For all we took a beating, Aelfric seems remarkably cheerful, considering that he's shirtless, torso wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. "That," he observes, to no-one in particular, "Could have gone better.".
I sigh. "That makes three, you know."
"Raids since we last actually came away with any loot worthy of the name." It's my job to question him: no-one else can get away with it. "You used the same tactics last time and the same thing happened. Except last time it was Beornwulf's men who couldn't find any decent loot before the Britons drove us off."
Beornwulf, walking with a noticeable limp and aided by a spear as a crutch, snorts. "The brat didn't do any better. Anyone would think he was afraid of offending his woman's Christ-God."
Aelfric frowns, but leaves it to me to point it out - as ever, I get the dirty jobs. "That would be the same woman who saved your Saxon arse today, Beornwulf."
A snort from Wulfhere's bastard son. He knows I'm right - Lavinia's little band of archers held off a large band of the British led by their little man and our one-time guest Geraint for long enough for Beornwulf and Aelfric to rally his men. Just a shame it wasn't long enough for Ecgwine's lads to actually find the Christ-cursed church treasure.
Ah well. Next time.