We rode towards the gates of Wintan-caestre, the rump of a victorious army. Our slow procession from Brunanburh, shedding first the men of the local fyrds to heartfelt salutations and, later, the warriors of Mierce. Each man came home to a hero’s welcome. At last, our turn had come, and the first glimpse of the gate tower decked in red and gold ribbons promised well. Those colours with pride we bore, emblazoned on our shields.
The gates swung back to admit us to the cheering populace. Women waved bunches of marigolds mixed with crimson flowers. I’m no expert on flowers but they were red. Our horses, in desperate need of water and rest, parted the crowd before them and became restive when the flowers flew through the air over their heads. The population of the town doubled for the day. I g
