Dressed now in the best finery that the Saxons of Anderida had to offer, including a great cloak of white wolf pelts bound at the shoulder with a dragon pin in bronze, he was an imposing and regal figure. Targo had insisted he do honour to the scum by wearing the torc of the Saxon chieftain, a massive neck-piece of pure red-gold, in the form of the winged worm-like dragon of the northern barbarians. The young man’s hair was combed and loose, except for plaits that left his wide brow free, and his winter tunic beneath the barbaric cloak was of fine Roman wool. Odin stood behind him, bearing a great wooden box. The Jutlander had been bathed and barbered, not without some heathen protests, but now master and servant towered over the other courtiers outside the Great Hall, while many covert glances were aimed at the impassive faces that stared straight ahead towards the carved and verdigris-encrusted entrance doors. ‘The High King keeps us waiting to put us in our place,’ Luka hissed, while maintaining his soldierly bearing.
