Taking the cup, I made my way to the vat where the boys were busily filling the drinking vessels. I watched how they plunged the bowls and jars into the vat and did likewise. I returned to my place and delivered the jar into my master's hands. He nodded with a self-satisfied smile, well pleased to have his bargain producing such good return so quickly.

I took my place behind him once more to observe the revelry. The sight of so much food and drink, devoured with such vigour, made me weak with hunger. I gawked at the baskets of mounded bread, and the glistening meat slowly turning on the hearth; I gazed wistfully at the foam-rimmed cups and bowls continually raised and lowered the length of the board; I heard the rising cacophony of shouts and coarse laughter and hands slapped upon the board. The roister swirled throughout the hall and I stood forlorn, and contemplated a long dry day and hungry night stretching out before me.

When the meat was roasted, the carcasses were divided and the joints carried to the board where the barbarians fell upon them like the wolves they were. I watched them warm to their feast-hunch-shouldered at their meal, hands grasping, fingers tearing, heads down, teeth sunk in succulent flesh, rich hot juices running from hands and flowing down chins-eating and eating, stuffing themselves to repletion and beyond until, sated, they flopped forward onto the board to sleep. Sure, no wolf pack ever snored more loudly or slept more soundly.

And when they woke, they fell to eating and drinking again. Their first hunger appeased, they settled into a less frantic consumption. Now they desired amusement to heighten their pleasure, and they began calling upon their skald to provide them songs.

Up rose Ragnar Yellow Hair from his throne and cried aloud, "Scop! Siung Scop!"

At this the revellers began pounding the board with hands, cups, and jars. "Scop! Scop!" they called. "Siung! Siung!"

Out from his noisome corner the Truth Singer shuffled, head wagging slowly side to side as he limped towards the throne, where he stooped to embrace his lord's legs. Ragnar cuffed him and pushed him away, but there was no violence in the blow. Drawing himself upright, old Scop straightened, shaking back his rags-a dirty bird preparing to take flight.

The hall fell silent, anticipation grew keen; the revellers licked greasy fingers and leaned from their benches expectantly as the ragged man, his throat quivering with the effort, opened his mouth and began to sing.

It is ever the Lord's good pleasure to hide his more precious gifts in the most unlikely places-earthen vessels hold the rarest treasure after all. Though I have enjoyed many and many a song raised by some of the best voices in the world, I never heard anything to match the sound that issued from old Scop's throat. It was not beautiful, never that; but it was true. And in its truth was a beauty surpassing that of all the golden ornaments Lord Yellow Hair had bestowed.

It is said that time vanishes in the song of one blessed of the Word Giver-so the ancient Celts believed. Well, I believe it now, too. For so long as Scop sang, holding each within the hall in thrall to him, binding them like slaves with his subtle, artful chain, time itself stood bound, its relentless flight arrested, unable to move.

I could not understand the words, which were sung in the thick unlovely speech of the Danefolk; but the broad sense of his utterance I perceived as well as my own mind, for the expressions of both his voice and countenance were miracles of transformation. He sang deeds of valour, and the very blood stirred within me and I yearned to feel strong steel against my hip and thigh. When the song became joyful, he beamed forth with a radiance unknown to any save those who behold Sweet Jesu himself in beatific visions. When the song grew plaintive, sorrow crushed him down with such a weight I feared he would perish; tears streamed freely down the upturned faces of his listeners, and, may Christ have mercy, I wept, too.

The song finished, and when I dried my eyes Scop had disappeared. I came to myself, blinking, staring around as one roused from a waking sleep. The hall slowly resumed its raucous life; the feasters returned to their gluttony, shaking themselves free of their bard's enchanted coils.

Ale and meat and bread were brought and placed before the revellers in perpetual supply. Now other dishes and delicacies began appearing also: apples baked in honey, stewed fish with onions, fat boiled sausages, pork with lentils, dried plums swimming in ale. Now and then someone would rise from the table and totter to one of the sleeping nooks, or stagger from the board to vomit or relieve themselves, and another would take the empty place.

Every so often, the merrymaking was leavened with a quarrel as men's tempers, whetted and abetted by drink, overtook them. All of these fights came to blows, and two ended with both combatants prone and unconscious-much to the demented delight of the onlookers, who cheered lustily whenever anyone drew blood.

Thus the feast trundled noisily on: a drunken brawl in a muggy hall reeking of smoke, blood, piss and vomit. Whether night or day, I could not tell: tired, hungry, thirsty, it was all the same to me. I longed to crawl into one of the many sleeping nooks along the walls, but each time I made to slip away, Gunnar would rouse himself and order me to fetch him more ale.

Treading my way to the vat, stepping carefully among the bones and shards of broken vessels that now lay strewn over the floor, I noticed that the serving boys often snatched a furtive drink from the vessel they were filling before returning it to the board. This, it seemed, was how they obtained their food and drink: pilfering it while no one was looking.

Provoked by this thought, I stepped to the vat, leaned over and plunged the cup into the cool brown liquid. I smelled the heady sweetness of the ale and my thirst overcame me. Before I could think to stop myself, the cup was at my lips and the ale sliding down my throat. Ah, bliss! I had only tasted such fine beer once or twice in my life, and drank this down greedily.

Lord help me, for I could not help myself, I drained the whole cup down, then hastily refilled it, whereupon I turned and stepped quickly away-only to find my way blocked by a hulking Dane.

He glared at me and said something, which I could not understand. I bowed my head and made to step around him, but he caught my arm and twisted it, shouting his demand the louder. I could not make out what he wanted, but he eyed the cup in my hand, so I offered it to him.

"Nay!" he thundered, and with a violent swipe of his arm sent the jar flying from my hands. The metal cup sailed through the air, spewing ale in a shower all around and striking the board a few paces away. Those nearby stopped and stared.

The angry barbarian shouted something at me again and, when I made no answer, seized me in his arms and lifted me off my feet. He crossed to the vat with a single swift step and shoved me hard against the oaken tub-forcing my head down towards the frothy liquid.

Fortunately, the vat was no longer full. The top of my head touched the foam, but I was able to keep my face out of the drink. All those looking on laughed to see this odd contest.

The Sea Wolf roared with anger and, seizing my legs, lifted me, intent on thrusting me bodily into the vat. I grabbed the iron rim and held on with all my might. The wood and metal was sticky slick, however, and I could not maintain my grip. Lower and lower I slipped while all those looking on laughed all the harder at my predicament.

Unable to hold on any longer, I took a deep breath as my head plunged beneath the frothy liquid. Bubbles prickled my nostrils and ears; I shook my head furiously, and managed to catch another breath before my head was forced under again-further this time, and though I thrashed around, flailing my arms and kicking my legs, I could not get free. I stopped struggling to save what little air I had left in my lungs, and prayed for deliverance.