Guthrum, Erik and a host of retainers trudged through the mud, making their way down the lane towards the harbor and the wooden quays of the waterfront. Rows of new arrivals filed passed them, headed in the oppposite direction.

"New settlers." Guthrum grunted as he walked, dodging a small pig that had wandered into the middle of the lane.

"Many." Erik said. "There has been a steady stream of settlers for some time now. Some come from Home across the waters. Others come south from Jorvik and the lands to the north."

"This is good land, here and in Mercia and the lands between. It is bound to attract many settlers. This is good." Guthrum said with satisfaction.

"The land produces bountiously." Einarr said. "The people are happy. Many of our men have taken wives among the natives."

But Guthrum was no longer listening. He could see Ragnar's ship, tied up along a quay and the long, thin figure of his grandson silhouetted against the morning sun. Guthrum could not contain his joy. The apple does not fall far from the tree, it is said, but at times, the apple that falls from a newer tree falls closer still. Much more than his son Erik, Ragnar reminded Guthrum of himself as a young man, for good and ill. But whether for good or ill, Guthrum had an abiding affection for his grandson.

"Ragnar!" Guthrum called from a distance.

Guthrum saw his grandson wave in recognition.