Afterwards, Tykir led her through the craftsmen’s quarters.
A woodworker, maneuvering a foot-treadled pole lathe, was making cups from solid pieces of wood. As the wood spun around, the woodworker held a chisel that gouged and shaped the bowl of the cup.
“This is Sone the Woodworker,” Tykir told her. Then he addressed the craftsman. “Have you completed the items I commissioned last spring?”
“Yea,” Sone said, nodding enthusiastically. He led them to the back of his shop, where two armchairs and a matching side table sat, all intricately carved in the Viking style with gripping dragon beasts interwoven with the more traditional motif of vining acanthus leaves.
Tykir paid the woodworker with coins from a pouch he carried at his belt and gave directions for the furniture to be delivered to one of his ships.
At another stall, a leatherworker was making boots, shoes, belts and sheaths for knives. The stench of the tanned hides being stretched and processed behind his property took any pleasure out of inspecting his products, to Alinor’s mind.
Tykir laughed at her when she crinkled her nose with distaste. “Living as you do amongst animals on your estate, I would have thought you’d be accustomed to such earthy smells.”
“In Coppergate, ’tis a common sight to see skins cured with chicken dung. That does not mean I have to relish the odor.”
He laughed again, and it was with much alacrity that they moved on to the comb maker, where a skilled artisan carved his product out of the antlers of a red deer. Once he had the comb itself cut out, he used a fine saw to form the teeth. Finally he decorated his wares. There were also craftsmen working in other types of bone, making ice skates, knife handles, spindle whorls, dice and playing pieces. “I have a herdsman at Dragonstead with an even finer talent for carving,” Tykir told her in an undertone, and bought nothing.
Dragonstead, Alinor thought. Tykir had previously mentioned to her the name of his estate in Norway. Now that she knew him better, she deemed the title fitting. Big lumbering beast who blows hot air.
Next, they stopped to watch a jewelry maker melting gold and silver and other less precious metals in small crucibles. He poured the molten metal into stone molds, and it was like magic watching the liquid cool into shiny brooches or coins, with the patterns already on them. Especially interesting to Alinor were the fine filigree pendants he was working into delicate designs, like gold or silver spiderwebs. Some jewelry makers, whose booths they visited next, displayed samples of beautiful ornaments made of amber, ivory, jet and silver. And many of the jewelers carried the colored beads that were so prized by the Viking women…not to be worn as neckrings, but as signs of affluence, strung between the utilitarian brooches that rested on either shoulder, holding needle, thread, miniature scissors and keys. The more beads, the wealthier the woman.
“Oooh!” Alinor sighed again and again when they came upon the gossamer-thin silks from the Orient, patterned fabrics called brocades from Byzantium, soapstone products from the Norse lands, rich furs of sable, fox and the rare white bear from the Baltic, Frankish glass of jewel-like colors and swords with ornate hilts, millstones of basalt from the Rhineland, quern stones from Koblenz and fanciful harness mounts and jingly spurs from the dark-eyed Saracen craftsmen.
Tykir smiled at her unrestrained appreciation for such frivolous objects. “You should see my treasure room at Dragonstead,” he boasted.
“Will I see your treasure room at Dragonstead?” she asked.
“Nay, but you should see my treasure room at Dragonstead,” he corrected. “These baubles that impress you so here,” he said, fingering a length of gold-threaded silk, “are naught compared to my collection.”
What an arrogant, overbearing, prideful man! I will see his home, and then he will return me to my home, she decided with an emphatic uplifting of her chin. He is my guardian Viking angel, no matter what he says.
In the back of Alinor’s mind, however, lingered the image of the naked slave girl, and Tykir doing naught to help. He will not stand back and let Anlaf harm my person. He surely will not.
In many stalls could be seen the strong ropes made of walrus or seal skin that were popular with seamen. “Look at that,” Tykir said, picking up a huge length of strangely twisted rope. He explained how it was made, by cutting the beast’s hide in a single continuous strip, in a spiral, from the shoulder to the tail. Tykir bought three of the ropes—all that the craftsman had on hand—and ordered three more to be picked up next fall.
But there were even more wondrous sights to behold, including live birds in gilt cages and collections of bird feathers, which fascinated Alinor to no end, till finally Tykir pulled her away with a laugh.
“Someday you may meet Abdul, the talksome parrot I gave to Eadyth as a wedding gift.” The secretive smile on his face bespoke some mischief, but all Alinor could think of was his implication once again of life for her beyond Anlaf’s court.
“Better yet, I should show you the collection of bird feathers I purchased from a Baghdad sultan who was disbanding his harem. There are at least fifty different feathers, of all sizes and textures, in their own satin-lined chest of gold.” The mischievous smile grew more mischievous.
“I never could see the sense of collecting useless objects. My brother Egbert collected rocks as a youthling. Rocks, I tell you. And Hebert collected birds’ eggs. One of them was rotten and it took three sennights to get the stink from his bedchamber.”
Tykir smiled at her sudden sharing of tidbits from her personal life.
Her curiosity got the better of her then. “What use would there be for feathers in a harem?”
Tykir laughed aloud and nudged her playfully in the side with his elbow. “Alinor, Alinor. For a thrice-widowed, worldly woman, your innocence astounds me.”
“I never claimed to be worldly,” she blustered, and elbow-jabbed him back.
They moved on, comfortable with the silence between them.
Many different accents and languages could be heard as the customers and merchants argued over price and quality. Instead of coin or barter, most of the buyers used hack silver for their purchases—pieces of silver that could be cut and weighed on collapsible bronze scales. The merchants were often seen scratching the pieces to make sure they were pure silver before putting them on the scale.
She could see that Tykir was amused by her amazement at the scene. He smiled as he said, “Most Viking wealth comes from trading, as you see here. Not pillaging and war.”
In truth, the Norse traders were well-dressed and well-behaved and prosperous. Just like their Saxon counterparts in Jorvik. Oh, some of the seamen looked as if they might engage in a bit of plundering and pillaging on occasion, like the rapist back at the slave mart, but in this more peaceful setting, she could find no fault.
Tykir stopped abruptly, and Alinor realized that they’d arrived at his residence and place of business. He put a finger to his lips, cautioning silence, as he perused the workings of his enterprise from a short distance away. His long house was one of the larger designs in Hedeby, framed with wattle and daub and roofed with thatch. Its roof extended forward in the front about two ells to form a permanent canopy for the trading wares.
Beast, realizing that they were not moving on, dropped to the ground under the table near Alinor’s feet, with his muzzle propped on his front paws, and immediately fell asleep. She and Tykir watched the goings-on at his booth, which held a tantalizing array of amber in all its forms…from the raw stone to finely crafted jewelry.
A huge dark-haired Viking man wearing a full-length cloak of wolfskin pelts, drawn back off one shoulder with a silver pennanular brooch, was examining some jewelry set out on the table before him. Waiting on him, behind the table, was a young man of no more than fifteen. To the side of the building, with her back to them, sat a woman using fine cutting and abrasion tools and polishing cloths to fashion lumps of raw amber into workable sizes and shapes. A guard, arms crossed over his wide chest, stood beside the ope
n doorway of the house, watching over the youth and the woman and the expensive wares.
“This would suit Drifa, my first wife,” the customer said, taking a string of amber beads in his big pawlike hands.
“A good choice,” the boy exclaimed. “See how the beads are of uniform size and color. And they are strung on the finest silk thread, with knots betwixt each bead to prevent chipping.”
The Viking nodded. “I will take that. And Grima, my second wife, should favor the pendant over there…yea, that’s the one…seeing as how she already has enough glass beads to prove my wealth.” As an afterthought, he added, “But the beads and the pendant must be of equal value, lest I have to listen to their jealous bickerings all winter long.” The pendant he chose was an oval filigree frame containing a pale yellow stone, hanging from a dainty silver chain.
“Your two wives will be well pleased, I assure you,” the boy said, his eyes twinkling with delight at the two sales.
“Hah! Think you that I only have two wives? You do not know much about a Norseman’s virility if you think one woman would satisfy. Three more wives have I besides Drifa and Grima, not to mention five wives long buried.” He winked at the boy. “Hard swiving wears down some weak-sapped women.”
The boy clearly restrained himself from smiling widely with anticipation at the prospect of additional sales.
“My helpers get a commission on each sale,” Tykir whispered in her ear. To Alinor’s dismay, she felt the rippling effect of his breath all the way to her toes…and some disconcerting place in between. “’Tis an incentive for them to work harder.”
The lout was continuing to talk to her, unaware of the effect he was beginning to have on her.
But then the lout blew softly in her ear.
Every tiny hair on Alinor’s body, from scalp to toe, stood at attention. In truth, her freckles were paying attention, too.
The lout did know that he had an effect on her.
Quickly, the boy spread out three other objects in front of the Viking, presumably of equal value: an exquisite three-cornered brooch of heavy gold, with an amber stone in the center the size of a raven’s egg; an armlet of intertwined daisies made of gold petals with amber centers and a set of silver wire ear ornaments with dangling amber gems.
The Viking waved a hand in agreement to the additional purchases, and the boy’s eyes nearly popped out at the casualness with which the Norseman spent his money.
“Five wives!” she hissed then in a whisper to Tykir.
He just grinned at her.
“Oh, and one other thing. I must needs have a special gift for Lita, my newest concubine. Only sixteen she is, butah…the things her nubile body can do!” The Viking made a smacking noise of appreciation with his mouth.
Alinor would have liked to smack him, to be sure.
The boy brought forth a delicate finger ring with a tiny amber stone.
“Perfect,” the Viking said.
“It’s worth more than the others,” the boy advised.
“Lita is worth more than the others.”
Alinor made a low, snarling noise.
Tykir chuckled softly and squeezed her hand tightly. “Say naught, my witch,” he warned, sensing her desire to lash the brute with a piece of her mind.
“Trolls…you are a nation of trolls!” Alinor grumbled indignantly.
“Come over here,” he said with a laugh. “I will give you a quick education in amber.”
The boy glanced over to where they now stood at the far end of the tables, noticing them for the first time. His eyes went wide on recognizing Tykir. “Master Thorksson, I did not see you there,” he apologized. He made as if to come to them.
Tykir waved him back. “Finish your transaction, Karl.”
Alinor looked down at the table where Tykir had led her, which displayed unmounted pieces of amber.
“We call amber ‘The Gold of the North,’ but it comes in many colors. Most people think of amber as yellow, like this,” he explained, pointing to a stone the size of a hen’s egg, “but as you can see, it comes in many colors…yellow, orange, red, white, brown, green, blue and even black, which is actually dark shades of the other colors. Those cloudy stones are raw amber, untreated and unpolished. After being heated in oil, the bubbles and fissures will disappear and the amber turns transparent.” He moved his hand over the table in a sweeping gesture to illustrate.
“I never realized,” she murmured, picking up the egg-shaped piece of amber and closing her fist over it. Immediately, she raised surprised eyes to his. “’Tis warm, as if it has a life of its own. In fact, it seems to pulse.”
Tykir smiled, and she could tell that he was pleased by her interest. “That is why so many cultures believe it has mystical, even medicinal, attributes. As to that, I cannot verify, but there is something otherworldly about the stone, methinks.”
She cocked her head in question at his fancifulness. This was a side to Tykir she had not seen before. “Were you always interested in amber trading?”
He laughed. “Nay, I only dabbled in trade betwixt battles for one king or another. In those days, wines and furs held more appeal for trade. But then one day, about seven years past, I saw some horsemen in the Baltics harvesting a crop of amber from the sea waves. From then on,” he said, shrugging with some embarrassment, “I have been fascinated by this gem.”
Amazing, she thought. Both Tykir and the stone.
“Didst you know that amber is naught more than tree sap from millions of years ago?” he went on.
“I had heard such.”
“Consider this: Many millions of years ago, when there were great stands of forests reaching almost to the sky, huge globs of resin seeped from the bark, catching in their path various seeds, leaves, feathers, insects, even whole animals. Over the years, the resin hardened, preserving the object. Like this butterfly here.” He handed Alinor a chunk of rock, which shimmered with a rainbow of translucent yellows. Inside was a tiny butterfly…perfect in every detail.
“Oh,” she sighed, putting a hand to her mouth in awe. “Never have I seen such a wondrous object.”
“Yea,” he agreed in a soft voice, staring down at the object with equal awe. “Once, I had a piece with a honey bee in it, but I gave it to Hrolf the Ganger, first Duke of Normandy.” He took the pendant which hung round his neck on a gold chain in his hand and showed it to her. The reddish-gold amber had been cut and polished into a star shape, and inside was what appeared to be a drop of blood. “Look closely,” he said. “What appears to be wound-dew is the petal of a flower…mayhap some ancient rose.”
Alinor peered close and saw that it was so. “How old do you think this stone is?” she asked, pointing once again to the remarkable amber-encased butterfly.
He shrugged. “No one can say for sure. Mayhap back to the time when the world was created.”
“Before Adam and Eve?” she breathed.
He smiled at the childlike wonder in her voice. “Or the time when the Norse gods and goddesses formed the beginning of our civilization.”
“Oh, my!” Alinor said then, her attention diverted to a piece of jewelry lying on a scrap of blue velvet. Alinor had never been one to covet expensive body adornments, but this neck ring was the most magnificent bit of vanity she had ever seen. Surely fit for a queen. The thick gold band would fit snugly around a woman’s neck, above the collarbone. From it were suspended a dozen tear-shaped amber stones, starting with a large one in the center and decreasingly smaller ones on either side, down to the size of tiny human tears.
“You like that, do you?” he said, with a laugh. “’Tis the most precious item of jewelry I have, and it is not for sale. It was given to me by an Arab goldsmith, in return for a favor I rendered him. Ahab recommended that the neck ring be given to my bride on our wedding night, as a charm ensuring marriage-luck. Since I do not intend to wed, I will give it to one of Eirik’s daughters on her wedding day.”
Alinor couldn’t help herself. She reached out her fre
e hand and touched the neck ring with her fingertips, very gently. “Dost know what this reminds me of? A poem I heard once. ’Twas written by one of the ancient Romans…Ovid, I think his name was. The poem was called Metamorphoses, and in it he described how the daughters of the sun god were overwhelmed by grief over the death of their brother and somehow they became transformed into trees. Their tears crystallized into amber, and from then on the people referred to amber as ‘The Tears of the Gods.’”
Tykir was watching her closely, a strange expression on his face. “That is exactly what I call this neck ring,” he said in a low voice, “and I have never heard that tale afore.” He laughed then, as if embarrassed. “You and Bolthor are cut from the same ell of fabric, I swear. Both of you are storytellers.”
She’d been thinking the same thing about Tykir and his whimsical affection for an enchanted stone. “You misjudge me. I am not fanciful, at all. Never have I had the inclination or the talent for weaving stories. I weave fabrics, instead. As to Bolthor, I must tell you, Tykir, he is a horrible skald.”
“I know,” he said unabashedly, then confessed sheepishly, “Sometimes when I see the verse-mood come upon his face, I pretend to be asleep.” The whole time, his eagle eyes watched as she reluctantly removed her fingertips from the “Tears of the Gods” neck ring with a last, lingering caress.
He shook his head, as if to clear it of unwanted thoughts. “Since you know of the amber legend in the Roman poem, does that mean you have coffers full of amber jewelry? Mayhap you have even bought one of my pieces in Jorvik.”
“What?” His question jarred her. Where would he get such an idea? He had visited Graycote and seen that it was a property not given to excess. The man had only to scan her plain attire to know she was not the kind of woman who amassed ornaments, costly or otherwise. But all she said was, “Nay.”
“Nay?” he persisted. “‘Nay,’ you have no particular liking for amber? ‘Nay,’ you have no coffers? ‘Nay,’ you prefer jewelry of another type? ‘Nay,’ you collect—”
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