Whether it was the balmy Mediterranean air or the lack of fighting as they passed untroubled along the North African coast, Jarl Óttar couldn’t imagine. Something strange was happening inside his head, but only at night when he curled up under his cloak on deck under the starry dome of the sky. No sooner did he arrive on the verge of dropping off to sleep than the terrified face of the young boy in the doomed church at Meigné came into sharp focus. He tried to blink him away, sat up, wafted at the air in front of his face and shook his head, but the haunting countenance returned every time to torment him and deny him slumber. He asked himself why he hadn’t moved a muscle to save the child. Deep down, he knew the answer. It was a question of leadership. A Viking chieftain could not display
