Harald stepped ashore with all the hubris of a Roman, head held high, leading the procession of his Norsemen, their sheathed swords at rest.  His demeanor conveyed affirmation to Æthelflæd that her notion was correct and the three years since had not eroded the truce between them.  Also his man Sweyn had relayed news to him of the great esteem held for his son by this Lady of Mercia.

The leaders met with smiles on the well-trodden field between the north gate and the arena, its heather and gorse pushed into mud by Edward’s hoof and boot only hours earlier.  “Welcome, Good Harald of the North,” said Hedy, stopping short of the Vikings by a cautious distance, her thegns and witan at her flanks. 

“Lady of Mercia,” responded Harald as his party mirrored...

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