‘He says that Konungr Trygve is concluding some business in the town marketplace and that he is taking you there to meet with him,’ the bald man said in good French. He caressed his hands as he spoke, rolling them around like seaweed in the tumbling in the surf. His eyes and body language were fawning and Raymond could detect no hint of foreign accent in the man.
‘You are Norman?’
‘Frankish, Lord,’ he said, his eyes alight, ‘from Limoges.’
‘A slave?’
‘They would call me a thrall,’ the man said as the group rounded a long corner into an open space where a large group of traders haggled and shouted. ‘Like them,’ the man added as he nodded over the heads towards a low stage where two men stood with bowed heads and their hands bound.
It was a slave market.
Raymond grimaced at the sight of Ostmen bartering for the possession of their fellow man. There were slaves in England of course, and no better treated than those wretches on view in Cluainmín. However, the Church often preached about the evil and repugnance of slavery and dissuaded noblemen from buying human chattel. Evidently the Church’s objection to the practice was not preached amongst the Gael and Ostmen, Raymond considered. He spied another ten slaves bound to a fence to the right of the raised platform. Two were teenagers, another three were women and one had skin as dark as the heartwood on a yew hunting bow.
‘Konungr Trygve, our king,’ the translator tugged on Raymond’s sleeve and pointing a finger towards an enormously fat man cloaked in fur and lounging on a litter on the far side of the marketplace. To Raymond he looked like one of the fat seals that sunned themselves on the rocks on the Welsh coastline. Trygve’s arms were covered in bright tattoos while his blond beard was heavy and hung with many trinkets. The konungr barked a hoarse laugh in the direction of the slave dealer on the raised dais, before holding up a fat hand to indicate a higher bid for the two unfortunate slaves on show.
‘You have to wait here,’ the translator told Raymond as the lead guard babbled unintelligibly in his direction. ‘After the slaves are auctioned you will be able to talk to Trygve.’
Raymond saw that the konungr had settled on a price for his new acquisitions with the other men unable to match his opening bid. As the two slaves were taken from the platform by Trygve’s men and the next three females were forced onto the stage in their place, Raymond questioned the translator about the Konungr of Cluainmín and his relations with the other towns on the south coast.
‘It has been many years since the men of Cluainmín went pillaging,’ the slave said. ‘Vestmen, the Gaelic natives, trade in corn and animals, slaves and butter. There is one who brings bird skins and tame hawks…’
‘I wonder what name we Vestmen,’ Fionntán shot a scathing look at the translator, ‘will give you Normans? Perhaps Ramhargall? The fat foreigners,’ he said poking a long finger into Raymond’s gut. ‘I remember Trygve’s uncle, the one who founded this town,’ he said, taking a bite from a pear. ‘Trygve was only a steersman on one of his ships out of Veðrarfjord.’
‘Trygve comes from Veðrarfjord?’ asked Raymond.
Fionntán nodded. ‘Konungr Ragnall was not pleased when Trygve pissed off with a ship and its whole crew to join his uncle here,’ he remembered with a half-smile. ‘The only reason he didn’t wipe them off the face of the earth back then was because Cluainmín wasn’t big enough to trouble Veðrarfjord’s trade.’
‘And the difficulty with navigating the river means they are bloody hard to attack,’ added Raymond.
‘Indeed.’
‘There does seem to have been a great deal of resentment between the two towns,’ the translator added, still keen to impress the French-speaking guests.
‘Good,’ Raymond replied. ‘What about Waesfjord?’ he asked of the town to the east which Robert FitzStephen had captured the summer before from its Ostmen occupants.
‘Trygve trades with them…’ The Frankish slave would have continued but, from the other side of the marketplace, a new voice pierced the hubbub of the slave auction and drew the attention away from the platform. Raymond turned and looked at the new man who had spoken so loudly in the sloshing Danish language.
Immediately, Raymond was glad that he had hidden a dagger from the warriors of Cluainmín during their weapons search at the harbour moorings. The man who had spoken exuded violence and strength, and swept his gaze over the marketplace as if he would gladly have killed every single person without a second thought. He was a giant, taller even than the Earl Strongbow, who towered over most men, and he strode slowly onto the platform as he spoke. His arms were bare and defined with muscle and as he strode along the wooden dais, he flicked the garments from one of the paraded slaves’ shoulders as he passed by so that he could see her breasts. He then shoved the slave master from his path as the man protested the interruption to his auction. Three people in the crowd were knocked to the floor as the slave master crashed from the platform.
Raymond only had eyes for the newcomer. On his back, he espied a circular shield painted with the snarling face of a charging boar. If anything, the bearer of the armament better resembled the vicious animal than the colourful reproduction, his red beard knotted and braided so that it looked like two tusks coming from each side of his mouth. Raymond had no doubt of the newcomer’s identity. It was Jarl Sigtrygg, the man who had attacked Strongbow at the Thorney Inn in Westminster.
‘What is he saying?’ Raymond asked the translator.
‘He says that the thralls in this market are of poor worth and that if Konungr Trygve agrees to help his friend, Ragnall of Veðrarfjord, there will be many slaves of a better value…’ the translator paused, his eyes flicking towards Raymond.
‘When the fort of the foreigners falls,’ Fionntán finished his sentence as all eyes in the marketplace swung around to stare at the small group headed by Raymond de Carew. They knew that the giant newcomer meant Dun Domhnall and that the slaves would be Raymond and his warriors.
Fionntán threw his pear core to the ground and leant back against the building behind him, waiting to see what Raymond would do as Jarl Sigtrygg of Veðrarfjord slowly raised a hand to point at Raymond and shouted another challenge in his direction. The crowd gasped at the words, but as Fionntán began to translate Raymond held up a hand to stop him.
‘I can guess exactly what he said,’ he told his friend while keeping his eyes on his challenger. ‘He wants to kill us all. The pig-faced bastard and I have a bit of history. I killed twenty of his warriors in England less than a month ago.’
‘My name is Jarl Sigtrygg,’ the warrior replied in heavily accented French. ‘And you are my enemy. You killed my crewmen. I kill my enemies and piss on their bones,’ he told him. ‘You are my enemy,’ he repeated.
Raymond simply began to chuckle as, on the other side of the marketplace, the Konungr of Cluainmín shouted a question.
‘Trygve asks why you are laughing,’ the translator told him, one eye on Jarl Sigtrygg who visibly fumed at Raymond’s reaction to his threat.
‘I am laughing because this is not the first time I have had my life threatened,’ Raymond laughed again. ‘It’s not even the first time this day!’ As the slave shouted his answer towards the Konungr of Cluainmín the people began laughing. ‘And of the two women to threaten my life this day, this one I will fear least.’ He waved a hand at the jarl before making an apologetic nod towards Geoffrey of Abergavenny for making a joke about his sister.
‘It may not be the first time that you have been threatened with death,’ the jarl snarled, ‘but it will be the last.’ He jumped down from the raised platform and made for Raymond, producing a long dagger from beneath his shield as he ranged forward.
Raymond had his own knife in his hand in moments and crouched ready to meet Sigtrygg. The people of Cluainmín divided as the giant jarl pushed a path towards Raymond and swept his circular shield onto his left arm. The Ostman stabbed his weapon forward angrily with a roar, but Raymond was ready for th
e move, deflecting the blade with his right while simultaneously landing an uppercut to Jarl Sigtrygg’s nose with his left hand as the Ostman attempted to raise his shield.
As blood burst brightly from his deformed, upturned nose, Jarl Sigtrygg looked shocked at the speed of Raymond’s reaction. He screamed in anger as his weight took him past his adversary and crashed into the Frankish translator. The two of them fell to the floor in a tangle of legs and weaponry.
‘Now you have a pig-nose to match your tusks,’ laughed Raymond as Jarl Sigtrygg rolled onto the slave, bleeding profusely from his misshapen snout.
‘What do we do?’ Geoffrey asked as he danced on the spot like an excited puppy.
Blood streamed from Jarl Sigtrygg’s nose as he climbed back to his feet. Raymond could see that the Ostman’s nose poked unnaturally upwards as would that of a boar. He roared in pain and shook his head, scattering blood widely.
Amaury de Lyvet had come to Raymond’s side, producing a hand axe from somewhere on his person while Geoffrey held up his fists like a page ready to defend his honour against his peers. Fionntán still lounged against the wall, apparently unafraid of Sigtrygg’s menace. The jarl wiped blood away from his mouth with his bare forearm and began speaking angrily in Raymond’s direction.
‘He says that he is going to pull your innards out through your ears,’ Fionntán translated. ‘I don’t think that it is possible, but I admit to wondering if a man of his size could do it,’ he winked at Geoffrey of Abergavenny.
As Geoffrey sent a concerned look towards Raymond, Fionntán redirected his words towards the Konungr of Cluainmín who watched the agitators with great interest. Fionntán spoke in the Danish tongue, whipping his hand in Raymond’s direction at various times.
‘What are you saying?’ Raymond whispered to his friend.
‘I reminded Trygve of some lines from the Hávamál,’ said Fionntán. ‘A list of good manners,’ he described, ‘and the proper way for a true king to treat his guests,’ he raised his voice as he added some further indictment against Trygve’s hospitality. The fat konungr listened to Fionntán’s words and grimaced, waving his arm towards more of his warriors who ran to Sigtrygg’s side and pointed their spears at the warlord. The jarl from Veðrarfjord spat on the nearest soldier, but did not continue his attack.
‘Help me,’ a whimper came from the ground nearby. As Raymond turned he could see that the Frankish translator-slave was bleeding profusely onto the timber street. He had been stabbed when the jarl had collided with him and his arm hung limply at his side. The Norman could see a large wound on his elbow and dark blood poured down his forearm. The rotund Konungr of Cluainmín hauled himself to his feet and climbed down from his litter as his warriors chivvied Jarl Sigtrygg to one side. Trygve waddled across the marketplace followed by yet more warriors and two priests, casting a venomous look at Jarl Sigtrygg as he knelt beside the wounded translator and delicately extended his arm to look at the wound. The slave screamed in pain.
‘The tendon is severed,’ Fionntán told Raymond. ‘He’ll never have full use of it again.’
The konungr spoke softly to one of his attendants and then began patting the slave on his head with a sad look on his face. Below him the translator began desperately shaking his head and pleading with his master, clinging to Trygve’s sleeve by his good arm with tears running down his face. The konungr delicately quieted the slave and patted him on his head as he would do a terrified dog.
Confused, Raymond turned to Fionntán for an explanation of the unusual behaviour. The Gael didn’t answer, but nodded back towards Trygve. As Raymond turned his head back, the konungr stabbed the wounded slave in the neck and slit his throat.
‘Stop!’ Raymond shouted as the translator gurgled on his own blood. ‘Why did you do that?’ he demanded of Trygve who, for his part, looked genuinely sad as he wiped his dagger on the dead slave’s dirty shift.
‘The slave was badly injured and in terrible pain,’ Fionntán told Raymond with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘No point keeping and feeding him if he can’t work. He can’t pay his way by simply translating for Franks.’
Raymond shook his head and swapped a disgusted look with Geoffrey and Amaury. They did not understand what had occurred either. However, Raymond did not want to offend Trygve and asked Fionntán to deliver his formal greeting to the konungr.
‘Please tell him that I have come to Cluainmín in friendship,’ Raymond said, ‘and that I also come with more than empty promises like the men of Veðrarfjord,’ he looked at the giant Jarl Sigtrygg who, having been shepherded away at spear point, brooded close to the raised platform, examining his wounded face with his fingers. ‘I bring generous gifts rather than trouble and bloodshed.’
That caught the attention of Trygve and, ignoring the overtures of Jarl Sigtrygg, he beckoned Raymond to follow him back towards his litter. With one final glance at the Jarl of Veðrarfjord, the captain pushed through the quickly diminishing crowd. Trygve collapsed back into his chair, wiping the sweat from his brow as he did so. The fur-lined seat squeaked and strained under Trygve’s massive weight and, as he rearranged his clothes, the konungr began questioning Fionntán.
‘He asks what generous gifts you bring,’ the Gael translated Trygve’s words. ‘And why you bring them.’
‘I bring the best wines that Christendom can provide, and more besides,’ Raymond said as his friend interpreted. ‘As to why, I suspect he already knows my purpose here.’
Trygve nodded his head.
‘The konungr says that he enjoys your Frankish wines and that he hopes you brought a lot of it,’ Fionntán said with a small smile. ‘He says that you are welcome to Cluainmín since you have not attacked any of his ships or prevented any traders from entering the Banneew as he feared that you would. However, he warns that while he has no argument with you, he doesn’t want one with Veðrarfjord either.’ Fionntán paused as he listened to Trygve speak. ‘He says that Jarl Sigtrygg has been sent to Cluainmín by Konungr Ragnall to demand that he help them attack Dun Domhnall, should Veðrarfjord feel the need to eject you. Trygve says that he has been put in a difficult situation and that it will take a lot of Frankish wine to allay his fears.’
‘Thank the konungr for his honesty,’ Raymond replied and bowed to the portly chieftain, ‘and tell him that I would not wish to bring any trouble to Cluainmín. All I want is to be left alone at Dun Domhnall. I have no interest in any town unless they are under the thrall of Veðrarfjord. Then we will have a problem.’
Fionntán cringed but interpreted Raymond’s words. Trygve smiled knowingly, his hands in the air in mock surprise.
‘He says that he is too old to want to fight a war with his friends and neighbours,’ Fionntán interpreted, ‘and too experienced to not realise what you are up to, perched out on Dun Domhnall like a bunch of gannets. He guesses that if one was so minded they could house a thousand men behind the new walls?’ Both the Gael and the Ostman king smiled as Raymond stumbled over his response. ‘He says he will make no decision until he gets a sufficient wergild from Jarl Sigtrygg for the slave he damaged. He doesn’t want the jarl disappearing without first paying for his little indiscretion.’ Fionntán pointed at the dead translator whose body still lay in the marketplace.
‘I will send a cask of my best wine to help him through the negotiations,’ Raymond told Fionntán. ‘And I will have another six ready to toast his decision if he decides upon an alliance with the men of Dun Domhnall.’
‘Ha!’ the konungr spat a sudden burst of laughter and slapped his thigh with his hand. Raymond smiled and, as the konungr repeated the joke to his warriors, he studied Trygve. The Ostman was richly clothed in bright linen and fur, but it was the ornate trinkets at his wrists and neck that drew the Norman’s attention. All were made of rich silver and embellished with precious stones. The seven or eight warriors behind the konungr were equally well adorned in the precious metal and before he could stop himself, Raymond pictured himself wearing the jewellery and re
warding his own milites with the intricate, swirling bracelets and torques. He licked his lips.
‘Tell him that I would be interested in trading wine for silver,’ he told Fionntán. The Gael looked as if Raymond had slapped him in the face.
‘What did I tell you?’ Fionntán snarled, grabbing Raymond’s shoulder and pulling him away from Trygve’s litter. ‘We do not mention the silver. These Ostmen protect their mines like a vixen guards her fox cubs. No outsider even knows where the mines are! If you mention the silver they will become suspicious and guarded.’ Behind the pair, Trygve began talking again, directed at the Norman party.
‘He wants to know what we are arguing about,’ Fionntán told him and, with a last forceful look at Raymond, he began talking to Trygve in his own language. ‘I told him that I was promised some of the wine you are giving him,’ Fionntán said angrily. ‘And I asked if Jarl Sigtrygg and his men were staying in his hall,’ he waved a hand to the north where the largest building in the town stood. ‘He replied that they were, though the konungr is not happy about it. Jarl Sigtrygg has been making a name for himself among the Ostmen. He has been going raiding,’ he told Raymond. ‘They have heard that he killed a Norse chieftain called Magnus on Strangrfjorðr, and then sacked a monastery on Kerlingfjorðr. The konungr warns that Jarl Sigtrygg is not the type of man to let an insult pass.’
Raymond nodded in agreement. ‘He came by land?’ he asked and Trygve confirmed it. ‘Then we shall stay on board Waverider tonight and anchor close to the eastern bank.’
As Fionntán interpreted his words, Trygve shifted uncomfortably, but did not object to Raymond’s statement. Instead he called over one of his warriors and whispered in his ear. The man nodded and cast a look in Raymond’s direction before walking into town trailed by more bearded fighters. Raymond stared at their backs suspiciously as Trygve began babbling in his direction again.
‘The konungr says that he will expect the cask of wine before sundown,’ Fionntán said. ‘He bids us good day.’
Lord of the Sea Castle Page 23