Conquest 03 - Knights of the Hawk

by James Aitcheson

  ‘Already this year there has been open war between them,’ Snorri said. ‘He nearly lost his kingdom because of it. There will be worse to come when he dies, too. His last surviving son and heir perished last year, so what will happen no one knows, except that there’ll be all manner of adventurers and sellswords flocking to these shores, looking to ply their trade. Probably this Haakon you mentioned will be among them.’

  Not if I found him first, I thought, though I did not say it.

  It took another three days from first spying Yrland’s coast before finally we made port in Dyflin. We travelled slowly, hugging as near as Snorri dared to the spray-battered cliffs and stacks where guillemots gathered. He did this, he said, for two reasons: firstly so as to be less easily spotted, and secondly to deter any raiders who might be on the prowl for trading ships like ours. Open water was where we were most vulnerable, for whereas Hrithdyr was wide and slow, the ships the pirates favoured tended to be sleek and fast, with slender beams, high prows, and oars as well as sails. Close to land, however, the risks were greater where raiders were concerned. Floating masses of seaweed might become tangled in their oars, while there were sheltered creeks and inlets in which their prey could easily hide. Instead, Snorri explained, they usually preferred to attack when the prey was easy. And so it proved, for although on two occasions we spied sails on the horizon that we suspected might belong to such sea wolves, both kept their distance, obviously deciding that we were not worth the effort of a pursuit, and thus we were spared.

  A biting easterly wind was gusting at our backs, piercing our spray-soaked tunics, its chill working its way into my very bones, when we sailed around yet another headland and at long last spotted Dyflin in the distance. Winter was on its way, it seemed. I wrapped my cloak tightly around me. We had to wait a few more hours for the flood tide, and so we anchored in the estuary in the meantime, furled the sail and gazed upon the sprawling city with its crumbling timber palisades, its wharves and slipways and beaches and landing stages where ships both large and small had been dragged high above the tideline and were being caulked in preparation for their last voyages before the snows.

  My sickness had at last abated, and it was Eithne who now looked ill. Indeed I’d heard hardly a word from her throughout the entire voyage, the brashness that I recalled in her from our first meeting having ebbed away over the last few days.

  ‘Please, lord,’ she said now, and there was fear in her eyes. ‘I don’t want to go back there.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She hesitated, glanced around to check that no one else was watching, and then turned around and pulled at the collar of her dress, revealing a black symbol, roughly as long as my thumb and shaped something like a letter R except more jagged, which had been branded on to her chest, just below her shoulder-bone. At once I understood.

  ‘You’re a slave?’ I asked.

  ‘Was, lord. I ran away two years ago. There’s another, if you want to see it.’ She lifted up her skirt to show me her thigh.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I don’t need to see.’ Some of Snorri’s crewmen were beginning to take an interest, nudging each other and pointing in our direction, particularly the younger ones, some of whom were barely more than pups and would probably have counted themselves lucky to glimpse the merest flash of a woman’s bared ankle. ‘Is that your master’s mark?’

  She nodded. ‘His name is Ravn. He’s a merchant. He lives in Dyflin, or used to, anyway.’

  ‘Why did you run away? Did he beat you?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘He was a good master, in that sense. Not cruel. He gave us warm clothes and fed us well, us Irish ones, anyway. He was fond of us, though some of the others he treated less well. The work he gave us wasn’t hard, and he looked after my mother when she was sick—’

  ‘Why, then?’

  ‘I saw the way he looked at me sometimes when I was churning the butter or building the fire. I saw the hunger in his eyes and I was afraid that when I came of age he’d want me to help warm his bed, as my mother did while she still lived.’

  ‘So you fled.’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  As reasons went, that was far from the worst I had heard, and it was hard not to feel sorry for her. We Normans tended not to keep or trade slaves, the bishops having preached that both practices were sinful, though as always there were a few noblemen who disagreed with the Church’s judgement and kept them to help with the running of their households. As we had found in the years since coming to Britain, however, slavery was common among the folk who lived in these isles, as it was among the Danes and the Moors, who perhaps once a year would venture north to these shores, bringing boatloads of dark-skinned, black-haired women and children from distant, sun-parched lands, who spoke in tongues no one could decipher and whose strange beauty entranced all who set eyes upon them.

  Eithne was no beauty, but she was young, and to many men that was more important.

  ‘How did you end up at Elyg?’ I asked.

  ‘Does it matter, lord?’

  I supposed it didn’t, not really, but I was curious, and when she saw that my interest was genuine, she sighed and told me the whole story. In fleeing Dyflin with the few coins she’d been able to scrape together, she had been able to find passage with a trader, only for their ship to be ambushed when they were less than a day out of port. The captain of the raiders had seen Eithne and taken a fancy to her at first sight, and rather than resist him she had pretended to love him in return.

  ‘I thought it would be easier that way,’ Eithne said sadly. ‘I didn’t realise I’d thrown off one yoke only to place another around my neck.’

  He had taken her back to his hall in Kathenessia, and had married soon after. From what she told me it seemed he had been kind enough, treating her well and clothing her in the richest fabrics he could afford and bestowing her with silver bracelets and brooches, and she had kept up the pretence, realising that she was unlikely to find greater happiness anywhere else. Then this year, hearing that there might be glory and fortune to be won in the Fens, he had ventured south, and since he could not bear to be apart from Eithne for long, he had taken her with him.

  ‘And now everything has come full circle and I find myself back here,’ she said bitterly. ‘The last place I wanted to be. If Ravn sees me—’

  ‘He won’t,’ I replied confidently. Even if he still lived in these parts, this Ravn might not even remember her after so long.

  ‘But if he does—’

  ‘Even if he does, you’re safe with me.’

  ‘You promise you won’t take me back to him?’

  I was about to say, only half in jest, that that depended on how much he was willing to pay to see her returned, for, though it shames me to say so, I was briefly tempted. I remained desperately poor, and the reward for dragging a fugitive slave back to her master would go some way to replenishing my coin-purse. Yet I had vowed myself to her protection, and I was not one to go back on my pledges, especially given that I’d already tricked her the once, into coming with me. She trusted me, and I would not betray that trust.

  ‘I swear it,’ I told her. ‘And, after I’ve done what I’ve come here for, I promise to see you safely back home. Where is home for you, anyway?’

  ‘A small village that doesn’t have a name, where the great river empties into the wide western sea.’

  That was no great help, for such a place could be anywhere. ‘Do you know where exactly?’

  She shrugged. ‘A short way downstream from the city the Danes call Hlymerkr.’

  I nodded, though I had never heard of such a place. How I’d manage to take her home or even when exactly, I hadn’t yet worked out. But I would.

  She was still pale and anxious when, later that day, we clambered from Hrithdyr on to Dyflin’s muddy quayside, hauling our packs up after us. The local reeve, or whatever the word for such an official was in the tongues of that place, came to collect from Snorri the silver penny that was the daily pr
ice for keeping a vessel moored here, and after paying it the Dane led us up the city’s narrow, dung-reeking alleys to the place where this Magnus could be found.

  Despite everything I’d heard about Dyflin and the folk who frequented it, it was nothing like I had imagined: not nearly as large, nor as impressive to look upon, compared with either Lundene or the great cities of Normandy, with their towering vaulted churches and encircling stone walls that stood the height of six men. Indeed it seemed to me a sorry place. While a few long halls that probably belonged to merchants or noblemen stood proud upon the higher ground to the south, much of the rest of the city looked as if it were being swallowed up by the mud. Crumbling, sunken-floored houses huddled close together on either side of streets ankle-deep in filth. In one place a stream had become clogged with straw and leaves and dung and the putrid remains of an animal that might once have been a hog, and had overspilled its banks, flooding the road and leaving wide pools through which we had no choice but to trudge. One part of the town was burnt to the ground, leaving only blackened timbers and piles of ash, whether as the result of some accident or a recent raid I could only guess. Traders called out in tongues I did not understand, grabbing at our sleeves to catch our attention, pointing to stalls laden with fresh-caught fish or else with bolts of brightly coloured silks from far-off lands. Bone-thin, toothless beggars leant upon sticks as they held out hands in hope of receiving a coin or two, while children played with wooden horses in the alleys between houses, eyeing us suspiciously before they resumed their games.

  Snorri led us up the hill in the direction of a wide, flat, grassy mound that looked as though it should have formed part of a castle, except that no tower stood upon it, nor was it surrounded by any palisade.

  ‘That’s where they hold the thing,’ Snorri told me when I asked what it was.

  ‘The thing?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s our word for an assembly of elders and nobles, like the hundred courts you have in England.’ He pointed towards the mound. ‘That’s where they make the laws, pass judgments on disputes, of which there’s no shortage here. Men fighting over money, or women, or both—’

  I was only half paying attention to him, for I was suddenly aware of a group of women who had stopped to fix us with stern glares. A few men even went so far as to spit on the ground as we passed, which I thought strange. Obviously they recognised myself, Serlo and Pons for foreigners, either by our manner of dress or, more probably, from the cut of our hair, for unlike the Danes and the English, who tended to let theirs grow long, ours was shaven short at the back and at the sides, in the style favoured in France. Still, I thought such attentions strange, given that they must be well used to seeing people from all parts.

  ‘It’s because they’re English,’ Snorri explained. ‘Many thegns came and settled here together with their families in the months and years after Hæstinges, preferring exile over submission to a foreign king. They all know a Norman when they see one. I thought you knew.’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t.’

  Hardly had I set foot in this city than it seemed I was already making enemies. I checked to make sure that my sword was belted upon my waist, which of course it was. Hopefully I wouldn’t have any need of it.

  Thankfully they were content to stare and spit and nothing more, and we soon left them behind us, arriving shortly at a high-gabled hall with timbers that were half-rotten in places. A boy who might have been a servant or a slave met us at the door and regarded us sullenly.

  ‘Heill nu, Björn,’ Snorri said by way of greeting, in what I presumed was the Danish tongue, since although it sounded a little like English, the words were not all familiar. ‘Er thin meistari her?’

  ‘Ma sva vera,’ said Björn with a shrug, eyeing Snorri with suspicion, as if not quite sure whether he was to be trusted. ‘Hvi? Hverr vill veita?’

  ‘Seg honum at Snorri Broklauss vili hitta hann at mali.’

  Björn glowered and hesitated for a moment, before disappearing into the gloom of the hall.

  ‘This Magnus,’ I said to Snorri, ‘is he a Dane?’

  ‘You might think it to look at him. From what I gather, though, the blood in his veins is English. Truth is, I don’t know him well enough to say for sure.’

  ‘And you think this Englishman will be willing to help us?’

  ‘I’m telling you I don’t know where he’s from. I hear he’s from noble stock, but then again I hear many things. He speaks both tongues well, and he has many Danish friends. That’s all I know.’

  Not to mention a Danish name, I thought, although perhaps that was not so unusual. Men often considered me a Breton, although it was some years since I’d last returned to the place of my birth, but my name was French, given to me by my Norman mother.

  ‘How far do you trust him?’ I asked.

  ‘About as far as I trust you,’ Snorri replied flatly, which I supposed was only deserved. ‘Let me do the talking, at least to begin with. If he’s here, that is, and I’m beginning to think he isn’t.’

  ‘If he isn’t, where will we find him?’

  ‘At this hour?’ He nodded in the vague direction of the setting sun. ‘Probably down at the stews by the docks. Whores and slaves are what Dyflin is best known for. Fine girls, there are, from all over Christendom and even beyond, as plump or as skinny as you like. You won’t find better this side of the sea. Probably there are boys as well, if you’re inclined that way; our Lord might judge, but not old Snorri. I’ll show you later where—’

  He didn’t get the chance to finish, since at that moment the door opened. Standing there was a sour-faced man of around twenty years, by my reckoning, tall and long-limbed, with fair hair that was tied back, a shaggy woollen cloak of a style that I’d seen many Dyflin folk wearing draped around his shoulders, and a flagon in one hand.

  ‘Snorri Broklauss,’ he said, without warmth, his words sounding more than a little slurred. He greeted him in English, which, I thought, was just as well. ‘I was wondering how soon it would be before you next showed your face here. You knew that wine you sold me had spoilt, didn’t you?’

  The Dane frowned. ‘Spoilt, lord?’

  ‘It made me sick, Snorri. Sick like a pig, all over my hall. I was spewing all that night and the next day too.’

  ‘That’ll happen if you try to drink the whole barrel at once, lord,’ Snorri said gravely, his expression even.

  For an instant I thought Magnus might strike him for such discourtesy, but instead his expression softened and a smile broke out across his face. ‘So, what have you come to sell me this time?’

  ‘I’m not looking to sell,’ Snorri said. ‘I’ve come looking for your help.’

  ‘My help?’ Magnus snorted, and took a swig from his flagon. ‘You want my help?’

  ‘I want information, or rather this man does.’ The sea captain stepped back and gestured in my direction. ‘He calls himself Goscelin, from Saint-Omer. He has some questions which I thought you might be able to answer for him.’

  Ale-addled as he was, it took a few moments for Magnus’s gaze to settle upon me. He looked me up and down, glanced over my shoulder at Serlo and Pons, Godric and Eithne, and snorted again. ‘A Fleming?’

  ‘So he claims,’ Snorri said.

  The other man sneered. ‘And does this Goscelin have a voice of his own?’

  He wore no weapons, and yet despite his youth he had the look of a warrior, or at least someone who had witnessed much hardship in his life, and fought many battles, both with the sword and without. There was a certain hollowness in his bleary eyes that matched the ale on his breath, and a world-weariness in his manner that I found strange for one of his age, and for which I couldn’t account. He didn’t strike me as the kind of person who could help me.

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ I said nevertheless. ‘Snorri seems to think you might know where to find him.’

  ‘That depends,’ said Magnus.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘How much
I know depends on how much you’re willing to pay.’

  I had travelled that road before. I had wasted half my worldly wealth in paying spies who offered me nothing in return. Nothing, that was, except for lies. I could ill afford to make the same mistake again.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘First you tell me what you know, and then I pay you however much I think that information is worth.’

  ‘How about this?’ he asked. ‘You give me the name of the one you’re looking for, and I’ll tell you whether or not I know where he can be found, and how much it will cost you. You decide then whether you think I’m telling the truth, and either hand over your silver or leave. Agreed?’

  Ale dulled the wits of most men, but clearly not this one. A part of me wondered whether it was better to go and try my luck elsewhere, but how was I to tell who was reliable and who was not? I didn’t know this city, and so I was relying on the opinion of one who did. And he had brought me here.

  ‘Agreed,’ I said eventually, albeit with some reluctance.

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘I’m looking for a man called Haakon. Haakon Thorolfsson, of the black-dragon banner. I hear he was last seen here in Dyflin around five months ago.’

  Magnus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Haakon Thorolfsson?’ His cheeks flushed an angry scarlet, and he spat. ‘What do you know of him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, confused. ‘That’s why I’m—’

  ‘Did he send you to taunt me? Is that it? What more does he want from me?’

  ‘Of course he didn’t send me,’ I said. ‘Why would I be asking you where to find him if he had?’

  Magnus swigged again from the flagon, and fixed me with a look of disdain, but said nothing.

  ‘So you’ve heard of him,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. A friend of his, are you, or else looking to sell your sword to him?’