Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (26 page)

‘We split into two forces before moving up to confront them,’ Aethelred ordered, his eyes darting between the ealdormen and thegns gathered around him before fixing on Alfred. ‘Besides the remnants of your own bodyguard, brother, you will have the fyrd we gained along our route, together with those of the Vale, who undoubtedly look to you as overlord. I’ll take the rest of the fyrd, plus Ealdormen Radulf and Brihtnoth. Paega and Unwine will be with you, and of the dozen thegns, we’ll have a half dozen each. That should give us about equal numbers.’

Determination and assurance battled with desperation and panic in Aethelred’s eyes. He was making this stand for far more than his own life, or the lives of a single army. What mattered to Aethelred – as it did to Alfred – was his beloved kingdom.

‘The cursed Danes have the choicest site and we are forced to attack uphill, an added strain we could well do without,’ Aethelred griped. Then he flashed a grin of bravado round at his nobles. ‘Prepare to do battle, my lords.’

*****

It was almost an hour before noon when Alfred moved his forces up to an expanse of level ground, some thirty-five yards below the enemy lines. Aethelred’s men were still six hundred yards down the hillside, awaiting the return of their king. Alfred silently cursed his brother’s foolhardy decision. Having ordered his troops, Aethelred had slunk back to where their mounts were hobbled in order to pray.

‘If I beseech God’s help on bended knees, He might consider us sufficiently penitent to come to our aid,’ Aethelred had replied to Alfred’s protests as he began his retreat along the path. ‘Prayer might be our only means of deliverance.’

‘It’s too late for prayer . . . !’ Alfred shouted, exasperated, as his brother disappeared down the slope, views of the Vale below obscured by the wind-swept mizzle. Above, stark against the skyline, the Danes hovered.

Alfred now faced the enemy, his men drawn up into five lines, each line a hundred men. Along the ridge the drumming of swords on shields began; the rhythmic, slow clanging soon accelerating into a frenzied ear-splitting racket. The Saxons retaliated with their assortment of weapons, their lesser noise drowned by the deafening clamour from above. Alfred gripped his sword, an inrush of rage taking him. By all that was holy, the Danes would not take Wessex this day!

He focused on two warlords in heavy mail byrnies, moving between their front lines, sword arms thrusting back and forth, inciting their warriors to howling battle lust. The pair sank into the front line of the company to the Saxon’s left and Alfred nodded, his unvoiced question answered. As King of Wessex, Aethelred would confront his equals and Alfred had needed to determine which contingent they held.

‘So, brother,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘the “kings” await you. Pray God you’re on your way.’

Alfred moved along his own front line, noting that most of the fyrd carried spears, though the pitchforks and staffs amongst them would not fare well against the heavy swords and battle axes of the foe. Body armour was light. Some wore leather jerkins, others thinly quilted gambesons, and most heads were protected by a leather helmet. Better than nothing, he thought grimly, acutely aware of the protective qualities of his own mailshirt and helm.

‘On my order, the front line becomes an impenetrable wall of tightly locked shields,’ he shouted above the clamour for the benefit of the new recruits. ‘Shields overlap, left over right.’ His arm swung round to the sides. ‘You five men at each end of the lines – and those at the back – will do likewise if need be. And should a man in the line front of you fall, you step over his body and take his place . . .

‘You’ll be fighting for your lives, not mourning the dead!’ he snapped at the appalled faces, ‘as well as the lives of the men around you. Thrust and stab through the gaps between the shields with your weapons. Aim for exposed flesh – face, legs, even spaces between armour covering chest, belly, or groin. Your purpose is to kill or maim.’ He swept the men with a commanding stare. ‘We fight as an ordered unit, and
no one
leaves that formation unless the wall becomes irrevocably destroyed. Only then do we resort to individual combat. Is all of that clear?’

Alfred took his position at the centre of the front line, between two experienced warriors, Ealdormen Wybert and Unwine.

The racket abruptly ceased. Warriors stood rigid, muscles flexed for the opening strike, the onslaught of spears and javelins. But no missiles flew. Instead, the two men Alfred had identified as ‘kings’ stepped forward a pace.

‘So, great
king,
we meet at last,’ the less burly of the two yelled, his eyes scanning the Saxon forces to locate the Saxon king. ‘We were not introduced at Nottingham. Pity, I like to know the face of my enemy. Wherever you’re hiding in the midst of your piss-poor army, I urge you to look closely at what you confront. We are double your number and hold the higher ground. Surrender – or by nightfall your carcases will feed the scavengers!’

Alfred stepped forward in his brother’s stead. Armoured and helmeted as he was, the Danes would not know the difference. ‘You evidently know who
I
am, pagan, so tell us, who are
you
?’

The warrior grunted and thrust out his chin. ‘I am Halfdan, warrior of mighty Thor and son of the great chieftain, Ragnar Lodbrock – of whom I’m sure you’ve heard.’

‘We’ve heard,’ Alfred sneered. ‘But his death was a long way from Wessex. So why are you
here
?’

‘You’re easy pickings, that’s why,’ the grizzled warrior at Halfdan’s side snarled. ‘A kingdom ruled by a stripling of a lad, barely old enough to wipe his own stinking arse! You need a pissin’ nursemaid, boy!’

Alfred feigned an amused chortle. ‘You’re rambling, old man. Your mind has become addled by the passing years. I’ll wager your men keep out of your way in battle, lest you mistake them for foe and strike them dead with that ancient-looking sword you hold.’

The ageing warrior threw back his head and roared. ‘My eyesight’s never failed me yet, whippersnapper. Nor have my ears. And right now this “ancient-looking sword” is thirsty for Saxon blood.’

‘Enough of the pleasantries, Bagsecg,’ Halfdan yelled. ‘Now we move.’

The shields of the Great Army’s front lines slammed together.

‘Shield wall,’ Alfred yelled as the first spears whistled down at them. His men crouched behind their shields and retaliation was feeble; spears were in short measure amongst the fyrd. They could not discharge their only weapon. Enemy missiles came thick and fast. Some slammed into them and held fast; a few struck unresistant flesh. Men screamed and fell.

Gradually the missiles lessened, then ceased, and a deathly silence hung over the rain-soaked ridge. Then Halfdan and Bagsecg’s army began a slow, steady advance down the slope.

Alfred could think of only one course of action.

‘Attack!’ he yelled, charging up the thirty yards like an outraged boar, his focus fixed resolutely on the bulky form of Bagsecg. Anxiety had given way to dogged determination, the need to hold strong until Aethelred’s forces arrived. ‘Shield wall!’ he ordered as the gap narrowed, and shields snapped to.

The crash of converging armies resonated across the hillside. Shields rammed into shields, warriors lending their weight to the driving push. Spears and swords thrust between gaps, stabbing at legs, feet and faces, maiming exposed flesh. Blood flowed and men fell to the earth.

The grizzled face of Bagsecg leered before Alfred, his great weight and strength bearing down on him. His heavy sword crashed sideways onto Alfred’s shield, then thrust out, seeking a pathway between the shields to vulnerable flesh. Alfred twisted and ducked to avoid the deadly strikes, stabbing out and under with his own sword. The brawny warlord, though strong, lacked Alfred’s agility and was unable to twist away quickly. Alfred’s sword connected with fleshy thigh. Bagsecg howled in rage and pain, staggering and slashing at random, his shield wavering as he did. Alfred evaded the wide swings, his sword-arm flexed for a decisive thrust. Beside him, Unwine brought his own adversary down with a plunging stab to the throat whilst Alfred deflected another of Bagsecg’s thrashing blows with his shield. Unwine retrieved his sword and swung at Bagsecg’s neck. The warlord raised his shield and Alfred struck out, sinking his sword deep into the soft flesh of his groin. The Norseman dropped and toppled sideways and Alfred drew out his sword and thrust it into his unprotected throat, adeptly finishing him off.

The waiting Danes were now coming down from the ridge, moving out to the right, circling the fracas and striking Alfred’s army from the sides and rear. Hard-pressed from all angles, Alfred knew he could not hold out much longer. Around him, his men were falling, creating crucial breaches in his defences – breaches becoming clogged with mangled corpses. Men scrambled forward to take their place, and the desperate fight continued as the sodden hillside became a scarlet quagmire.

Then Aethelred’s army charged into the fray.

Fighting for the victory they sensed within their grasp, the Danes were oblivious to Aethelred’s manoeuvre until they were surrounded themselves. Norse warriors turned to counter the unforeseen attack, and Alfred felt the pressure of heaving men and stabbing weapons lessen. Aethelred’s warriors struck hard, releasing pent-up aggression on the Danes, slashing, thrusting and stabbing at men pushed to protect both front and rear. Many of the Danes fell and their army soon degenerated into little more than a disorderly rabble.

Fragmented bands retreated up to the Ridgeway, intent on reaching their Reading base. Alfred caught sight of Halfdan amongst them. Saxons hurtled after them, and he knew that most would keep up the pursuit until all traces of daylight died. Blood lust abated slowly.

He stormed over to confront Aethelred who was surveying the bodies of the slain. ‘What the hell were you thinking of?’ he hurled at him, still too angry to be civil. ‘Many of my men lost their lives in the impossible attempt to withstand not one, but
two
companies of Danes. It’s a wonder we weren’t all slaughtered!’

‘No, Alfred. By the time you were in close combat, we had God on our side.’

Alfred stared at his brother, aghast. ‘Believe that if you want, but from where we were standing, it didn’t look that way. We were surrounded by an army twice our size, with some of our men without even one spear, let alone the three or four that many trained warriors carry. Furthermore . . .’ He stopped abruptly as Unwine appeared at their side.

‘Bagsecg is dead,’ he said, addressing Aethelred. ‘Killed by Lord Alfred. I fought beside your brother, my lord and saw him do it.’

Alfred did not respond to Aethelred’s raised eyebrows. Now was not the time.

Unwine jerked his thumb towards a heap of corpses further up the hillside, Saxons and Danes together where they’d fallen. ‘From what I’ve gathered from the couple of Danes we captured over there, five of their jarls are also dead.’

Alfred nodded. ‘No wonder their army lost hope. But there’re still enough of them left to cause us concern. And Halfdan’s still alive, I saw him running off.’ He patted the ealdorman’s arm and looked pointedly at his brother. ‘You fought well today, Unwine, and have my thanks. Things could have worked out far worse . . .’

Evidently sensing tension between the brothers, Unwine bowed his head and left.

‘I’ll not apologise for joining the battle when I did, Alfred. And you can believe what I tell you, or not. That is your prerogative. Will you at least hear me out?’

Again, Alfred gave a curt nod.

‘It is true that I wanted . . . needed to pray, Alfred, and I believed that God would help us . . .’ He left that thought hanging. ‘I really wasn’t long, and as soon as I returned my army advanced up the slope. By the time we were close enough, you were being surrounded –’

‘So you
were
late.’

‘In a sense, yes,’ Aethelred admitted. ‘But don’t you see, it turned out to be the opportune time. The Danes didn’t see us before we were encircling them. We took them totally unawares and left them floundering, not knowing which way to turn.’

‘An extremely astute tactical manoeuvre, then?’

Aethelred gave a quick nod, evidently unsure whether Alfred’s comment was praise.

‘Except for the fact, of course, that tactics didn’t even come into it. Your timely arrival was down to pure chance.’

Aethelred pulled back his shoulders and inhaled deeply
.
‘I am King of Wesssex, Alfred, and what I do – rightly or wrongly – is with my kingdom’s interests at heart. No, don’t interrupt me,’ he ordered as Alfred drew breath to speak. ‘The fate of Wessex is in God’s hands, and I truly believe He will not let our kingdom be taken by Odin-loving pagans.’

Only partly appeased, Alfred let the argument drop. They had effectively won this battle, whether through God’s help or sound tactics, he didn’t know. But, as with all battles, win or lose the costs were high. He looked around the battlefield, taking in the carnage, the sheer waste of life, and sadness engulfed him. Scores of both Saxons and Danes had fallen this day, including the seasoned Ealdorman Wybert of Somerset.

‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘but I fear the fight will be long and hard. We’re just at the beginning, and we need every bit of help we can get.’

‘Tonight we will pray together for the souls of the fallen, Alfred. They deserve no less from us.’

Aethelred abruptly turned away. ‘Gather the spoils,’ he yelled. ‘Enemy carcasses can rot where they fell, but tomorrow we return with carts and collect our own for Christian burial.’

Twenty Four

Aalborg: Late March, 871

Jarl Yngvar grasped the mead horn passed to him somewhat unsteadily by the ageing warrior at his left. He took a deep slurp and handed it on to the cousin he’d not set eyes on for twelve years until the beginning of March. ‘By Odin, cousin, I swear I should marry at least once a year from now on,’ he jested as Bjorn passed the horn along without partaking himself. Bjorn had no intention of getting drunk tonight; tomorrow he’d be sailing home.

‘My honeymoon on this occasion far surpasses my first,’ Yngvar went on, his fingers combing his dark hair as he glanced round his hall at the happy faces. ‘I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in years. I was greatly saddened when Audr died last winter, of course. She’d been a good wife for the past ten years. But once the cursed lung disease takes hold . . .’

He inhaled deeply and his momentarily downcast face brightened. ‘This past month I’ve felt like a new man. Gyda is young and, fortunately, very good with my children. And my mother likes her.’

Yngvar’s gaze fixed on his young bride, who was seated amidst the other women at a trestle along the wall to the left of the high table at which he sat. Dalla was next to her. Yngvar’s mother looked so old now, Bjorn noted, hoping her life had been easier since the death of her brutal husband. She was a kind woman and Rorik had always treated her with such disdain, preferring to keep company with his numerous concubines. Next to Gyda, Kata caught her husband’s gaze and smiled. Bjorn smiled in return, knowing he could never treat Kata with anything other than loving tenderness.

At the rear of the hall a large trestle had been set up to accommodate the children, Yngvar’s two young sons amongst them. Bjorn’s own children seemed to be enjoying themselves. His eldest, twelve-year-old Hrolf, was busily stuffing chunks of Dalla’s freshly made barley breads in his mouth. Bjorn shook his head at the sheer speed of it. Hrolf had always enjoyed his food – which was more than could be said for his daughter. Eight-year-old Astrid was a skinny little thing who, as usual, was picking at her food with a look akin to revulsion on her face. Fortunately, little Thorgils, a chirpy lad of five, would eat whatever food Kata placed in front of him.

‘Yes, Frey has certainly smiled on you, Yngvar,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Gyda will make you an excellent wife.’ He winked knowingly at his second cousin. ‘When can we expect your third child?’

Yngvar hooted. ‘Nothing escapes you, does it, Bjorn? Gyda is perhaps a little round, but she’s always been on the plump side. The child will be born in mid September.’

‘Then I’m doubly happy for you,’ Bjorn said, and meant it. Yngvar was an honourable man, so unlike his father, the previous jarl. ‘Dalla must be proud of you. You stepped into Rorik’s shoes at . . . what . . . eighteen? And you’ve run his lands and led the people efficiently for the past twelve years.’

Yngvar shrugged, a little embarrassed by such praise. ‘No more than you did when Ragnar died.’

‘But I was a good few years older than eighteen, cousin. And I’d already had experience of leading men out on raids, whereas you’d done little more than accompany Rorik to Frisia a couple of times.’

‘Green about the ears,’ the grey-headed warrior at Yngvar’s far side slurred. ‘A puny youth who’d never bedded a woman.’

‘You’re drunk already, Egil,’ Yngvar said, clearly struggling to hold his temper in check. ‘Either get out to the barn to sleep it off, or hold your tongue.’

Egil grinned, the expression more contemptuous than affable. Bjorn couldn’t fathom how his cousin tolerated the man.

‘I’ll hold my tongue, Yngvar, when I’ve said my piece.’

‘Which “piece” would you regale us with tonight? If it’s the one about how my father ambushed that Mercian king, Beorhtwulf, again, you can save your breath.’

Bjorn froze. Beorhtwulf was a name he was familiar with, although he’d never heard the details of the king’s end. Ulf had never known them. And whilst Egil was so drunk, his tongue would be loose and information could flow. ‘Perhaps Egil could entertain us with it one more time before he finds his bed,’ he said indifferently. ‘I enjoy a good tale before I retire.’

He glanced at Yngvar, but saw no reaction to his request. Yet, at eighteen, Yngvar would have witnessed the events of that fateful night when Rorik condemned Ulf’s mother to death.

Next to the children’s table at the rear of the hall, Bjorn’s own men were enjoying their meal, his old steersman amongst them. Leif would be interested to hear what Rorik’s right-hand man had to say. But Bjorn could hardly invite Leif to the high table, and wondered yet again why Yngvar tolerated the drunken Egil so close to him. Perhaps it was a habit started by his father and simply too difficult to break.

Egil grunted and fixed his contemptuous gaze on Yngvar. ‘Rorik was the best,’ he said, and quaffed yet another mouthful of ale. ‘Nothing’s been the same since some bugger killed him. Not one single thing.’ His gull-eyed face looked grief-stricken. ‘Raids with Rorik were really something . . . something to boast about round the hearthfire. Such plunder . . . such women.’

Bjorn watched Yngvar striving to keep his fists to himself. Whether Yngvar saw the overt praise of Rorik as Egil’s way of making his son appear inadequate by comparison, or because Yngvar had disapproved of – even hated – his father’s cruelty, Bjorn couldn’t tell.

‘One of our best-ever raids was . . . let me see . . .’ Egil scratched his head and slurped his ale as he thought. ‘Must have been twenty years ago, now. ‘We’d been camped on the Isle of Thanet all winter, waiting for spring and the rest of our great fleet to arrive. We had some luck when a traitorous Mercian dog arrived and offered to help us . . . Only wanted us to kill his brother, the bloody Mercian king!’ He grunted in disdain. ‘The cur had no family honour, and the death of the king meant silver to us, so we agreed.'

At Bjorn’s side Yngvar heaved a sigh. He’d heard all this before and Bjorn hoped he wouldn’t put an end to the tale just yet. He also hoped that, in his inebriated state, Egil wouldn’t remember that Beorhtwulf’s son had been Bjorn’s own thrall – and that tomorrow he would recall nothing of what he’d said tonight.

‘After this dog, Burgred, had pumped his brother’s head full of false information about our intentions,’ Egil went on, ‘King Beorhtwulf set off for Wessex to beg aid from that old fart, King Aethelwulf. The fool took only thirty warriors with him. All we had to do was lie in wait for his return. The ambush was perfect. Just perfect.’

Egil’s bloodshot gaze moved between Bjorn and Yngvar, his heavy eyelids drooping. ‘In Odin’s name, man, don’t nod off in the middle of the story,’ Yngvar snapped. ‘Let Bjorn hear the rest and then you can snore your drunken head off.’

Around the hall, heads turned their way, the sharp voice of the jarl alerting them to the possibility of some disagreement. Bjorn laughed and threw his arm about his cousin’s shoulders and their interests waned. Only the astute Leif did not look away.

A serving girl refilled Egil’s ale mug and he lifted it to his lips, as though his tale were told. ‘Are we to hear it tonight, then, Egil?’

‘Where did I get up to?’

‘The ambush . . .’ Yngvar prompted with an exasperated sigh.

Egil frowned, trying to focus on his memories. Then he nodded. ‘We seemed to be in those woods for days. King Beorhtwulf was within ten miles of his hall when we struck. The Mercians didn’t know what had hit them. We cut them down in no time – apart from the king and another we still needed to relay the news of his sad end to his loving wife . . .

‘ Morwenna!’ He spat out the name like a mouthful of rotten apple.

‘We all remember Morwenna, Egil, so stick to your tale.’ Yngvar glanced at Bjorn, the sympathy in his eyes confirmation that he remembered Bjorn’s connection with Morwenna, and most likely, her red-headed son, Bjorn’s former thrall.

Egil glared at the jarl, not attempting to hide his contempt. ‘The bastard Mercian wouldn’t keep his mouth shut, especially after Burgred had shown his face, taunting him with why he wanted him dead. His rants were really pissin’ me off and I lost count of how many times I booted him or knocked him out. Showed some guts, I’ll tell you that. . . .’

He picked up his mug for another swig and slammed it down hard when a mere few drops wet his lips. He yelled for the serving girl and waited until another brimming mug was in his grasp.

Bjorn stared at the slobbering former warrior. Gone were the powerful, muscular build and strong features he recalled from twelve years ago. His muscles had turned to fat and his facial muscles sagged. With his puffy, bloodshot eyes and thread-veined cheeks, Egil was an ugly sight. ‘So, when did you kill King Beorhtwulf?’

Egil snorted and downed another few mouthfuls of ale before he continued. ‘The rest of my men set off to sack the Mercian hall, taking the pathetic “boy” that Hauk had had some fun with along with them. I was left with a couple of my men to dispose of Beorhtwulf.’

‘How did he die?’

A gargled laugh emanated from the drunken man’s throat and Yngvar snapped, ‘Spit it out, Egil. You’ve told us naught of this before.’

Egil attempted to focus on Yngvar, the result a pathetic sight. ‘You’ve never wanted to hear the end before.’

‘Then tell us now,’ Bjorn urged, more affably than his second cousin. ‘Did you use sword, battleaxe . . . or what?’

‘Nothing,’ Egil replied with a sly grin. ‘We didn’t kill him.’

Bjorn stared at the man. ‘If you didn’t kill Beorhtwulf, then what
did
you do with him?’

Egil inhaled deeply, the pallor of his skin suggestive of rising nausea. ‘Two of my men took him to Thanet, and sailed for Ribe on the first of our ships to leave,’ he said, beginning to sway ominously on the bench. ‘Sold him at the Ribe market instead of going down to Hedeby.’ His eyes became little more than narrow slits and he lowered his head onto his arms circled on the table before him. ‘Moors bought him,’ he mumbled. ‘Paid good silver . . . be dead by now . . . too old to lift heavy stone.’

‘Where?’ Bjorn demanded. ‘Where did they take him to? The Moors conrol many lands around the Middle Sea and . . .’

‘Cordoba,’ Egil murmured. Then he vomited across the trestle.’

*****

The S
ea Eagle
veered south from the Limfjord and into the Kattegat Strait, a brisk north-easterly filling her sail and keeping her at a steady speed whilst his men sat easy at their oar ports. It was mid morning, and Bjorn calculated they’d be home well before daylight faded.

He stood at the helm, gazing south as they followed the Danish coast towards Aros. The wind was at his back and his red hair streamed out before him as he inhaled the sharp tang of salty air. The staggering revelations from the drunken Egil still dominated his thoughts, and he wondered why they bothered him so much. He hadn’t set eyes on Ulf for over five years.

He sighed, knowing that fond memories of the proud Mercian, his courage and endurance following the devastating events that irrevocably changed his life, would always be with him. If not for Ulf, both Bjorn and his young brother, Ubbi, would be dead. He recalled how contented Ulf had seemed in his new life back in Mercia, with his lovely wife and growing family, and wondered how he’d react if he should learn of Egil’s long-held secret. Perhaps such a secret should remain buried.

Yet, somehow, Bjorn felt he owed it to Ulf to let him know what he’d learned. What Ulf wanted to do about it was his own concern, but Bjorn had a feeling about that . . .

‘Father, Mother has asked if you are feeling well. She said you slept little last night.’

‘I’m absolutely fine, Hrolf, thank you,’ he said, ruffling his son’s dark hair as he turned to see his wife’s worried gaze fixed on him from the stern. He raised a hand in acknowledgement of her query. ‘Tell your mother I’ll be along to speak to her soon,’ he added, thinking how Hrolf was so like Kata. His jet black hair and dark eyes were so different to Bjorn’s other two children, whose colouring resembled his own.

The robust lad moved back to the stern like a natural seaman, reminding Bjorn of Ulf at that age. The speed with which Ulf had taken to the seas had surprised Bjorn’s crew, who had readily accepted him as one of their own. And Leif had taken him under his protective wing from the start, seeing the plucky nature of the lad and respecting him for it.

It had grieved them all when Ulf had fled so abruptly. Only Leif knew the truth . . . that Bjorn had arranged for it to happen. Bjorn had given Ulf his freedom.

He headed along the deck and squatted next to Kata. His wife had always loved the sea. Brought up on the Isle of Bornholm, Kata’s father, King Alfarin, had taken all of his many children out in his ships almost as soon as they could walk. Boy or girl made no difference to the island king.

Kata shuffled closer to him. ‘Have you made your mind up yet?’

Bjorn knew exactly what she was talking about; they’d sat up half the night discussing it. Kata would never dream of persuading him one way or the other, and Bjorn loved her all the more for it. She had simply listened as he’d relayed Egil’s tale in their bed last night and murmured the odd remark of understanding at his subsequent dilemma. By morning when the
Sea Eagle
had pushed away from Aalborg, Bjorn had been no closer to a decision.

But now, out at sea with his thoughts and memories engulfing him, he was certain.

‘Yes, Kata, I have,’ he replied, nodding. ‘I just need to talk to Leif about it.’