The sound he had been dreading roused Deormund from his sleep. Four shrill blasts of the lookout’s horn had him dressing and cursing his fumbling fingers. Cyneflaed sat up in bed and her frightened expression did nothing for his jangling nerves. Young Asculf stood in the doorway,
“Father, an alarm!”
“I’m not deaf, boy! Out of my way!”
The youngster, stunned, stared at his father’s fleeing heels and began to chase after him, ignoring his mother’s cries to come back. Man and boy flew up the lookout tower, vaguely aware of the agitated gathering of men they had passed below in the courtyard.
“Lord, four longships approaching. I reckon they’re Vikings!”
Deormund pressed a hand to his chest as if to steady his thumping heart and squinted out to the north-east, almost straight into the red
