Bjorn kept the spyglass glued to his right eye.
Far out in the choppy waters of the sea, he could barely make out the dark shapes of canvas sails.
Down in the fields, a detachment of Frankish knights was riding hard toward the coastal cliffs, waving brightly colored flags to signal the incoming ships.
"Apparently, no one is doing his fucking job around here," Bjorn growled, slowly lowering the tube.
He glared at the empty southern coastal road where his forward scouts were supposed to be perfectly positioned.
"What do you mean?" Hakon asked, "What is out there?"
"A fleet," Bjorn muttered bitterly, wiping a drop of sweat from his brow. "A small Frankish naval detachment, maybe resupply ships or a flanking force, slipping past our outer pickets. If I hadn't looked just now, they would have landed right on our western beaches without us even knowing."
