By late July, Bjorn had sailed north again, bringing word from York.
"I saw the cavalry drilling," he told Rurik, grinning through weariness. "They are formidable indeed. My father intends to travel west next year, to the lands of the Franks. Ha! May fortune grant me the chance to witness a true cavalry charge before my beard turns gray."
He stayed only a day before his ships were laden once more—bales of woolen cloth, casks of ale, and fifty slaves purchased in York. The fleet then slipped downriver, the oars' rhythm fading into the sea wind.
When Bjorn was gone, Rurik rode toward the southwestern quarter of Tain. The town had grown crowded with refugees from the north, and among them were many smiths. Twelve now worked the forges, each master employing two apprentices. The clang of hammers never ceased; sparks leapt like fireflies beneath the low-beamed roofs.
