King Harald Bull-Roar, Jarl of the Danefolk of Skania, arose from the ship like Odin himself, arrayed in blue the colour of a northern midnight; he stood in the bright sunshine, glinting of gold and silver, his long red beard brushed and its ends braided. Gold sparkled on his chest, at his throat and on each wrist; seven silver bands were on his arms, and seven silver brooches secured his cloak.

He stepped to the rail, and I saw that he was barefooted. Gold and silver bracelets gleamed at his ankles. He was a big man: deep-chested, with thick-muscled arms, and long, strong legs. Standing tall upon the rail, a king in the prime of life, he gazed with quick, intelligent eyes upon the assembled host.

A king is a king anywhere, I thought. Harald had the same regal bearing of any lord I had ever seen. Sure, he and Lord Aengus were brothers under the skin; each laying eye to other would have recognized royalty. Of this I had no doubt.

Raising his hands in salutation, he opened his mouth to speak and I saw that youthful battles had left him with a livid scar from chin to throat. He spoke in a voice both deep and loud, turning this way and that, and spreading wide his arms as if to embrace all those thronged below him on the bank.

The substance of his speech seemed to be about setting aside differences during the council. I think he called on everyone to sit down together in peace as free men in order to best decide what to do-or something like that. It is the sort of speech all lords make when they want their way, and there was much sceptical grunting and clearing of throats.

Then, without the least hesitation, Harald lifted one bare foot and stepped from the ship's rail into the air. Some of the women gasped, but they need not have worried. For as the king stepped out from the rail, a hand appeared and caught his foot. Another hand joined the first, and the king took another step. Two more hands-those of the warriors who had set out the planks-caught the king's right foot and bore him up.

In this way, Jarl Harald was conveyed onto the river-bank, carried by his house karlar as he stood upright-a most impressive feat. For the rest of the day, it was all anyone talked about: "Did you see how they carried him?" "Heya! The king's feet never touched the earth!"

Harald Bull-Roar was carried to the place where his tent would be erected; a red oxhide was spread upon the ground and the king sat down to receive the homage of his people. Everyone came before him, some to lay themselves at his feet, others to bestow gifts of honour and welcome. The jarl accepted his honours with good grace, and I found myself liking the man for his easy deference, despite any misgivings Gunnar or Ragnar might have had-and I did not doubt their fears were genuine, and with ample reason. But Harald was a winsome man: all smiles and bright confidence, always bringing his people close with a gesture or an intimate word.

I watched as he sat upon the red oxhide, calling his noblemen by name, disarming them with flattery and praise. Even before the theng began, the king was plunged deep into his campaign. Men approached him, wooden in speech and movement, full of doubt and mistrust, only to rise again a moment later, beaming, conviction and faith rekindled by a word and a touch.

Oh, Jarl Harald was a very master of kingcraft: subtle, shrewd, persuasive and reassuring, slaying his opponents' objections before they knew to contradict or oppose him.

Sure, I had seen such power once or twice before. For all his gold and silver, this barbarian lord reminded me of Bishop Tudwal of Tara, renowned for his composure, his confidence, his easy mastery of men.

Nor did Gunnar and Tolar, for all their apprehensions, remain aloof from the king's considerable charm. I waited as they performed their duties of respect; they returned glad-hearted and confident once more. When I asked what the king had told them to bring about such a change, Gunnar demanded, "Have I ever said a word against the king? You must learn to be more trusting, Aeddan."

This advice brought a concurring nod from Tolar.

Of all the jarls and free men I observed, only Ragnar remained aloof from the king's winning ways. Perhaps he knew too much of kingcraft to be easily swayed by the methods he himself employed from time to time. Perhaps he found it hard, being a lord, to allow himself the indulgence of complete conviction. Many tribesmen depended upon him and his judgement; whatever others might think or do, his own thoughts and actions were circumscribed by his obligations. Thus, Ragnar Yellow Hair could not give complete allegiance to any man, and still remain king in more than name only.

Proud men are all alike. No doubt he resented having Harald over him. Paying tribute was bad enough; he did not like to be seen bowing low as well. I imagine it might have been the same with some of the other lords, but I could not observe them all. Even so, it seemed that when the ceremony of greeting had been concluded, the battle was over and the king had claimed the field. He had, it seemed to me, sowed seeds of hopeful anticipation among the people and then withdrew to let those seeds sprout and take root.

Sure, the mood of the camp that night was buoyant with expectation; all across the meadow, men gazed at one another over the fire and speculated on the council: What would tomorrow bring? What would the king propose?

Though I had no part in the proceedings-nothing they decided could possibly affect me one way or another-I could still feel the intense anticipation of the assembly. It was late into the night before anyone could sleep.

Early the next morning, a single large drum summoned the jarls and free men to the theng-stone. We were breaking fast when the drumming began. Gunnar and Tolar stood at once. "It is beginning," Gunnar said, throwing aside the bone he was gnawing. "Hurry! We will sit in the forerank."

Unfortunately, everyone else had the same notion; hence the call became less a summons than the start of a race, as from all the scattered camps the men hastened to the meeting place. The few women stood to look on with longing, though some boldly followed their men to the nearest allowable perimeter of the council ring-a boundary marked out by a circle of small boulders.

Emboldened by the womenfolk's example, I took a place at the outer ring, while Gunnar and Tolar elbowed their way towards the centre of the circle. The best places were already taken, so I stood in the press, straining for a view of the proceedings. At first, nothing appeared to transpire, but then I noticed an old man hobbling around the theng-stone, shaking a gourd filled with pebbles. Muttering and mumbling, he staggered in a strange, stiff-legged gait around and around the upright stone.

"Skirnir," someone nearby said, and I guessed that was his name. He was, I decided, one of those curious creatures known as a skald-probably, he was advisor and counsellor to King Harald.

Dressed in a short, ragged siarc and breeches of scraped deerskin, old Skirnir continued his muttering incantations for a time, and then lay aside the gourd and, picking up a wooden bowl, spattered a liquid-perhaps oil of some kind-onto the standing stone using a small bundle of frayed birch twigs which he grasped in his right hand. Each time he dipped the twigs into the bowl he called the god's name; and each time he shook the oil onto the rock, he sneezed.

When he had circled the great stone a number of times, he placed the bowl upon the ground and then, placing his hands in the oil, proceeded to speckle the surface of the rock with handprints-sometimes patting the stone with his palms, and sometimes hugging it in a wide-armed embrace. While he was thus employed, King Harald emerged from his place among the onlookers; he had something tucked under his arm, but I could not see what it might be.