The traders checked their horses and stared at him. “You are no Ditmarsher,” said one of them. “You do not sound like a Dane either. Where are you from?”
“Enzkr em,” said Shef firmly. “I am an Englishman.”
“You sound like a Norwegian, and one from the back end of nowhere at that. I have heard voices like yours trading furs.”
“I am an Englishman,” Shef repeated. “And it is not furs I am trading. These folk and I are going to the slavering at Hedeby, where they hope to sell me.” He pulled his ladder pendant into view, turned his face full on to the Danes, and winked his one eye solemnly. “No need to keep it a secret. After all, I have to find a buyer.”
The Danes looked at each other and rode on, leaving Shef well content. An Englishman, with one eye, and a silver pole-ladder round his neck. It only needed one friend of Brand, or of the Way, or even one of his skippers from last year's campaign gone home to retire to hear that, and Shef should at least have enough credit to get passage back to England: though he did not want to take ship from Hedeby on the Baltic shore.
Nikko scowled at him, feeling that the situation was slipping beyond his grasp. “I'll have that spear of yours before we reach the market.”
Shef used it to point to the wooden stockade round Hedeby coming into view.
As he shuffled slowly forward in the line of merchandise for sale the next day, Shef felt his heart beating faster. He still had the inner calm—or was it indifference?—which had never left him since he woke up, king no more, in Karli's hut. Yet though he knew what he planned to do, he could not know how it would be taken. It depended on what a man's rights were. In the slave-market at Hedeby, what he and his friends could enforce, likely enough.
The market itself was no more than a cleared space on the shore, with a central knoll a few feet high to display the goods to the buyers. Behind it the tideless Baltic lapped gently on a thin strip of sand. To one side wooden piers ran out far into the shallow water, to enable the broad-hulled knorrs to come in and out with cargo. Around the whole ran a stout stockade of logs, flimsy enough in comparison with the Roman walls of York far away, but in good repair and heavily manned. Shef had heard little of the deeds of King Hrorik, who ruled in Hedeby and from it to the Dane-dyke thirty miles to the south. But his revenues depended entirely on the tolls he took from traders in the port, and he both guarded it and ruled it with a prompt and heavy hand. Shef glanced from time to time at the gallows erected in plain sight on the outermost jetty, a half-dozen bearded corpses dangling from it. Hrorik was anxious to show traders their rights would be protected. One of the many things Shef could not know was whether his plan might be taken as a discouragement to trade. But in any case, as the morning drew on and the line moved forward, his mood grew grimmer.
The lot being put up this time consisted only of women: six of them, pushed forward by a group of grinning Vikings. His man held each of them by the arm while their leader walked round the knoll shouting their merits out. All young girls, Shef could see. At a word, their mantles were pulled away and each stood in a short tunic, bare-legged to above the knee, the white skin drawing all eyes in the sunlight. Whoops filled the air, lewd suggestions shouted across the crowd.
“Where are they from?” Shef asked the armed guard standing near the slave-line. The man eyed Shef's build and bearing curiously, grunted a reply.
“Wends. See the white skin and the red hair. They catch them on the south shore of the Baltic.”
“And who are the buyers?” Shef could see, now, a group of dark men in strange clothing pressing forward to inspect the women more closely. They wore head-cloths instead of standing helmeted or bare-headed, and the curved daggers in their belts glittered with precious metal. Some of them at all times faced outward, as if expecting surprise attack.
“Men from the Southlands. They worship some god who is a rival to the Christ-god. Great buyers of women, and they pay in gold. Have to pay high this year.”
“Why is that?”
The guard looked at him curiously again. “You speak Norse, but don't you know anything? The woman-price went up as soon as the English market turned nasty. Used to get good girls from England.”
The Cordovan Arabs were asking questions now, through an interpreter. A bystander relayed them to the crowd.
“He wants to know if they're all virgins.” Roars of laughter and a great bull voice crying, “I know the tall one isn't, Alfr, I saw you trying her out yesterday outside your booth.”
The leader of the sellers looked round angrily, trying to scowl the barrackers into silence. The Arabs called to their interpreter, huddled together. Finally, a bid. Expostulation, rejection. But no counter-bids. A deal struck—Shef saw the flash of money as it was paid out, and drew in his breath at the sight, not of silver, but of gold dinars. A toll paid to the auctioneer, another to the jarl of King Hrorik, watching with careful eye, and the women were wrapped and hustled away.
Next to go forward was a strange figure, a middle-aged man in the remains of a black robe. He appeared to be bald, but a slight black fuzz grew on his scalp. A Christian priest, Shef realized, with a tonsure that had not been shaved recently. As he came out, another man pushed his way out of the crowd and seemed to go to embrace him: another priest, another black robe, but this time with fresh tonsure. A guard thrust him back, another called for bids.
Instant response, from a party of tall men, heavily-built and swathed in furs even in the spring sunlight. Swedes, Shef thought, remembering the accent of Guthmund the Greedy and some of the others he had met in the ranks of the Ragnarssons' Great Army. They were offering eight ounces of silver. One of them pulled a purse from his belt and threw it on the ground to back the offer up.
The priest who had been pushed away was back again, dodging the guards, spreading out his arms and shouting passionately.
“What's he say?” muttered the guard by Shef.
“He's trying to forbid the sale,” Shef answered, catching some part of the gabble of Norse and Low German that the priest was using. “Says they have no right to sell a priest of the true God.”
“They'll sell him too if he doesn't shut up,” said the guard.
Indeed, the Swedes had thrown another purse on the ground, exchanged words with the auctioneer, were walking forward towards both men, satisfaction on their faces.
Another man stepped from the crowd and the satisfaction faded, replaced by looks of wary calculation. Shef, used to judging warriors, could see immediately why.
The newcomer was not a tall man, shorter than the shortest of the Swedes. But he was immensely broad across the shoulders. More, he moved with an easy confidence that set men back. He wore a padded leather jacket, worn and with different strips let into it here and there. His left hand rested on the pommel of a long horseman's sword. His hair stood up like a stiff, blond brush, over a face tight-drawn, clean-shaven, as hard as stone. But it was smiling.
The blond man put a toe under one of the purses, flicked it back to the Swedes, flicked back the other.
“You can't have him,” he said in stilted Norse, his voice carrying in the sudden silence. “Neither of them. They are priests of Christ, and they are under my protection. The protection of the Lanzenorden.” He called suddenly in a louder voice, and swept his arm around. Shef realized there were a dozen men mailed and armed close to the ring. They outnumbered the Swedes. But there were two hundred Norsemen watching, all armed as well. If they made common cause against the Christians… Or if King Hrorik's men decided to protect their trade and market…
“We'll pay for one of them,” called the blond man conciliatingly. “Eight ounces. Christian money is as good as heathen.”
“Ten ounces,” said the leader of the Swedes.
The auctioneer looked questioningly at the blond man.
“Twelve ounces,” he said in a slow, deliberate voice. “Twelve ounces and I will forget to ask how one of you comes to have a Christian priest—and what you others want Christian
priests for. Twelve ounces and think you are lucky.”
The Swede slipped his hand further down the handle of his axe, spat on the ground.
“Twelve ounces,” he said. “And the money of Othin rings better than the money of any smoothface gelding of a Christian.”
Shef felt the guard beside him start to move, saw Hrorik's jarl also begin to step forward. As he finished speaking the Swede threw his axe up to grip it in striking position. But before any of them had completed his movement there was a streak in the air, a thud, a gasp. The Swede was gaping down at a brass hilt protruding from the center of his body. Shef realized that the blond man had never attempted to draw sword, but had instead flicked a heavy knife from his belt and thrown it underhand. Before the thought had formed, the blond man had already taken three steps forward, drawn, and was standing with the point of his long sword resting exactly on the throat-ball of the seller.
“Do we have a sale?” he called, looking for an instant sideways at the hesitating jarl.
The seller, slowly and cautiously, nodded.
The blond man flicked the sword away. “Just a private disagreement,” he remarked to the jarl. “Doesn't affect the market. Happy to settle with his friends anywhere outside the town.”
The jarl hesitated, then nodded too, ignoring the shouts of the Swedes bent over the body of their leader.
“Pay the money and take your man away. And hold that noise, the rest of you. If you call men names you'd better learn to be quicker. If you have a grudge you're welcome to fight it out. But not here. Bad for business. Come on, somebody, get the next lot up here.”
As the Christian priests embraced and the blond man rejoined his knot of mailed supporters, bristling with weapons, Shef found himself thrust forward on to the knoll. For a moment panic seized him, like an actor forgetting his lines on an unexpected cue. Then as Nikko bustled forward, and he saw the worried face of Karli just behind him, he remembered what he had to do.
Slowly he started to pull off his grubby woolen tunic.
“What's this?” said the auctioneer. “Strong young man, able to do simple smith-work, offered for sale by—some webfoot, who cares.”
Shef threw the tunic to the ground, adjusted the silver pendant of Rig in the center of his chest, flexed his muscles in a parody of the behavior of farmhands at a hiring fair. The sunlight showed the old scars of flogging across his back, flogging he had received from the hands of his stepfather years before.
“Is he tractable?” shouted a voice. “He sure doesn't look it.”
“You can make a slave tractable,” shouted Nikko, standing next to the auctioneer.
Shef nodded thoughtfully, stepped over to the pair of them. As he did so he carefully spread the fingers of his left hand and then curled them into a tight fist, thumb outside the second joint, as Karli had shown him. He had to make this dramatic. Not a shove, not a scuffle.
Stepping forward on to the left foot according to Karli's demonstrations, he swung his left arm in a short arc, putting all the weight of his body behind it, and aiming as if to end with his fist behind his right shoulder. The left hook connected not with Nikko's jaw—Karli had advised against that for beginners—but with his right temple. The burly man, completely unprepared, dropped instantly to his knees.
Instantly Shef had him by the collar, jerked him to his feet, turned to face the crowd.
“One webfoot,” he shouted in Norse. “Talks a lot. No good at anything. What am I bid?”
“I thought he was selling you,” shouted a voice.
Shef shrugged. “I changed my mind.” He stared round at the crowd, trying to overbear them with his one eye. What made a thrall? In the end, there must be consent. A thrall who simply disobeyed, simply fought back, could be killed, but was worth nothing. On the edge of the ring he realized there was a minor fracas going on, as Nikko's son and nephew came forward to his assistance, only to find Karli barring their path, fists raised.
“All right, all right,” snarled the jarl almost in Shef's ear. “I can see the pair of you are unsaleable. But I'll tell you this—you still owe an auction fee, and if you can't pay it I'll take it out of both of you.”
Shef looked round. A dangerous moment. He had hoped to see a friendly face before this, if the Danes met on the road had spread the word. Now he would have to settle with the toll-jarl on his own. He had only two possessions left. One hand closed round the silver pendant—that was his last resort. The other?
The ‘Gungnir’ spear thumped into the turf at his feet. Karli, beaming and rubbing his knuckles, waved cheerfully at him. Shef started to pull the spear out, to show the rune-marks on it to the contemptuous jarl, to try to strike a deal.
“If he's for sale, the one-eye,” called a voice, “I'll buy him. I know someone who wants him bad.”
With a feeling of doom at his heart, Shef turned to face the voice. He had hoped a friend would recognize him. He had not forgotten the chance that it would be an enemy, but had gambled that all the followers of the Ragnarssons, the survivors of the men he had known in the Great Army, would be with the Ragnarsson fleet at sea on the other side of Denmark. He had reckoned without the loose alliances, the continuous joinings and defections, of the Viking world.
It was Skuli the Bald, who had commanded a tower in Shef's scaling of the York walls the year before, but had then thrown in his lot with the Ragnarssons who had betrayed them. He was coming forward now, his ship's crew closed up behind him in a disciplined formation.
At the same moment some inner warning told Shef another face was staring at him fixedly. He turned, met a pair of black, implacable eyes. Recognized them instantly. Erkenbert the black deacon, whom he had seen first at the death of Ragnar in the snake-pit, and seen last being loaded aboard the transport-ships after the defeat of the Christian Crusade at Hastings. He was standing next to the rescued black-robe priest, talking rapidly to the blond German, and pointing.
“Skjef Sigvarthsson Ivarsbane,” said Skuli, grinning, now only a few feet away. “I'm ready to pay more than market price for you. I reckon Ivar's brothers will pay me a man's weight in silver in return.”
“If you can collect,” snarled Shef, backing away and looking swiftly over his shoulder for a wall to set his back against. Karli was with him, he realized. He had drawn his sword, was shouting defiance in a growing hubbub. Shef saw instantly that he had forgotten everything he had been told, was holding the weapon like a thatcher cutting reeds. If the tension snapped, Karli would be dead within five heartbeats.
The blond German was within Shef's line of vision now as well, sword also drawn, his men trying to make a line between Shef and Skuli. He too was shouting something about a price. In the background traders and slaves were scattering, some trying to get well away, others drawing, seeming to align themselves with one faction or another. The guards of King Hrorik, taken off guard by this sudden outbreak among the customers, were trying to form a wedge to drive into the midst of the likely battle.
Shef drew a deep breath, hefted his spear. He would go straight for Skuli and take his chance with Erkenbert and the Christians. One act of charity first. He turned, meaning to club the unsuspecting Karli with the spear-shaft. If the little man was on the ground, maybe no-one would kill him, as they would if he tried to fight.
Something clung to the spear-point, weighing it down, hampering him. Something else over his face, blinding him. As he tore frantically at the blanket, trying to wrestle free, a soft concussion caught him on the side of the skull, and he found himself on one knee, struggling to rise, struggling to see. If he lost consciousness the next thing he might know was a Ragnarsson face intent on cutting the blood-eagle through his ribs.
Someone kicked Shef's feet from under him, and his head met the ground.
Chapter Eight
“Sorry about that,” said the fat face from the other side of the table. “If I'd heard about you just a little bit earlier I'd have bought you off your Ditmarsh friends myself, and no-one would have
been any the wiser. But as a king yourself, you must know how it is. No king is cleverer than the information he gets.”
Shef stared, trying to bring the face into focus, shook his head to clear it, and winced.
“There,” said the face. “I don't think you've heard a word I've been saying. Where does it hurt?”
Shef rubbed his left temple, realized at the same time that the lump on his skull was on the right. A hand passed in front of his eyes, and he realized he was being tested for concussion.
“Lump on one side, pain on the other. Makes you think the brain is loose inside the skull, doesn't it?” the face went on conversationally. “That's why so many veteran warriors are—well—a little strange. We call it vithrhögg, the counter-blow. But I can see you're recovering now. Let me just run over some of what I said again.
“I'm King Hrorik of Hedeby and South Jutland. And you are?”
Shef grinned suddenly, realizing the gist of what was said to him. “I am your fellow-king, King Shef of the East and Middle Angles.”
“Good. I'm glad it's all coming back. We have these riots in the market-place pretty often, you know, and the lads have a drill for it. Throw sailcloth over all the weapons, and then clip everyone who looks dangerous while they're trying to get their blades free. We don't like losing customers permanently.” A large hand poured wine into what Shef realized was a golden cup. “Take some water with that and you'll soon feel better.”
“You lost a customer today,” said Shef, remembering the knife standing from the Swedish buyer's heart.
“Yes, bad business that. But my jarl reports that the dead man gave provocation. Besides…”
A plump finger jerked Shef's pendant from under the tunic which, he realized, someone had found and put back on for him.
“You're a man of the Way, right? So you don't have much time for Christians. None at all, from what I hear of your victory over the Franks, and I dare say they have even less for you. But down here I have to keep a very close eye on them. There's only the Dane-dyke between me and Othin knows how many German lancers. It's true they fight among themselves all the time, and it's truer that they're even more frightened of us than I am of them. But I really don't like to go stirring up trouble, especially in matters of religion.
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