Sidroc’s eyes went from the ewe’s head, back to the man. He was young, five-and-twenty, perhaps. As Sidroc studied him he parted the stakes of the sheep pen and stepped out. Now another joined him, stepping from the trees, an older man. Father and son, or uncle and nephew, thought Sidroc. Both were unwashed, with tangled brown hair and unkempt beards. Their clothing was worn almost to rags, and no woman had seen to the tears in the knees of their leggings. Both bore long knives at their waists.
All remained silent, and Sidroc did not move his eyes from the men. He heard Toki coming up behind him; his cousin had caught up.
“Those four are our sheep,” Sidroc said as greeting to the two he faced. He pointed with his crook to the pen. There was some little strength in his voice. Theft of livestock was a serious crime, and this a blatant flouting of the law.
The two men stared back at him with unblinking eyes.
“They bear our mark,” answered the younger.
“A mark that is fresh, and on our animals,” Sidroc returned. “We will take them now.”
“What do you want,” the elder one said, as if he did not understand. He came nearer Sidroc. Sidroc was taller than either of them, but they were both broader, and grown men.
“Our sheep back. The four ewes with the notch at the tip of the ear are ours.” He would not call this man a thief if he could avoid it.
Toki would, and did. “You are thieves,” he hissed.
Sidroc saw him from the tail of his eye; Toki’s hand was on the hilt of his knife.
Sidroc took a slow breath. He was not going to get cut for the sake of the sheep. While the two men eyed Toki, Sidroc lifted his gaze a moment to the blueness of the sky, showing through the leafy growth of the trees about them. He would try words first.
“Surrender them now,” Sidroc told them, “or we will be back on horseback, and with dogs, to hunt you down. Do not think you can run. When we find you, you will lose more than sheep.
“You have no choice,” he finished.
“I do,” said the older of the men, swinging his fist at him.
Sidroc dodged back and to his left. The swing left the man off balance, so that he nearly stumbled. His target was quick to straighten up.
“Take off your knife,” challenged Sidroc. Toki hooted, and the younger man did as well. They were already unbuckling their belts, sliding their knife sheaths off. Sidroc and Toki dropped their crooks next their discarded knives and squared up before the two.
It was, like all fist fights, no holds barred. Kicking, grappling, tripping, even biting were all allowable. It was the first real fist fight for the cousins, a magnified version of every such weapon-less scrap they had ever fought with each other. They had grappled with Yrling in practice, but never with the passion of connecting blows. They used all their agility and every part of their limbs. When the younger man was bent over recovering from a punch to his face, Toki jerked his knee up at the man’s brow, sending him backwards and sprawling. Sidroc’s long reach allowed him to grasp the older man’s forearm, and with a forceful swing flip him over and onto the ferns of the glade.
The two they faced were older and stronger, and had no doubt practice in such fighting. They kept coming after the cousins, and landed hard blows against them. But what Sidroc and Toki lacked in strength they made up in speed. And they were angry, and in the right.
They had another advantage over the thieves. The two they faced were weary; a furtive life cannot long sustain a man.
In the end Toki had a growing lump on his forehead, and Sidroc’s left ear got boxed so his head rang. But Sidroc’s fist connected, and heavily, on his final swing, hitting his opponent full in the jaw. The man staggered back, coughed, then spit out a tooth and a mouthful of blood. Both he and Sidroc stood, panting. They watched Toki dive for the younger man’s knees, saw him knock him down to pin him, then pull his arm behind his back until he yelped that he yielded.
Nothing more was said. Toki jumped up to his feet, and he and Sidroc stood silent as the two backed away. The cousins picked up their knives and crooks. Together they kicked down the flimsy pen wall, waded into the sheep, and found their own. With one before and one behind they ushered the beasts back through the wood to where the plank lay waiting.
Only when the ewes rejoined the flock did they speak. Their blood was still racing, and they were proud of what they had done. Both of them were dirty and sweat-stained, and both had fists that ached.
“Back with dogs and horses,” Toki repeated with a grin. One of his sleeves was ripped, and Sidroc’s tunic was torn half-off.
“You are not the only good teller of tales,” Sidroc answered with a laugh.
Later that Summer, Ful, Sidroc, and Toki made the trip up to the trading town of Ribe. Ful had excess of early grain to sell, and was looking for a second team of oxen, two already paired. It took half a day to reach there. A shallow moat, one left broken at intervals, marked the boundary of the river town. Crossing over with their ox-drawn waggon they were sent by the guard to a vacant plot on which to make their camp; one of the King’s own men would be by later to exact a fee for the privilege of selling there. Once the oxen were unyoked Ful took up position by his grain sacks. Sidroc and Toki were free to wander.
The trip to Ribe was made only once or twice a year, rare enough to make it a treat for the cousins. Neither had been to the greater trading town of Haithabu, but the planked walkways, guttered trenches carrying away waste water, and other amenities of a place as thriving as Ribe impressed the eye. There were more goods gathered for sale than at the Thing, and buyers from many parts, not just those come to their local law-gathering. The ships landed at the wooden piers or hauled up on the river shore were alone worth their attention. Their curved hulls served as backdrop to the final row of stalls and workshops, and Sidroc and Toki studied them, some of which looked swift enough to serve double duty as war ships.
Coloured glassware from Rhineland sat on linen-shrouded tables in booths. Neither Sidroc nor Toki had ever held a beaker of glass in their hands, but it was easy to imagine the pleasure of seeing swirling ale or mead within one. Skillfully-worked amber gaming pieces, polished to a warm and golden glow, were lined in ranks next drilled beads and cylinders of the same stuff. Silver and even goldsmiths displayed glinting baubles for rich men and women. Oiled linen awnings protected those drinking ale from the noon-day glare, while the aroma of grilled fowl drifted from one who offered the hungry a savoury repast. But they walked about with purpose. Sidroc wanted to look for a knife.
He still wore at his side that given him by his father. It was the only thing he had left as token of the man, and despite the fact that he had made use of it every day, it was still in good shape. But it was small now for him. He needed a man’s knife, and resolved to buy the best he could. There were always weapon-smiths at Ribe, including one who lived there all the year round. Others came for the trading season, setting up their forges Summer after Summer on the same site, hammering out spear points, knife blades, and swords for merchants to buy ready from the anvil and quenching-cask, and to carry off to distant parts.
“Will you sell the old?” Toki asked, as they looked over the blades at one forge. He might trade on it for the new knife, save himself some silver.
Sidroc lifted his head for a moment from the knives they looked at. Toki had owned several knives. He had broken the points of two, lost one, and was as careless with his newest.
“Nej,” Sidroc answered, almost under his breath. He would no more part with the knife his father had given him than he would with the hand with which he held it.
He chose the blade he wanted, filling up one of the smaller dishes of the smith’s hanging scales with hack-silver to do so. It was the costliest thing he had as yet bought. Yrling had paid for the spear-points for their spears, something they both knew they owed him for.
It was not pattern-welded; he would have to wait to afford such a knife, but it was well-made blue s
teel, and took, as the smith showed him, a razor-fine edge. The grip was of dark brown ox horn, coupled with brass rivets, and handsome indeed.
He parted with more silver at the stall of a worker in leather, for a sheath to fit. This was of cow-hide, deeply tanned, and Sidroc had the woman who had cut and stitched it stamp it with two of her many steel dies, a running pattern of tiny arrowheads and squares. The new knife slid within with ease, yet was held firmly. But not until he was back at their waggon did he slide the worn sheath housing his first knife from his belt.
He did not wish to part from it, and had already thought of how he might wear the smaller knife. He took the low boot from his left foot, unwrapped his leg-wrappings, pulled up the calf of his leggings. He would strap his father’s knife to the outside of his left ankle. Covered by his leggings and leg-wrappings, it was barely discernible. He stood up, walked around. He felt the knife, but it in no way hindered his gait.
Toki had been looking on. “Could be handy in a fight,” he noted.
Sidroc nodded, but knew it was not a weapon that could be got to quickly. It was rather something secret, to be kept in reserve, like the memory of his father himself. “I would look disarmed, even though I am not,” he told his cousin.
The plot they had been given was on the main trading road, and not far from the moated opening they had entered by. Ful had already sold half his rye, and was feeling well pleased. As soon as he had sold the remaining two sacks they would repair to one of the brew-houses, take refreshment, and then set out looking for the oxen he sought. As they awaited this, Toki climbed up upon the waggon board, and drew his harp from the leathern sack he carried it in. He set it upright on his thigh, and began to strum, and then to pick out a melody.
Ful was not in the habit of praising his son, but even he must admit that Toki sang as well as any he had heard in brew-house or farmstead. He took a kind of perverse pride in the fact that it was Toki’s devotion to his harp that had made the boy take the birching switch out of his hand. Sidroc too could not gainsay that Toki was blessed by the God Bragi, though the innocent look that sometimes alighted on his cousin’s face as he played made him want to laugh, so false was it. Still, he had more than grudging admiration for his ability.
As Toki played, a waggon, drawn by two horses, came through the town gate, and turned towards them. The waggon was flanked by two mounted men, armed with spears and shields. It was not uncommon for those purveyors of precious goods to travel thus, with armed guards. As the waggon neared they saw three who perched upon the waggon board, a man of above middle age, who held the reins, and two young women, sitting next him. The one sitting closest to the wheel was exceedingly pretty, with light brown hair dropping in waves from under her head wrap, lustrous eyes, and a nose both straight and delicate. Her full lips curved readily into a smile as Toki’s music reached her ears.
She tilted her face to him, and Toki saw the second woman raise her hand, stopping the waggon. This second maid was almost as plain as the first was pretty, but she too bore a smile for him, which he returned. Both were quietly but well dressed. If they were sisters, the one had certainly received the full measure of beauty for them both. He went on with his playing, enjoying their smiles. He ended his song with a flourish, both hands active on the throbbing strings.
The driver called out now, his grey beard wagging as he did so. He had listened to the air with nodding head, seeming also to enjoy the music. “What, my fine fellow! You are an able skald, in need of a tunic of silk to match that voice of yours. Then you could play for the King himself.”
Toki laughed, but the man went on. “Come to the stall of Balle, and see the fineness of silks my waggon bears.”
Toki’s father, swift to take note of any of wealth, chimed in. “We will seek you out, Balle, as soon as this good rye is gone to its new owners,” he promised. There was as little chance of Toki ever wearing a silk tunic as there was as his playing before any King, but it was ever a good thing to place oneself in the company of the rich, even for the briefest of time. And few merchants were as rich as the buyers and sellers of precious silk.
Later the three of them, coming back from the cattle pens in which Ful had selected his new team, did in fact come upon Balle. An awning of yellow had been extended from his waggon, and propped up by tall poles. Beneath it was set a table laden with bolts of brilliant cloth. Balle stood behind it, and off to one side the pretty maid was busy stacking smaller lengths of silk. The other maid was seated on a stool at the end of the table, in full view of all who passed. But she looked quite different.
She had changed her woollen gown for one of surpassing loveliness, for it was all of silk, the rich blue colour of the sea under a perfectly cloudless sky. She was in this way an example of the merchant’s rich wares, and not a few folk, men and women both, paused to look upon the treasure she wore. She composed herself to sit in the Sun, so that it might play upon the expanse of her skirts pooled about her. The blue silk gown was indeed eye-catching in its tightly woven and glistening beauty. The maid clearly enjoyed this, perhaps feeling the many admiring glances were meant for her, and not merely her garb. It was a gown that would flatter even a maid who, like this silk merchant’s daughter, had few attributes of loveliness about her person.
Balle called out when he saw the three approaching, and the blue-clad maid stood up. Her round face broke into a broad smile as she watched Toki near. She interrupted herself long enough to order the other maid, whom she called Gunhild, to bring stools for their guests. So the pretty one was no sister, but a serving woman, they saw. Once they were seated behind the table with her father, the daughter resumed her place at the end, mindful of her role. But she had shifted a little, so that she might glimpse Toki, seated on one side of her father.
“Our home is near Viborg,” Balle was saying in response to Ful’s question, “but I make the circuit of all trading posts on every island of Dane-mark; Skania, too.” He had called for ale, and the serving woman was quick in returning with it from a brew-house close by, a boy wheeling a hand cart and setting a crock of it aside on a stool made ready to receive it. The pretty serving woman dipped it out, but now that she was face to face with Toki, and so near her mistress, did not hazard gracing him with her smile.
Balle found a ready listener in Ful, and the two youths attended as they downed his ale. The silk merchant had no fewer than three wives at home, with many grown children, all of them settled. His older sons acted as agents for him in the silk trade, forwarding the precious stuff along the way from the fabled lands far to the East in which it was spun. His numerous daughters were wed into solid families throughout Dane-mark.
As Balle spoke, he noted that his daughter, despite her maiden modesty, could scarce keep her eyes from drifting over to the yellow-haired singer of songs. This girl was his youngest, Ginnlaug by name, and one of easy disposition. Finding good husbands for her seven older sisters had not been easy, despite the rich dowries he could provide; he had near run out of worthy men. Now, as he and Ful conversed and drank, he began to consider his guests in a different light. A sharp man of business, he had long recognised that the maid lacked the comeliness of her sisters. He knew he might need seek further afield for a good match for her.
He shifted the talk from himself to Ful. Where is your farm, he wanted to know, and then looking over to Toki, who is his mother? Ful, flattered by his interest, was ready with his answers. The boy’s mother is from one of the best families on the coast of southern Jutland, he claimed.
Ful then saw the silk merchant looking sidelong at Sidroc, an unspoken question as to whether he had any share in the farm.
“The son of my wife’s dead brother,” Ful named him. “Who I have taken in and raised.
“The farm,” he ended meaningfully, “will go to Toki.”
Balle seemed truly interested now, and indeed all three young people were now glancing at each other in turn.
“And of your farm?”
Ful was more than glad to boast how he had enlarged his holdings. He numbered thralls, freedmen, cattle, sheep, geese, grain yields, detailing far beyond what he was asked, all to impress this rich man. “I came today to sell our surplus rye, and have bought a second team of oxen,” he reminded Balle.
As the talk went on it was not difficult for either Sidroc or Toki to realise its import; and indeed Toki grew more and more uneasy. The round-faced maiden was simply beaming at him, and his father was nattering away.
The talk of the older men slowed, and there passed a meaningful look between them. Of a sudden Balle arose from his stool.
“Ginnlaug,” he said, gesturing with his head that she arise. “Your legs need stretching. And a walk through the trading streets will mean more folk will see your silk. Gunhild will attend you, and I am sure young Toki and his cousin will be happy to escort you.”
In this way Toki found himself paired with Ginnlaug, as brilliant of gown as she was plain of face, while Sidroc walked next the pretty Gunhild.
“Mind that you walk slowest next the gold and silver smiths; spice sellers, too,” prompted her father as they moved away. Ginnlaug only laughed, and sweetly too. She well knew where rich buyers would be found.
Balle watched his youngest move off with this treasure on her back, safe in the knowledge she would be careful with it. To Ful he said, “She wears it for display, for I hope to sell it too; but does she not look well in it?”
Watching the splendour of the retreating gown, his son walking next it, Ful must admit she did.
As the four young people made their circuit through the trading roads Toki said not a word. At several points the thoroughfares were crowded, but the sight of Ginnlaug’s silk gown caused many to pause and make way for them. They were a striking couple indeed, and if Toki’s handsomeness was not well paired with the maid’s plainness, at least her gown was dazzling. Just behind them came another couple, with a maid of true loveliness, walking at the side of a young man tall and lean. This pairing was less strange, until one glimpsed the long scar marring the man’s face; it made jarring contrast to the beauty at his side.
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