of my bumptious youthfulness. “Didn’t work, did it?” I said, grinning. “He said you must be broken like a horse.” “But I’m not a horse, father. I’m a lord of Northumbria. What did he think? That after a year I’d be a meek Christian ready to do his bidding?” “Is that such a bad thing?” “It’s a bad thing,” I said. “He needs proper men to fight the Danes, not praying lickspittles.”
