With a shiver, Einar contemplated that if the Irish chieftain who had taken him prisoner had been minded not to kill him, he too could well have ended up among those unfortunates for sale in the market.
‘This is the spring from which the wealth of Dublin flows,’ Ivar said to Einar, pointing in the direction of the slaves. ‘The Irish fight each other all the time and the winners sell the losers to traders here. Jarls in the east beyond Norway in Holmgard take slaves from the savages who live in the forests on the Dneiper river. Vikings take slaves on raids all over Europe and bring them here to sell. The Dublin slave traders grow fat on the profits of buying and selling them. King Guthfrith of Dublin takes his cut of it all of course.’
‘Woe to the defeated,’ Ulrich commented, then walked on ahead.
‘Hold on one moment, will you?’ Hrolf said to Ivar, suddenly grasping the Princess Affreca by the hand. ‘There’s a jewellery merchant over there.’ He turned a sickly grin towards Affreca. ‘I wish to buy my bride-to-be a present.’
The little procession halted in the middle of the market while Hrolf began conferring with a nearby merchant who grinned with the delight of a child at the festival of Jól. Soon Hrolf, his face a mask of magnanimous generosity, was holding up silver and gold chains to the neck of the princess. Einar looked away, tutting. As he did so he saw Ivar shaking his head.
‘The young fool is lovestruck,’ the old man sighed, his tone filled with disapproval.
‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ Einar asked. ‘He’s going to marry her after all.’
Ivar looked sideways at him as if he had just said the most stupid thing the old man had ever heard.
‘What’s going on, Ivar?’ Einar said, fixing the other man with an unflinching gaze. ‘What else do I not know about?’
A look of indecision crossed Ivar’s face. He hesitated for a moment, then his mouth opened. Before he could say anything Ulrich returned.
‘What’s that idiot doing?’ he hissed in a low voice, pointing in the direction of Hrolf, who was by now running his hand through Affreca’s hair with the pretence that he was holding up ear rings to see if they would suit her. Einar was sure the smile on her beautiful face looked forced. At least he hoped that it was so.
Ivar grunted. ‘Hrolf wants to buys baubles for his princess.’
Ulrich scowled. ‘I don’t like this, Ivar,’ he said. ‘He could ruin everything.’
‘So there is something going on!’ Einar interjected.
Ulrich shot an annoyed glance in his direction. ‘This is none of your business, farmer boy. Keep your nose out,’ he said.
Einar looked at Ivar who gave a placatory nod. ‘Look, I will tell you later, all right?’ the older man said in a low voice, his eyes darting around to see who may be within earshot.
‘Tell him nothing,’ Ulrich hissed, shooting a fierce glare at Ivar.
‘That is for me to decide,’ Ivar replied, his face impassive.
Ulrich spat and looked away. ‘Well, if we’re delayed here anyway then this is a good opportunity for Skar and me to go about that bit of business I mentioned. We’ll meet you at the King’s Gard later.’
‘Where are you going?’ Ivar demanded.
‘We have King Eirik’s work to attend to,’ Ulrich said. ‘I told you earlier.’
‘You didn’t tell me what it was,’ Ivar said.
‘Nor do I have to,’ Ulrich said, his teeth bared in what could have been a grin or a snarl.
‘I told you before,’ Ivar said. ‘We are here on the behest of my lord, the Jarl Thorfinn. You are supposed to provide protection and support. That was what was agreed with your lord, the king. Now you’re setting off on some private business we know nothing about, leaving me to go into the court of a potential enemy virtually alone and unguarded? How do I know what you’re up to? Perhaps you intend to betray us?’
Ulrich’s eyes widened and a look of fury blazed in them. His nostrils flared and Einar could tell that the man’s dangerous anger was simmering to the boil. For a moment the memory surfaced in his mind of how the little man’s face had changed before he tore the Irish king’s throat out with his teeth. The tension was so palpable Einar sensed that if he still had his knife, he could have used it to slice the air between Ulrich and Ivar. The growing confrontation made his stomach churn. Ivar seemed implacable, however, and Einar was genuinely impressed by how bravely the old man faced up to the killer confronting him.
Before Einar had time to think, he found himself blurting out: ‘Why don’t I go with them, Ivar? I can observe what you are doing, Ulrich, and that way you don’t have to tell Ivar what your business is – as long as he trusts my word that you are not up to something bad, and you trust my word that I won’t tell Ivar.’
Ivar and Ulrich looked round at him; both their faces were masks of confusion and consternation. Ivar’s expression then melted into one of pleased admiration.
‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘I accept your proposal.’
‘Well I don’t,’ Ulrich said. ‘This is none of the farmer boy’s business. None of this is.’
‘If you are going to go on this private business and leave us to go on to the King’s Gard alone then I insist he goes with you.’ Ivar folded his arms.
‘Dublin is a dangerous city,’ Ulrich said with an unpleasant leer. ‘What if the farm boy gets his throat cut by a street robber and he ends up thrown in a ditch? Will that be our fault?’
‘This ‘farm boy’ is Jarl Thorfinn’s nephew,’ Ivar stated, his voice edged with warning. ‘He can represent his uncle in this business and if anything were to happen to him I swear an oath to you that I will make rock-sure that the jarl knows who was responsible.’
Ulrich heaved a heavy sigh. He dropped his shoulders and rolled his eyes up into his head. His frustration was clear but Einar sensed that the Wolf Coat leader was as glad as Ivar was that there was a way out of the confrontation that would still save face.
‘Very well,’ Ulrich said. ‘I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this but I can’t be bothered standing around talking about it any more.’
Einar breathed a sigh of relief. His gamble that whatever the Wolf Coat’s ‘business’ was, it was too important to jeopardise by getting into a public fight, had paid off.
Ulrich turned on his heel and walked off quickly. Skar, who had been standing a little way off, a bored expression on his face, joined him. Einar hurried to catch up.
‘So where are we going, anyway?’ he asked as they pushed through the crowds in the market place.
Ulrich walked on, ignoring the question.
‘We are going to visit the Merchant of Death,’ Skar said with a carefree smile.
Twenty-Five
The little group exited the market place and walked in silence along another narrow street that headed east. Ulrich was still seething while Skar seemed indifferent. Einar was too worried that his companions would turn on him to embark on idle chatter.
As they progressed he could not help noticing that the surroundings were becoming more and more unsavoury. The other streets may have been crowded and smelly but there were lots of children running around, playing or generally up to no good. On the street they were now on there were noticeably fewer people under thirteen winters old. There seemed to be very few women around either. Well, at least what Einar would have described as respectable women anyway. There were a lot of public ale halls offering drink, food and accommodation to travellers, something there was obviously no shortage of in Dublin. Raucous singing and laughter came from their doorways. Several men they passed in the street were swaying unsteadily on their feet. Einar spotted one man on his hands and knees near a tavern door, vomiting into the filth-clogged ditch that ran down the side of the street. He shook his head, taken aback at such an open display of unmanliness and lack of self-respect. Many of the other buildings along the street appeared to be used for the slaughter of animals and the butchery of their corpses. The edgy atmosphere was enhanced by the squeals and frightened
cries of pigs as they died and the drainage ditches that flowed on either side of the wooden walkway ran dark red with spilt blood as well as all manner of other vile sludge. The copper-stench of blood permeated the air. Einar had heard of areas in cities like this one. They were the places that sailors newly arrived on foreign shores flocked to, intent on expelling the frustrations of shipboard life and losing themselves in ale and the company of dubious women. The denizens of these places were more than happy to exchange those commodities for the silver and gold in the sailor’s purses.
About halfway down the street they came to a long, low-roofed, thatched building with an open door. A giant of a man with the biggest belly Einar had ever seen sat on a three-legged stool outside it. He was completely bald and wore a black eyepatch over his right eye. A hefty, wicked-looking club that appeared to be made of some sort of knobbly black wood rested across his knees.
Skar stopped outside the building.
‘Hey Ulrich,’ he called to his companion, pointing to the open door, his blond-bearded face cracked in a grin. ‘Maybe we should send the boy in there to make a man of him?’
Ulrich stopped, turned on his heel and took a couple of steps back to see what Skar was pointing at. For a second he peered into the building, then walked off again, chuckling to himself as he went.
Einar caught up with Skar and took a look through the doorway. He blinked, at first confused with what he saw; then with a start he realised that his eyes were not deceiving him and the room inside really was filled with naked women. Not just any women either: they were all young, very pretty women. His jaw dropped open and he was unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of pale skin, firm breasts and round buttocks. Two of the women were looking out towards him and he recognised the same hollow-eyed despair he had seen on the faces of the slaves in the marketplace.
Suddenly his vision was filled by the massive bulk of the one-eyed man with the club who had risen from his stool.
‘Everything here costs silver or gold, lad. Including looking,’ the big man growled. He spoke the Norse tongue but his accent had a lilting tone to it that reminded Einar of the Irish who had taken him captive.
He stepped back, startled and confused. ‘I— I have no silver,’ Einar stammered. ‘I have nothing.’
‘Then keep walking,’ the big man said, his voice now laden with threat.
‘Come on,’ Skar said, beckoning up the street with a cocked head. ‘At least you got a free look, eh?’
They travelled a little further until they arrived at what looked like another large merchant’s hall. An extended porch jutted out from the double doors into the street, providing a short corridor portal, at the end of which stood two men. Both were large-framed and heavily muscled. One was tall and brown-haired. To Einar he looked slightly like a Dane but his clothes were strange. His hair was what could only be described as ‘styled’. It was shoulder length but unbraided and brushed smooth and straight with a parting in the centre of his forehead. His chin was clean shaven but the bottom half of his face was covered by outlandishly long moustache that hung down from his top lip; these too were combed to straight smoothness. Over a leather jerkin he wore a mail coat that was new, sand-polished and glittering even in the dull Irish sunshine. Around his neck, suspended by a chain, was a silver amulet in the form of an equal-armed cross. Einar had seen the same symbol around the necks of some of the Christians he had met in the mound in Orkney and knew this was a symbol of Christ, the God worshipped in Ireland along with their other Gods, Patrick and Bridget. His legs were covered in cross-braided leather stockings and his blue cloak was swept over his shoulder where it was fastened with an intricate gold and red-garnet brooch. He looked like he was going to a feast rather than standing in a muddy street. His nose was crooked, showing it had been broken sometime in his life and his blue eyes cast an arrogant gaze around him.
‘Who on earth is that?’ Einar asked as they got closer.
‘That peacock,’ Skar said from the corner of his mouth, ‘is a rare breed in these parts. That is one of those people who these days like to call themselves Englishmen, though they’re really just the bastard offspring of Danes, Angles, Saxons and Welshmen. They’re also the most proud and pig-headed folk you can ever have the misfortune to run up against. Don’t be fooled by his fancy appearance though. They’re a filthy lot. They only wash themselves about once a year.’
The Englishman’s companion at the hall entrance was a head taller than him. He had the long blond hair of a Norwegian but was dressed like an Irishman in kilt and long wrap-around cloak. Both were attempting to look casual, the Englishman leaning with one shoulder against the porch wall, but the wary glances they cast up and down the street showed they were alert and vigilant. Both shared the same aura as Skar and Ulrich, that of seasoned warriors for whom violence and confrontation was a full time occupation.
Noticing the approach of the Úlfhéðnar, both men in the doorway straightened up. Their gazes were now appraising as they assessed an approaching threat. Einar was slightly surprised to see something else in their eyes too. Recognition.
‘Well, look who’s here,’ the Englishman said, an amused sneer was on his lips and his tone bore a mocking edge. ‘If it isn’t Eirik Bloody Axe’s lap dogs. What are you doing here in Dublin?’
Einar expected an angry reaction but Ulrich and Skar seemed unfazed.
‘King Eirik’s werewolves, you mean.’ Ulrich reply was calm and there was a slight smile on his lips. ‘Well, well. If it isn’t the death merchant’s own personal bodyguards. I could well ask you the same question. Does King Guthfrith know your master Ricbehrt is in his city? I imagine he might ask some awkward questions about just what he’s doing here.’
‘Ricbehrt is travelling on private business,’ the Englishman said, with a shake of his head. ‘He believes that travel broadens the mind.’
Ulrich snorted. ‘Fills his treasure-chests, more like. Let’s stop this horse’s shit, shall we? We all know why Ricbehrt is here and we’ve come to conclude the business we spoke to him about before in Hedeby. When he sees the amount of gold King Eirik will be putting on the table he’ll be more than happy to talk.’
The Englishman regarded him coolly for a moment, then nodded. ‘All right,’ he said, flicking his head to his large companion. The other man went in the door, leaving the men outside looking at each other with a sort of playful contempt.
‘Who’s this?’ The Englishman broke the silence, looking at Einar with hooded eyes. ‘Another of your dog-boy troop?’
Ulrich looked more offended by the suggestion that Einar was a Wolf Coat than at the way the Englishman had referred to the company. ‘Him? He’s some farmer boy from Iceland we have to wet nurse because his uncle is important to King Eirik. You know what it’s like, Edgar. Bloody statecraft.’
The Englishman rolled his eyes and nodded, the tenseness in the air dissolving as both men found fellow feeling in the common annoyances of their occupations.
The door opened again and Edgar’s companion returned.
‘Ricbehrt agrees to see you,’ he said. Einar recognised his accent as akin to that of his Irish captors. ‘Come in.’
He and the Englishman stood aside to let them enter. As they walked towards the door the tall blond-haired guard put out a hand in front of Einar.
‘Not you, though,’ he said.
‘What?’ Einar protested, indignant at being stopped.
‘We’ve met the others before but we don’t know you,’ Edgar said.
Einar looked at his companions, who had turned to see if they would vouch for him.
Ulrich merely shrugged. ‘Understandable,’ he said. ‘Ricbehrt doesn’t want everyone in the city knowing his business.’
‘This suits you, doesn’t it?’ Einar said, his voice laden with accusation. Ulrich merely looked at him with cold eyes. Realising he would get no support from Ulrich he said, ‘What am I supposed to do? Stand around in the street waiting for you?’
�
��I’ll tell you what,’ Skar said, reaching into the leather purse that hung at his belt. He pulled out a few silver coins and tossed them to Einar. Einar’s instinctive reaction was to catch them. His cupped hands grasped three but two others fell into the mud.
‘Go back to that house of slave girls and enjoy yourself. We won’t be long.’ Skar continued.
‘He won’t need long,’ Ulrich said with a grin. All four men laughed, then Ulrich and Skar turned once more and entered the house.
Under the mocking gaze of the two bodyguards, Einar bent to pick up the fallen coins. Standing up again he was about to turn and leave when something caught his eye.
He froze, not sure he could believe what he saw.
Round the neck of the big blond-haired guard was an amulet that hung on a leather thong down the front of his chainmail shirt in the same manner as the Englishman’s cross: a small oblong of stone with a design etched into it, the grooves then filled with gold to highlight the pattern. It was undoubtedly the same design as that on the amulet his mother had given him. The hand and the fish.
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