Sword of Kings

‘I’m no lord. And ships pay for shelter here,’ the man said. He was tall, broad-faced, with a thick beard cut short and square. He wore mail beneath his red cloak, had an enamelled cross on his chest and a long-sword at his side. He looked confident and capable.

‘Of course, master,’ Gerbruht said humbly. ‘Do we pay you, master?’

‘Of course you pay me, I’m the town reeve. It’s three shillings.’ He held out his hand.

Gerbruht was not my quickest thinker and he just gaped, which was the right response to the outrageous demand. ‘Three shillings!’ I said. ‘We only pay a shilling in Lundene!’

The man smiled unpleasantly. ‘Three shillings, grandpa. Or do you want my men to search your miserable boat and take what we want?’

‘Of course not, master,’ Gerbruht found his voice. ‘Pay him,’ he ordered me.

I took the coins from a pouch and held them towards the man. ‘Bring it to me, you old fool,’ the man demanded.

‘Yes, master,’ I said and limped through a puddle.

‘And who are you?’ he demanded, scooping the silver from my palm.

‘His father,’ I said, nodding back towards Gerbruht.

‘We’re pilgrims from Frisia, master,’ Gerbruht explained, ‘and my father seeks the blessing of Saint Gregory’s slippers at Contwaraburg.’

‘I do,’ I said. I had hidden my hammer amulet beneath my mail, but both my companions were Christians and wore crosses at their necks. The wind was tearing at the tavern’s thatch and swinging the barrel sign dangerously. The rain was unrelenting.

‘God damn Frisian foreigners,’ the tall man said suspiciously. ‘And pilgrims? Since when do pilgrims wear mail?’

‘The warmest clothes we have, master,’ Gerbruht said.

‘And there are Danish ships at sea,’ I added.

The man sneered. ‘You’re too old to fight anyone, grandpa, let alone take on some Danish raider!’ He looked back to Gerbruht. ‘You’re looking for holy slippers?’ he asked mockingly.

‘A touch of Saint Gregory’s slippers cures the sick, master,’ Gerbruht said, ‘and my father suffers ague in his feet.’

‘You’ve brought a lot of pilgrims to cure one old man’s feet!’ the man said suspiciously, nodding towards Spearhafoc.

‘They’re mostly slaves, master,’ Gerbruht said, ‘and some of them we’ll sell in Lundene.’

The man still stared at Spearhafoc, but my crew was either slumped on the benches or huddling under the steering platform, and in the day’s dull light and because of the sheeting rain he could not tell whether they were slaves or not. ‘You’re slave-traders?’

‘We are,’ I said.

‘Then there’s customs duty to pay! How many slaves?’

‘Thirty, master,’ I said.

He paused. I could see he was wondering how much he dared ask. ‘Fifteen shillings,’ he finally said, thrusting out a hand. This time I just gaped at him, and he put a hand on his sword hilt. ‘Fifteen shillings,’ he said slowly, as if he suspected a Frisian could not understand him, ‘or we confiscate your cargo.’

‘Yes, master,’ I said, and carefully counted fifteen silver shillings and dropped them into his palm.

He grinned, happy to have fooled foreigners. ‘Got any juicy women in that ship?’

‘We sold the last three at Dumnoc, master,’ I said.

‘Pity,’ he said.

His companion chuckled. ‘Wait a few days and we might have a couple of young boys to sell you.’

‘How young?’

‘Infants.’

‘It’s none of your business!’ The first man interrupted, plainly angered that his companion had mentioned the boys.

‘We pay well for small boys,’ I said. ‘They can be whipped and trained. A plump docile boy can fetch a good price!’ I took a gold coin from my purse and tossed it up and down a couple of times. I was doing my best to imitate Gerbruht’s Frisian accent and was evidently successful because neither man seemed to suspect anything. ‘Young boys,’ I said, ‘sell almost as well as young women.’

‘The boys might or might not be for sale,’ the first man said grudgingly, ‘and if you do buy them you’ll have to sell them abroad. Can’t be sold here.’ He was eyeing the gold coin that I slipped back into the pouch, making sure it clinked against the other coins.

‘Your name, master?’ I asked respectfully.

‘Wighelm.’

‘I am Liudulf,’ I said, using a common Frisian name. ‘And we seek shelter, nothing more.’

‘How long are you staying, old man?’

‘How far to Contwaraburg?’ I asked.

‘Ten miles,’ he said. ‘A man can walk there in a morning, but it might take you a week. How do you plan to get there? Crawl?’ He and his companion laughed.

‘I would stay long enough to reach Contwaraburg and then return,’ I said.

‘And we crave shelter, master,’ Gerbruht added from behind me.

‘Use one of the cottages over there,’ Wighelm said, nodding towards the further bank of the small harbour, ‘but make sure your damned slaves stay shackled.’

‘Of course, master,’ I said, ‘and thank you, master. God will bless your kindness.’

Wighelm sneered at that, then he and his companion stepped back into the tavern. I had a glimpse of men at tables, then the door was slammed and I heard the bar drop into its brackets.

‘Was he the town reeve?’ Folcbald asked as we walked back to the ship.

It was not a foolish question. I knew Æthelhelm had land all across southern Britain, and he probably did own parts of Cent, but it was most unlikely that Eadgifu would seek refuge anywhere near one of those estates. ‘He’s a lying bastard is what he is,’ I said, ‘and he owes me eighteen shillings.’

I assumed Wighelm or one of his men was watching from the tavern as we rowed Spearhafoc across the creek and moored against a half-rotted wharf. I made most of my crew shuffle as they left the ship, pretending to be shackled. They grinned at the deception, but the rain was so hard and the day so dark that I doubted anyone would notice the pretence. Most of the crew had to use a store hut for their shelter because there was no room in the small cottage, where a driftwood fire blazed furiously. The cottager, a big man called Kalf, was a fisherman. He and his wife watched sullenly as a dozen of us filled his room. ‘You were mad to be at sea in this weather,’ he finally said in broken English.

‘The gods preserved us,’ I answered in Danish.

His face brightened. ‘You’re Danes!’