Two-score oars dipped and flashed in perfect synchronicity, surging the longship forward against the strong current on the lower reaches of the Ribble. In the prow, Ragnall winced and rubbed his shoulder. The wound he had sustained at Áth Cliath had healed well thanks to Jarl Óttar’s timely treatment, but occasionally when the weather changed, like today, it troubled him. He gazed upwards, noting the thin, white clouds that covered the whole sky like a veil, conjuring a halo around the sun. Experience told him that rain would arrive within a day. As if sharing his awareness, a grey heron stood motionless on a broken branch, with head bowed, an emblem of melancholy, Ragnall thought. Stoically, the predator moved not a feather as the longship glided past, sending ripples crashing against its
