his elbows on his knees, the muscles on his back stretched taut. She sat down next to him on the damp sand, folding her legs underneath her. The braided metal of the bracelet on his wrist was so much more noticeable on the bare skin of his arm. There were two small dog-heads facing each other – or wolves. Perhaps they were wolves painted on his arms, too.

He did not seem angry. She turned her palms over and spoke carefully. 'We had a -' she did not know the word for ward. 'A boy we looked after in our family, Theon, who grew up with us. He was like a brother, especially to Robb.' She could see them now, flitting through the forest as quick as deer, shouting about horses and girls and swords. 'And then he betrayed us. He killed my little brothers.' She looked at him. 'You didn't do any of that. You were - brave, in the end.'

He turned his head to her and she swore she saw forests in his eyes. Paths to wander down, deep into pine-trees, like the ones in Old Nan's stories where wolves and crones and serpents lived.

And then he smiled, two forked lines appearing at the corners of his eyes, and her heart plunged. 'Come on. One more time.'

V*V*V*V*V*V

You were gentle with her – one proper shield-slam would break bones. She still looked uncomfortable and you saw her, with a disappointment you tried to ignore, as Aslaug again, or Siggy. Some women were just not meant to fight.

But a thought came to you like the flick of a horse's tail. 'Wait.' You put your hand out. 'Give me your shield.'

She passed it to you, and her cheeks were wolf-blood dissolved onto ice.

'Use your other hand.' She did not understand. 'Your sword. Put it in your other hand.'

You got her to shadow your arm movements, slowly, and her eyes were serious, wide, eyebrows like the silhouette of a bird's wings far-off.

It was as you thought. 'You are a left-handed sword-fighter.'

Her face cleared, clouds lifting off the mountain-top.

'And this shield is too heavy for you. You need one made of linden-wood. I will make one for you.' You bent down a little to her and tried not to breathe her in, her sweat and cold clay smells. Her lips came apart and you thought of the inside of mussel-shells. 'We will make a shieldmaiden of you yet.'

And she grinned at you.

V*V*V*V*V*V

Ragnar lies awake, every part of his skin and bone alive. The boat sails. Floki had let out one giggle as the sails had come down and the wind swept them on their course. They will raid England, make no negotiations, take their treasures and return. There are bigger lands to learn and they sing to him, every night now.

There is a noise. Ragnar begins to reach under the bed for his sword but his hand stills as he listens more carefully. Animal-sounds, at the further end of the longhouse, where Athelstan sleeps, muffled a little by wood and cloth. Girl-sounds. The princess is taking her pleasure, and she is not being shy about it.

Athelstan must be recovering well.

V*V*V*V*V*V

NOTES

Borghild is goddess of the evening mist or moon, she slays the sun each evening.

Mjöllnir, or 'lightning', is Thor's hammer.

Floki's Boat-building corner:

I mixed ideas from the 10th-12th-century cog with later longships and other medieval bits. But tried to keep it vague so as to avoid getting sucked into twenty unnecessary hours of historical boat-research…