As they were leaving, Beobrand called to Attor, who was quickly plucking food from the different platters on the boards as he walked the length of the hall.
“See to it there is no repeat of what happened last time you visited a church!”
Attor grinned around a mouthful of food and waved.
Feologild looked perplexed, and raised an eyebrow quizzically, but Beobrand did not explain his words.
After they had tasted enough of the dishes on offer to dull their appetites, Feologild had enquired about how they came to Rodomo. Ferenbald had been vague, saying only that they had come to trade. Feologild nodded, but said nothing, instead changing the subject to how it was that they had found a place to dock on the northern waterfront.
“Still,” said Feologild now, his eyes yet full of laughter at the tale of Beobrand’s altercation with Gozolon, “I am glad you did not feed the whoreson to the fish. Who knows how corrupt his replacement might be?”
Beobrand frowned.
“I did not strike the man so as not to draw attention to myself,” he said. Feologild surveyed Beobrand, taking in his warrior bearing, the broad shoulders and great height, his mutilated hand, the ice-chip blue eyes glaring from beneath a shock of fair hair. He let out a barking laugh.
The man’s amusement annoyed Beobrand, made him feel foolish. He thought back to his anger at Gozolon, the man’s sure knowledge that he could not be touched had made his stomach churn.
“I can think of few men more worthy of being struck,” he said. “And surely if somebody killed the bastard he could be replaced with an honest reeve.”
“Nonsense,” said Feologild. “It is always much better to have a man you know you can bribe. An honest man is so much more difficult to deal with.”
Again, the men laughed. Cynan smiled and raised his cup. Bearn nibbled at his food gingerly, seemingly content to have arrived safely on land. Beobrand nodded at Feologild, forcing a smile. The warmth of the man’s hospitality was welcome, but Mantican had also fed them and given them fine wine.
“So, Feologild,” Ferenbald said, ale foam flecking his thick beard, “I see you have already fathomed the ending of this story.”
“Well, as you say Lord Beobrand here did not open the man’s belly, I can only see one outcome. So,” he turned his gaze to Beobrand, “how much did you give him?”
Beobrand shrugged.
“A silver chalice.”
Ferenbald held out his hands to show the size of the object.
“It was fine too,” he said. “Carved with the most elaborate work you have ever seen. Animals and trees intertwining. A thing of true beauty.”
Feologild whistled quietly.
“By Christ’s bones!” he exclaimed. “Gozolon would have moved half of the ships in the river for such a thing.”
Ferenbald grimaced.
“I told Beobrand as much. But he gave the man a fortune, just to get us a good berth.”
“You are happy with the mooring, are you not?” asked Beobrand, bridling.
Ferenbald chuckled.
“Aye,” he said, “you should have seen how quickly Gozolon made room for us on the dock.”
There had been much shouting with the captain of a ship which Ferenbald had told Beobrand had sailed from a southern kingdom called Baetica. The captain and his crew all had dense black beards and skin as dark as leather. Beobrand could not understand the words they spoke, but the captain was clearly furious, waving his arms and gesticulating wildly. He was no fool though, it seemed, for he ceased his protesting quickly enough when the port warden called out to the guards on the dock. Six more quickly joined those from his boat. A dozen armed warriors was ample to convince the Baetican that he would be better off moored on one of the islands.
“That is the difference between a merchant and a warrior,” said Feologild. “Neither you, Ferenbald, nor your father, nor I would have given that bastard more than we could get away with.”
Feologild’s words needled at Beobrand.
“I do not need to haggle to get that which I want,” he said. “As you say, Feologild, I am a warrior, not a merchant. I do not count my coins and pieces of silver. If I seek to bribe someone, I make sure it is an offer he cannot refuse. Just as when I face an enemy with my sword, I do not plan to lose.”
“Nobody plans to lose, lord,” Feologild said, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “But I admire your mettle. You see what you want and you take it. It might just be at a greater cost than I would be willing to pay. But we are not so different, you and I. So, now that you have sated your hunger and thirst, what is it that really brings you to Rodomo?”
Chapter 41
“I will do no such thing!” Ardith trembled with anger and tears stung her eyes.
Erynn reached out to her, but Ardith shook her off.
“Do not touch me!” she hissed, lowering her voice now for fear the noise would attract others to come to the small parlour where they sat. Erynn withdrew her hand as if it had been bitten.
She sighed.
“You must, little one,” Erynn cooed, but where her voice had soothed Ardith in the night, now its honeyed sweetness was cloying and turned her stomach.
Ardith’s vision wavered as her eyes brimmed with tears. She cuffed the tears away. She would not cry again in front of this woman. All of the warm comfort she had felt when she had awoken in the darkness of the night before had been dashed away in the morning light. Erynn had brought her clean clothes, a pale green woollen peplos over a simple shift of linen, and then led her to this small room near the kitchen. From time to time servants and thralls bustled through, but, after bringing them some bread, cheese, apples and a strange reddish fruit that she had never seen before, they had left Ardith and Erynn alone.
The room was cool, the shutters open. Mid-morning sun lanced through the windows, illuminating the parlour and dispelling shadows. Her mother always said that problems looked better in the light of day. But Ardith could find no consolation from the cool wintry sun. The chill, watery light allowed nowhere for her to hide her grief.
As she had fallen asleep last night, she had been sure that in Erynn she had found an ally, a beautiful guardian angel sent by the Blessed Virgin herself to look over and guide her. How quickly dreams fled with the rising sun, to be replaced by the stark realities of the day.
“Little one…” Erynn said, her tone seeking to mollify Ardith, but only succeeding in further angering the girl. “Ardith…”
Ardith turned away from the beautiful woman. She could not bear to look at her. The betrayal was so painful it felt as though Erynn had stabbed a knife into her chest. But there had been no blade, just harsh words delivered in that sweet smooth voice.
“You told me I could have my knife,” Ardith said, a sob catching in her throat. She heard the pleading tone of her voice and hated it. Such a tone would have garnered her a slap from her father and even her mother would have been angry with her for whining. But Ardith’s ire seethed and boiled impotently within her and it was all she could do to speak without crying. She wished she could remain strong and aloof, but as the prospect of escape fled, so did her self-control.
A thin man with a balding head and sparse, wiry beard, hurried past carrying a stack of platters. He flicked a glance at the two of them. Perhaps he had overheard Ardith’s words about the knife. Good, she thought. Perhaps the Lord Vulmar would hear of it and… And what? Have her killed? Her head was filled with black thoughts. Blessed Maria, Mother of God, could it be true?
“Hush, Ardith,” Erynn said, waiting until the thrall had passed out of earshot. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He would kill you,” she said, exasperated. This was not the first time they had spoken of this since the sun had risen. She continued in a placatory tone, entreating Ardith to see sense. “He would kill us both.”
“I would rather that than what is planned for me,” snapped Ardith.
Erynn let out a sigh.
“No, you do not mean that. You know not w
hat you say.”
“I know well enough that I do not wish to be his… his…” She did not wish to say the word. She swallowed. Her mouth was filled with the bitter acid taste of bile. “I will not be his whore,” she said at last.
“You must learn to give him what he wants,” Erynn said. “I know you are scared, but it is not so bad. It might hurt for a while, but some girls find they enjoy it. If you behave well, he will not be too hard on you.”
Ardith’s stomach twisted at Erynn’s words. She tasted bile in her throat and thought she might puke.
“I am betrothed,” she said, her voice again the timid squeak of a child. She thought of Brinin then. Of his sombre, thoughtful eyes and his strong, but gentle, callused hands. Of the stolen kisses behind his father’s forge. Of the Thrimilci feast, where the summer night sky had been spattered with the flying sparks from dozens of bonfires. They had sat together on the beach that night, talking and laughing and in a moment of awkward silence she had allowed him to slide his hand up under her peplos while he had clumsily kissed her. She had thrilled at his touch, this boy-man who would be her husband. And now she would never see him again.
“I am sorry, little one, truly I am.”
“Stop calling me that,” hissed Ardith. “If I am old enough to be a lord’s bed-thrall, I am not so little any longer.”
Erynn lowered her gaze for a moment.
“You must forget your betrothed,” she said.
“I will never forget him,” said Ardith. “But I know he would never want me. Not after this.” She took a shuddering breath, willing herself not to weep. She was done showing weakness. She realised that Erynn had been wise not to give her back her knife, for such was the fury Ardith felt, she would certainly have used it on the beautiful woman who had seemed to be her friend and had become her captor.
“If you are good,” Erynn said, “if you listen to me and learn what I have to teach you, the lord will be happy with you. It will not be so bad and in time he will find someone new and you might be allowed to stay here. Like me.”
Something in her wistful tone made Ardith turn back to the woman. A breeze blew through the room and from the distance came the sound of shouting from the streets of Rodomo. Erynn’s dark hair wafted about her slender face in the draught and her eyes shone.
“I was once such as you, Ardith,” she said.
Ardith’s ire and fear was suddenly replaced with an overwhelming sadness. She met Erynn’s gaze and saw her face reflected in the dark mirrors of her eyes.
“I see no other girls here,” she said. “How many have come here, to Vulmar’s bed, since you were a child? Where are those other girls?” Her words were heavy; stones dropped into the stillness of the parlour. The ripples of the words clearly had an effect on Erynn, for she blanched.
But before she could answer, a man approached them. Despite his middling years, he was tall and straight-backed, with a close-cut beard. His eyes were dull, cold and unfeeling and his thoughtful, lingering appraisal of Ardith sent a cool shiver along her spine.
“Richomer,” said Erynn, “how can I help you?”
She spoke to the man in Anglisc and he frowned. Ardith thought that perhaps he did not speak her tongue, but then he replied with words she could understand. His voice had the music of the Franks, but he spoke the language of the Anglisc well enough.
“You know all too well how you could help me, whore,” he said, and his eyes roved over Erynn. Ardith noticed Erynn tense, but she did her best to hide her revulsion. “Alas,” Richomer continued, “I have no time for such things now. Perhaps tonight, when the Lord Vulmar is himself too busy to need me.”
“Tonight?” asked Erynn.
“Yes,” he replied. He looked Ardith up and down and said something in his native Frankish tongue.
Erynn shook her head and replied in the same language.
He reverted to Anglisc with a smirk and a wink at Ardith. She felt her bowels turn to water under the man’s scrutiny.
“She seems well enough to me,” he said. “Get her prepared, for tonight this pretty thing will meet our master.”
Chapter 42
“So you have goods to sell,” said Feologild, smiling and rubbing his chin, “but, unless I am blind to the nature of man, that is not the main purpose for your visit. Am I right?”
“We have things of great value and beauty aboard Brimblæd,” Beobrand answered, ignoring the second part of the merchant’s question.
Beobrand was being deliberately vague. He was unsure of his footing here, in this strange place. The multitudes of people outside in the teeming streets filled the air with their gibberish language. The sounds of the bustling city wafted in through the open shutters of the hall. But rather than clearing the air of the crowded feast, allowing the scent of food, drink and the sweat from so many gathered men to drift away into the cool day outside, the open shutters seemed to Beobrand merely to bring in more smells. It only served to further unnerve him. He was used to a hall becoming hot, the fug of bodies and smoke from the hearth fire stinging the eyes of those gathered until the doors or shutters were thrown wide, bringing in the still and fresh air from outside. When he opened the doors of his hall at Ubbanford he would hear the wind rustling the branches of the oak where Sunniva had liked to sit. If he stepped outside during daylight and strained his ears he might make out a shepherd whistling to his dogs, or perhaps the distant thunk of an axe into timber. One thing was certain, unless a mighty storm raged across the land, it was more peaceful without the hall than within.
Outside Feologild’s house there was a sudden crash, a cart overturning perhaps, such was the din produced. This was followed by screams and shouts of many people. Beobrand half rose from his seat, expecting the master of the hall to send them all running outside to see what had caused the commotion. And yet Feologild did not seem to even notice the new noise.
“Indeed,” he said, raising his cup to Beobrand in a slightly mocking toast. “I would see these items you speak of soon. We can discuss whether there are any things I am interested in purchasing. I normally deal in simple commodities,” he waved a hand airily, “wool from Wessex, glass from the Sasanids, cinnamon and pottery from Ægypte, but I might be persuaded to dabble in things of a more, shall we say, exotic nature.” He took a sip of his drink, holding Beobrand’s gaze. “But tell me, what is it that truly brings one such as you to Frankia?”
Beobrand sighed. Feologild would not let the matter rest. Beobrand had done his best to ignore the merchant’s probing questions, or to deflect them and to change the subject. He did not know the man well enough to trust him. He had hoped that Feologild would be satisfied to discuss trade, but the man was as persistent as a wasp buzzing about a rotting apple. Gods, the man seemed to enjoy Beobrand’s discomfort. It was as though he saw their conversation as a test of his skill. As a warrior would relish crossing blades with a worthy adversary, so Feologild seemed to enjoy the cut and thrust of words. Beobrand was growing increasingly frustrated. He was not made for these intrigues. He would sooner draw Hrunting and fight Feologild or any champion of his choice than to endure this constant needling of words from the man.
Beobrand shook his head at the idea of fighting the merchant. Feologild was no more a warrior than Beobrand was an orator. A contest of strength and battle-skill would have been an unmatched competition. He would be able to cut Feologild down after a few clumsy parries from the trader. Beobrand felt he would be defeated equally easily in this sparring with words.
Gazing out through the window to the overcast sky, Beobrand took a long draught of ale. Outside, the raised voices had died down, replaced instead by the constant hubbub of the city. A titter of female laughter pierced Rodomo’s rumble and, unbidden, Beobrand was instantly reminded of Eanflæd. Despite the tension he felt, he smiled into his drinking cup. No doubt Eanflæd would have relished the opportunity to wield her wit against that of Feologild. Beobrand thought of her youthful exuberance; the keen intelligence and iron will that
lay trapped in the lithesome body of a girl. No, not a girl: a woman, a peace-weaver. The daughter of a king. Eanflæd would quickly have got the better of Feologild in a war of words, and Beobrand was certain the merchant would have offered her whatever she asked of him. It seemed men were incapable of denying her. He took another swig of ale and felt his face grow hot as he pictured her golden hair and the curve of her hips. He missed her, he realised with a start.
Gods, he was a fool. To think of Eanflæd at all was folly. But deep down within him, a quiet voice whispered that perhaps he was not foolhardy. Mayhap he was brave. And a brave man could take what he desired. Anger flashed through him at his own stupidity and he slammed his wooden cup down on the board, causing many of those seated at the table to glance in his direction.
“I have angered you with my questions, I see,” said Feologild. “I meant no harm.”
Beobrand’s face grew hotter still.
“I apologise, Feologild. It has been a trying journey and I am tired.”
“Of course, forgive my endless prying. I just had an inkling that there was more to your journey than you had at first chosen to share. Perhaps I could help you, if I knew of your mission. I am not without influence in the city.”
Beobrand hesitated. For a moment he considered telling Feologild everything, but instead, he reached for a pitcher of ale and refilled his cup.
Still he sought to hold his secrets close. He was a stranger here in Rodomo and it seemed to him that, despite his warm welcome and hospitable manner, Feologild was a trader and therefore governed by his love of gold and silver. Any such man could be bought, and Ferenbald had told Beobrand that the Lord Vulmar they looked for was the richest man in Rodomo. Beobrand did not want his adversary to know he was coming before he had even learnt the location of Vulmar’s residence.
Feologild frowned for a moment, like a cloud passing across the sun before he once more beamed a smile at Beobrand.
“Well, thegn of Bernicia,” he said, “I will leave you to your secrets. Perhaps in time you will grow to trust me, for surely I am your friend here. And,” he went on with a knowing nod, “nobody can ever have too many friends.”
Storm of Steel Page 27