From where I stand at the watchtower window, I see their approach upriver along the Seine, and I am overjoyed. I have been awaiting their arrival. The flotilla of ships, carved dragons at their prow and billowing sails; banks of shields and oars on each side, pulling through the water in near-perfect unison. I have missed them, and my old life.
At my castle in Rouen, Bjorn holds out a map, and has asked for my leave of safe passage so that their ships may proceed along Normandy's coast on their voyage to the Mediterranean; and I will grant it, on one condition.
"Let me go with you," I say. My heart would beg.
Bjorn Ironside is the one they look to now. When I board the ship, I am immediately seized by crew members at his order; my wrists and ankles bound, and a rope looped round my waist. I expect I am in for a good keelhauling. Bjorn nods his head, and I go over the side of the ship and into the sea, in all my fine clothing.
But then, I am hauled back up, and it is as if I am reborn. As I fall back into the boat, Bjorn looks at me with a half-smile and a nod; a twinkle in his eye, almost a wink. And then it is as if all has been settled, without another word.
This is their message to me; like a tweak to the nose or a cuff on the ear. Even after all I have done, I am still Viking, still kin. And I am needed; given even a measure of respect.
Through all of my gasping and coughing up of seawater, I laugh with the joy of it. I would expect nothing less of him.
My son.