Winter of Discontent nc-2

by Iain Campbell

  “How many men?”

  “Danes, about 3,500- it varies as the men come and go as they wish. English, about 3,000 at Durham- mainly local huscarles and thegns and men from the south, about 1,000 of those. About another 4,000 from local levies that are at home at the moment. There are 2,000 Scots camped on the Tyne River.”

  “And where’s Thorkell?”

  “Where you’d want him to be. Sitting at Edgar’s table in Durham, eating his fancy food and drinking his fine French wine- and listening to everything the earls and the Danes say to each other. There’s no charge for what I’ve told you so far. You could’ve got that information in a few days yourself. But when he sends word that the Aetheling’s men are moving and where, he expects to be paid 200 gold marks. You are to have somebody here every Monday, Wednesday and Friday evening at dusk. Same recognition signals. When there’s something to report I’ll make myself known. Just make sure somebody is here for me to report to and that you can get the message to the Norman king in time for him to act.”

  Alan shook his head in disagreement. “I’m sorry, but it’s not like we’re running a carting business from the next village. Firstly, this isn’t a game. I’ve brought twenty armed men into a town controlled by the enemy. You and Thorkell are planning on selling whatever information he obtains so that King William can defeat the Aetheling’s forces- which means thousands will die. If any of us are caught, we die- probably begging for the release of a cut throat after they’ve finished torturing us, and raping and then torturing you. Your end would not be pretty,” he said gently patting her on the cheek. He paused while the beef pies and another round of drinks were brought to the table by the serving-wench.

  “This is no game,” he repeated. “I can’t just bring a snekke longship into the harbour whenever I feel like it. Yes, it’s a Danish ship and some of our crew are Norwegians, but if we hang around like a fart in a church somebody is going to notice and start asking questions. We can’t let our men go ashore and spend the night drinking and whoring like any proper sailor does, because some idiot will get drunk and say something that puts us all into deep shit. If they stay on board that’ll also be noticed, and the men will mutiny. Have you ever spent days, and more particularly nights, crammed together with twenty others in a ship so small and so encumbered that you can’t all lie down at once, and if you did lie down you’d be lying in two or three inches of stinking bilge-water that slops around in the bottom of the ship, eating cold stale rations, cold and probably soaked in rain, when within a stone’s throw are warm taverns and welcoming bordellos? And that assumes we can get here on time. We aren’t trundling a cart two miles. We’re sailing a hundred miles through unprotected and often violent seas- in autumn when the gales start. There’s every chance that we won’t be able to get here for a week or more at a time.

  “Next, no we won’t meet in this same cosy tavern each time. If we come back again we’ll be recognised and after the third time the local gossips will be watching both of us. And they’d see me, who they’d think of as an Englishman, go back to a ‘Danish’ longship and you ride back to Durham to the arms of a man who spends his time at the Aetheling’s table. It wouldn’t take them long to start asking difficult questions.”

  He paused and took a long pull at his quart of ale before continuing. “What we’ll do is try to have a ship here each Monday and Thursday. We have two ships and we’ll paint the stem post- that’s the post at the front of the ship- red, and the bottom three feet of the mast blue and leave an oar leaning against the yard. If one of them is in the harbour on the due day, or a day late, then go to the arranged meeting place. Also look for a rowing boat beached near the harbour steps. That’ll have a red strake painted second strake from the top. If that’s there, then it means that we’ve left the longship out of sight a little way up the river.

  “As to the time of the meetings, it’s getting dark just before evening Vespers, but at this time of the year dusk comes earlier very quickly. We’ll make the meeting time at afternoon Nones, so we can get out of the harbour before dark, even in a month’s time. We’ll meet in a different place each time and set up that location at the previous meeting. Today is Monday 28th September, so Thursday will be the 1st of October. We’ll meet at St Hilda’s Church in the vestibule after the service. I’m sure that a little praying will be good for both of us. After that, and on each second visit, you’ll meet with Brand, who’s a blonde giant of a man- not that there’s any shortage of people who meet that description in a town filled with Danes. He’ll be wearing a blue kerchief on his head, sailor-fashion. You wear the same recognition signs as today. If a meeting is missed, and if the ship or rowing boat is in the harbour, go back same time next day. Otherwise for the following meeting go back to the previous meeting place whether the ships or rowing boat are there or not as something may have happened to require a change of plans.

  “Remember, if you value your life, keep your mouth firmly shut and only talk to Thorkell where there is no possibility of you being overheard. Assume that every room you’re in has somebody with their ear pressed to the door- even your bedchamber. Develop a habit of going together for walks in the open, but don’t be silly enough to do that when it’s pissing down with rain. One mistake and you’re dead- and so am I. Now, I’ll ostentatiously hand you a small purse. We’ll leave with you hanging on my arm and groping my privates and me with a silly smirk of anticipation on my face! That should let us use this place again for a meeting in a few weeks time, if needed.”

  Back on board Havorn the conditions were every bit as uncomfortable as Alan had indicated to Gundred. Sven had been absent from the rowing boat, so Alan had pulled on an oar on the passage back to the longship. Alan had thought about staying on-shore at an inn, but had decided that ‘leadership functions’ required him to share the hardships of the men. ‘At least I’ve had a decent hot meal and three quarts of ale’ he mused to himself as he stood on a storage chest and relieved himself overboard of part of the intake of fluids before adjusting his trews and having a brief talk to his men. As expected, they grumbled that they were sitting out in the cold, the blankets drawn about their shoulders becoming damp from the night sea air, and only having had cold smoked sausage and stale bread to eat.

  “Life’s a bitch- and then you die,” said Alan with obviously mock sincerity in reply to the grumbled complaints. “Just be thankful you’re sitting here in the cold, because you are such useless bastards that when you die you’ll be sitting nice and warm in the fires of hell! Now get some sleep. Unless the wind changes tomorrow, you’re going to be rowing a hundred miles into the teeth of the wind- and that exercise should warm you up nicely!”

  The following day was 29th September. Michalemas, the Feast of St Michael. Alan had the ship rowed into the beach an hour after dawn and gave the men three hours of shore-leave with just four men remaining on the ship as guards. “Now listen, you bunch of degenerates! It’s seven in the morning. You have three hours to have something hot to eat, something to drink and get a fuck. Some of you may even want to attend the church services. I’m sure the whores will be working even this early in the morning and even on Michaelmas. If you want to do the first three, you’ll have to be damn quick. I don’t think that you can manage all four. You get back here an hour after Terce, at mid-morning. You go in groups of four or five. You stay quiet and cause no trouble. You have no discussions with anybody as to who you are or where you are from or what you are doing. I don’t care if the Archangel Gabriel appears and asks you your name. If he does, tell him to fuck off! If anybody is late I’ll personally cut his balls off with a blunt knife! If anybody sees Sven, make sure he’s back here by Terce, even if you have to pour him into the ship. Now get going. You’re wasting your shore-time!”

  Alan himself jumped over the side onto the dry sand at the ship’s bow and strolled the few paces into the town. Despite the early hour the festivities were already underway, with beasts being roasted over fires in the town square and food
and drink stalls being set up. He walked into what appeared to be a disreputable tavern near the dock. The weather-beaten sign hanging over the door could hardly be made out to read ‘The Anchor’ and the peeling paint required a real effort of will and some imagination to discern the shape of an anchor in the space above the name.

  Walking through the door Alan was hit by a smell of sour beer, stale urine and rotten rushes. He stepped carefully to try to avoid pools of vomit and dog-turds that littered the floor. Dim light filtered through the shuttered windows and fought bravely against the thick clinging smoke caused by a central hearth burning wet wood with no aperture in the roof to allow the smoke to escape. Alan could just see a number of recumbent forms snoring. Most appeared to be Danes or local fishermen.

  Seeing a man seated by himself at a table, wearing a leather jerkin and breeches and with a red woollen cap, Alan walked over and sat next to him. A young serving-wench appeared. About twelve or thirteen years of age, she was dirty with her filthy and ragged shift sufficiently open at the breasts to allow them to be clearly discernable. Presumably she was part of the fare on offer. “Another pint of ale,” instructed the man. As the girl left the man said, “I’m Eadmer. For Christ’s sake don’t order anything to eat or you’ll shit for a week. And don’t drink the ale. They keep it in an open barrel and I saw a dead rat floating in it. Just pour it on the floor inconspicuously.” The ale arrived and was ignored.

  “I’m Alan.”

  Eadmer grunted in acknowledgement. After coughing several times from the smoke catching his throat Alan looked closely at the man who was King William’s Chief Spy in the north. The man was typically non-descript. Middle height, medium weight, light brown hair, no beard but with several day’s stubble on his chin. And with the coldest and most calculating brown eyes that Alan had ever seen. This man would cut your throat without a second thought- but only if needed, as corpses tended to draw unwanted attention. Aware he was in the presence of a professional of considerable ability, Alan ran through the intended contact procedures but eschewed the comments made to Gundred about security as they would be an insult to this man. The contact arrangements were made for the same day as with Gundred but earlier in the day and at more seedy establishments. In accordance with his instructions from Herfast Alan said nothing about Gundred, as the sources of information were to be treated separately and the information from each used to determine the accuracy of the other.

  “Good,” said Eadmer briefly. “That all is simple, effective and allows for problems. I’ll still also use my usual communication methods. They’ll take longer, but at least if your ship sinks in a storm the information will still get there.”

  A man walked in through the tavern door and sidled up to the bar. After a glance at him Eadmer continued, “You’re clear. Nobody followed you.”

  “Thank you. But please only have your men follow me in the short distance until we meet. I’m seeing other people who you’re not to know about.”

  Eadmer paused and inclined his head in agreement. “Separate sources of information are a good idea. And that way if I’m compromised it won’t affect your other source. Professional? No? Well, bear that in mind in both your dealings here in Hartlepool and the accuracy of the information.” Eadmer then began to give a detailed run-down of English rebel forces and a slightly less detailed account of those of the Danes and the Scots. Alan occasionally asked him to pause so that he could fix details in his mind. There would be no written notes that could potentially identify an important source. Alan had come to accept that in this very important but clandestine part of the war, that he and his men, together with Eadmer, Thorkell and Gundred, were all dispensable tools. But he was determined not to be dispensed with.

  After quietly pouring away the last inch or so of ale in his leather pint jack onto the floor through a suitable gap in the poorly-constructed table, Alan gave Eadmer a nod and rose to leave.

  He then spent the next two hours engaged in commerce. Despite the Quarter-Day holiday, a number of merchant’s shops were open, mainly Jews. Also open were the bakers, who worked every day of the year. Alan visited four bakers and bought virtually their whole stock of fresh bread and the pies that they had cooked as the ovens cooled. He also bought fifty pre-sewn but un-stuffed palliasses for the men to use as mattresses back in the cave, twenty bales of hay to stuff the mattresses, ten casks of ale, casks of smoked meat and fish, barrels of apples, sacks of dried vegetables and what little fresh fruit was available. Unfortunately the butchers were all closed for the holiday and he couldn’t obtain supplies of fresh meat.

  He was back at the ship a little after the time he had nominated, but nobody complained as he was closely followed by carts bearing the purchases. All the crew were present, correct and reasonably sober- including Sven who had the drinking capacity of a camel. He’d spent the night at a tavern gleaning further scraps of information and was ‘bright eyed and bushy tailed’ when he appeared at the ship before the appointed time.

  Heading south into a strong adverse wind, Havorn had to pull into the protection of a headland near Scarborough for the night, before continuing to row south next morning. Alan took several turns at the oars to show his ‘solidarity’ with the men. Sven didn’t bother as he had a different approach to leadership, and being receptive to every breath of wind or tug of current he minimised the work that the men had to undertake.

  They arrived back at their cave at Flamborough Head a little after midday. Given the efforts that the men had made for the last day and a half Alan was prepared to give them a rest before they proceeded south to do the second part of their mission, to deliver the information they had received.

  That evening, after the men had stuffed their palliases with straw, they enjoyed a meal of day-old bread with smoked ham, sausage, cheese, fresh fruit and boiled vegetables.

  Three weeks later Alan was getting fractious and regretting more than ever that he’d allowed himself into being coerced into providing military service above his legal requirement for the year- and which had anyway been waived. The information collection procedures were working well, with regular contact with Gundred and regular and detailed reports from Eadmer. The problem was that York remained in rebel Anglo-Danish hands and there was nobody to whom they could pass on the information received. The king and his army had simply not appeared and from the little information available from the English and Danes in the taverns at York, it appeared as if there were no loyalist forces closer than Lincoln. Alan disliked having to find out information about the king’s forces from the enemy, although the weekly visits to York appeared to be raising no suspicions as they were used as shopping expeditions to purchase extra supplies and they had apparently been accepted by the locals as being pirates, which was an acceptable occupation on the north-east coast.

  “Damn it all, where are William and his men?” Alan demanded in frustration as he sat on a flat rock eating a breakfast of porridge sweetened with honey.

  “Something important must have come up,” commented Sven easily, as he dipped a piece of stale bread into a cup of mead and then popped it into his mouth. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. This is a pretty easy way to spend a campaign. Permanent dry quarters. Good and plentiful food. Two days of work a week for each ship, sailing up and down the coast to stop us getting bored.

  Alan scowled at the accuracy of the complacent remark. Apart from the time actually spent ashore in the enemy-held towns there was little risk and life was easy- certainly much easier and less dangerous than being in an army on the march. However, he hated not knowing what was happening and was anxious to get back home to Thorrington where Anne would be nearing her time. After the problems with the last birth, where her life and that of the baby had only been saved by his intervention, he was determined to be home when her time came.

  Two weeks later Alan sat at a table in the corner of the tap-room at the ‘Bull and Bear’ tavern at Hartlepool, sipping at a quart pot of ale. This was the second of the pr
e-arranged meeting times and places for the week for Gundred, skald Thorkell Skalleson’s woman. She hadn’t attended at the previous scheduled meeting, and Brand had told him when he’d returned to the hide-out cave from his journey north the previous week that the woman had also missed those two meetings. Until then the rendezvous system and exchange of information had proceeded well for six weeks, with Gundred making the short journey from Durham to Hartlepool at least weekly to meet with either Alan or Brand. Alan felt that her absence for over two weeks didn’t bode well for her, as with what she and her man were being paid to spy on the English earls and the Danes only serious illness or worse would keep her away.

  Skald Thorkell Skalleson sat at table with the English earls and the Danish princes. The information that he had provided over the last few weeks, regarding the numbers and disposition of the rebels and the Danish invaders and the intentions of their leaders, had been sufficiently important that Alan was reluctant to simply drop the whole scheme. In wartime information was priceless and frequently meant the difference between winning and losing. Alan glanced out of an open window and saw that full darkness had now arrived. Gundred was over two hours late and obviously not going to arrive now that the town gates were being closed. He’d been carefully paying attention to the others frequenting the tavern that evening and had noted with relief that, other than several whores, nobody was paying him any attention. Given the difficulties he’d had in obtaining refills for his ale pot, that lack of attention had included the slatternly serving-wench.

  With a muttered oath he rose slightly unsteadily and made his way down to the harbour where the rowing boat was waiting to take him back to the longship Havorn, which was moored against the river bank a mile upstream to keep the crew from getting into trouble. There he explained his concerns to Sven, the Norwegian captain.