Arnulf rode in the lead on his stocky gray mare alongside Sigvald, who was followed by Alwyn, who rode on his own. Behind him came the two farmers from the village, then Winston and Alfilda towing Atheling, who’d tried to demonstrate his dominance over one of the new horses, but had been emphatically put in his place by a bite on the neck. Now he was walking along obediently. Finally I brought up the rear along with Sigurd, who turned around in his saddle at regular intervals to look behind us.
“You’re cautious,” I noted. I, too, had been keeping a careful eye on our surroundings. It was prudent since we were riding with farmers who were planning to bring a case against a nobleman.
“Yes,” he responded. Then the young farmer was quiet, keeping his eyes on the track ahead.
The day was now sunny and warm. I loosened my doublet and ran my hand down along my gelding’s neck to make sure he wasn’t sweating too much.
People occupied the road—a few with bundles on their backs, here and there a farmer’s wife with chickens tied together at the legs dangling over her shoulders. A peddler or two hurried past to get to the market on time. Other travelers were on horseback, and all the riders moved along at a steady pace while the people on foot stepped aside, some of their own accord while others had to be asked to move out of the way. Our group maintained a good pace and reached the wooden palisade surrounding Thetford a bit before midday. Located at the confluence of the Thet and Little Ouse Rivers, the town had been burned to the ground only eight years earlier by King Sweyn after his victory at the Battle of Ringmere. It was mostly rebuilt now, however, apart from the town wall, which so far had been replaced with only the palisade.
We followed the Icknield Way to the easternmost of the town’s three bridges, which were actually two bridges since the road, which crossed both rivers, formed its own bridge. This entrance was guarded by a fortification, which Winston said predated even the Romans. While we rode along under the watchful eyes of the guards, I realized the road had been routed this way because the crossing point was very easy to defend.
It was hard to tell that the town had been burned to the ground so recently. It seemed wealthy and bustling as we rode in and attempted to force our way through the throng of people. We rode through a meadow with a church at the far end and took a wide road to the center of town, passing yet another church and low buildings. It turned out Thetford was home to no fewer than five churches, with another two and a monastery just outside the palisade to the southeast—all evidence of the town’s wealth. As we finally reached the church of Saint John, we found the marketplace before us.
We dismounted and pushed our way through the crowd, leading the horses by the reins. Our host had sworn he knew an inn that would have room for us since, as he put it, most of the people coming to sell things at the market preferred to sleep out in the open or in their stalls rather than spend money on shelter for the night.
Apparently he was right; at the inn across from Saint Mary’s church, abutting the meadowlands along the river, the innkeeper obliged us. He was a skinny Angle by the name of Willibrord and, with an unending barrage of chatter, he escorted us to our beds. He almost made it seem like he’d been expecting us.
Winston and Alfilda were lucky and got one of the two third-floor rooms, where they had a window overlooking the meadow and a bed covered with thick blankets. I had to share my bed with Sigurd in a room on the second floor, where Herward and Bjarne also had to squeeze into one bed. Sigvald, Alwyn, and Arnulf shared the other room on the third floor and were directly above us.
As soon as I’d put my things on the bed, I went downstairs and, following our host’s directions, found the paddock that belonged to the inn. It bordered on the river on one side; a wattle fence lined the other three sides, with a gate to get in. The grass was green and inviting, and my red gelding bid me good-bye with a toss of his head followed by a loud neigh. Then he took a few playful leaps while Winston’s and Alfilda’s mares walked somewhat more calmly through the grass down to the river. They gave a couple of snorts and then began to drink.
When I returned, Winston had already unloaded everything from Atheling’s back. I got out of having to tug the stupid beast down to the paddock because Sigurd had offered to do it. He was just gathering the reins for his father’s and his own mounts in his right hand while holding Atheling’s in his left.
I could tell from the mischievous glint in Atheling’s eyes that he was looking to make trouble, but before I had a chance to warn Sigurd, the beast took the poor guy’s shoulder in his teeth and gave him a hard shake, which I knew from firsthand experience was quite painful.
Sigurd howled in pain, twisted to the left, his shoulder still clenched. The young farmer kicked with all his strength straight upward between Atheling’s forelegs, which made the mule bray temperamentally. But when the first kick was followed by a second, Atheling finally released Sigurd’s shoulder, showed the whites of his eyes, and then allowed Sigurd to pull him away without any more fuss.
I smiled and called supportively to Sigurd that a good kick was just what that stupid mule needed. Then I entered the inn’s tavern, where I found Winston and Alfilda seated at a long table.
I inquired about the whereabouts of our traveling companions. Winston said he didn’t know where Alwyn was but that Arnulf and his group had gone across the river to where the Hundred Court was meeting in front of Saint Peter’s church. They wanted to find out when their case would be heard.
Although the owner of the inn resembled a slender, thoroughly pruned alder trunk, it couldn’t have been because of the inn’s food, because the meal that was placed on the table before us was ample and the ale was good and nicely malted. The thick porridge from breakfast had long since disappeared from our stomachs, and we’d worked up a good appetite during the ride, so the three of us dug in.
The tavern’s four long tables were crowded. Men and a few women helped themselves to ale, mead, and slices of bread topped with meat as they chatted or droned or yelled, depending on the speaker. Young girls scurried back and forth, serving the food and drink. At least two of them merited a lingering look from my eyes.
I had made short work of two tankards of ale and a thick slice of bread when Arnulf returned with his companions to announce that his case would be heard the next morning. We promised to attend as that was the only way we could thank him for his hospitality. Fond of money as he was, the rules of hospitality dictated that he must refuse payment for the lodging he’d offered us.
Since there wasn’t room at the other tables, we offered to give them our spots and got up to head outside into the crowds. After all, we had a job to do.
6
We split up, which suited me just fine. I enjoyed being able to stroll through the marketplace as I pleased. My guess was that Winston and Alfilda also preferred to be alone, but the real justification for our splitting up was to cover more ground—not that I learned very much that afternoon.
Merchants and peddlers had set up stands, stalls, tents, and tables. Although they had plenty of rumors to share, very few of them had to do with kings or jarls. If I’d wanted information about the cloth, raw wool, hay, salt, horn spoons, honey, malt, or any of the other many goods that had been brought to Thetford by cart and wagon, horseback or handbarrow, I could certainly have learned as much as I wanted.
There was also knowledge to be had about the various reeves, thanes, and large farm holders—information essential to people doing business. Peddlers needed to know which thanes protected the roadways better and kept them free of highwaymen, as well as which large farm owners took their hospitality duties seriously, since that could mean the difference between lying in a bed with a blanket and sleeping out under the open skies. In contrast, people didn’t believe kings or jarls had a direct impact on their lives. It was clear to both Winston and me, however, that they did; kings and jarls truly laid the groundwork for all trade by guaranteeing the peace, or by failing to do so.
And peace did prevai
l in the land. You had to give that to Cnut. After the great national meeting in Oxford the year before, when the king had adopted the fundamental underpinnings of how the country would be governed, peace had prevailed between him and his noblemen, whether they had originated across the sea with him, or from among the local Danish population, or were descended from the Saxons, Angles, or Jutes who’d ruled this land since our distant ancestors had arrived with Hengist and Horsa.
Winston, Alfilda, and I knew, however, that the peace was a fragile one, as evidenced by the need for our secret mission. There wasn’t a complete absence of conflict either, since noblemen were always getting into spats with each other, spats that were exacerbated during times of peace when their presence wasn’t required on the battlefield, fighting either for or against the king.
As Harding used to say: Noblemen will bicker; it’s part and parcel of who they are, and when ravens fight, the magpies are flayed.
This is why the king wanted strong jarls and reeves who could rein in disputes so that they didn’t keep farmers from harvesting their crops or merchants from transporting their wares throughout the country. The king wanted trusted men who would keep a lid on the most contentious battles among noblemen so that only housecarls and salaried spearmen needed to be involved. Then the farmers wouldn’t see their fields and farmhouses go up in smoke.
As I strolled through the market, I listened but didn’t hear anything to suggest that Jarl Thorkell was once again engaged in any double dealings. Although, as I mentioned, that was probably because it wasn’t the sort of rumor you would hear among merchants.
On the other hand, there was a lot to see at the market. Considering how early in the spring it was, the sun was nice and warm and shone brightly on all the exhibited wares. The rolls of cloth looked inviting and all the other high-quality goods were easier to admire in the sunshine than if there had been a dull spring rain soaking the stalls.
The lanes between the rows of displayed goods were narrow, and since the crowd acted the way every market crowd does, with people stopping at regular intervals to inspect a potential purchase more closely, it was slow going.
Not that I was in a hurry. I stopped now and then to look admiringly, not at cloth or the town’s famed leather goods, but at girls who, with eager voices and inviting hand gestures, were better at selling than their husbands, fathers, and superiors.
One girl in particular drew my attention. A wench with a button nose, freckles, alluring hips, and inviting eyes gave me a sultry look even after I had turned down her offer to give me a discount on her goods.
I took up position across from her stall in the hope that she’d be called away on some errand so that I could offer to buy her a drink. But when she did finally step away, she ran straight into the arms of a rough-looking soldier who wrapped his arm around her possessively and led her away.
I hadn’t given up on the drinking half of my idea, though, so I made my way to an ale stand. I had to step aside for a couple of soldiers who were hauling out a screaming dwarf. Then I sat down under the stand’s awning at a long table that was wet with spilled ale.
I expressed my desire for a tankard of proper ale to a wrinkled old crone who listened and then snapped that that’s all they sold since the town rules were strict on this point. She grumpily brought me a wooden tankard made of staves and a pitcher that smelled promisingly of malt.
The ale was good, I had to give it to her, and I enjoyed sitting at the table, watching people. A black-haired man with sharp-hewn features sat across from me. He was a few years older than I and wore a clean linen tunic beneath a well-maintained leather apron.
He glanced at me indifferently, but since I had the sense that he wasn’t here for the market—which was for merchants rather than craftsmen—it occurred to me that he probably lived in town. He might be able to give me valuable information. So I politely drank to him and commented that business seemed brisk today.
He responded with a polite if somewhat reserved smile, but when I proceeded to praise the ale, good manners forced him to respond after all. And shortly thereafter I managed to draw him into the kind of casual conversation drinking men have with each other when they don’t have any other company.
So it was natural enough that I offered him some of the ale from my pitcher after he had emptied the tankard he had ordered for himself. After a brief hesitation, he thanked me, and when I explained that I was a stranger in the town but was guessing he was from here, he nodded.
“I think I can guess your occupation,” I told him with a smile.
“Really?” he responded aloofly.
“Yes. You’re wearing a clean apron and your shirt is unstained. And”—I leaned forward and cocked my head toward a small hammer in his belt—“that suggests that you’re a knife maker or possibly a silversmith. I’m wagering against a needle maker, because you seem too well dressed.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized that I’d put my foot in it. If he turned out to be a needle maker, he would hardly be pleased that I considered men of that profession shabby dressers. Luckily my guess had been right.
“You’re almost right.” The twinkle in his eye showed he’d loosened up.
“Aha, almost.” I thought it over. What other professions did I know of that were related to the ones I’d mentioned? Comb maker? No, what would he need the hammer for? Armorer maybe, in charge of meticulous embellishments on swords? Metal chasing and repoussé?
He shook his head to each.
At any rate, I had him where I wanted him now because when I gave up, he would feel superior, and superior men are prone to letting their mouths run so as to maintain the upper hand.
“I am a journeyman with Erwin Mintmaster.” He smiled briefly and raised his tankard. A powerful and important position, indeed.
“I’m Halfdan.”
It remains unclear if he wanted to give me his name, because just then there was a commotion in the alley next to the ale stand. Six broad-shouldered spearmen pushed the crowd aside to make room for a dignified man with a gray beard whose power was evident from the guards who surrounded him and from the fact that he was on horseback within the marketplace whereas everyone else was on foot.
He was wearing a bright red cape over an embroidered tunic. His blue pants were tucked into stamped leather boots. His sword, worn in a belt inlaid with silver, had a gold hilt and an attractively embellished sheath. And his helmet, which he held in his right hand, gleamed with inlaid silver and was topped by a gold figure depicting a bear, which was clear even from a distance.
“A powerful man,” I remarked.
My new acquaintance nodded.
“Maybe you know him?”
His response was another nod. Then he drained his tankard, stood up, and said, “My master awaits me.”
Well, I hadn’t learned anything from him, so I turned to a man behind me and tapped him on the back. When he turned his face to me, it was dark red with rage at my impertinence. I smiled as wide as I could and apologized for intruding. “But,” I continued in my most polite voice, “I’m new here in town and hadn’t realized I was disturbing a man of such importance, just as I’m not familiar with the nobleman who just rode by. I was hoping a man such as yourself might know him and be able to give me his name.”
I don’t know whether he responded because I’d flattered him or because he was happy to know something I didn’t, but it didn’t matter. The main thing was that I got the information I wanted.
The man decked out in silver was Turstan, thane and reeve, the man who would be deciding Arnulf’s case tomorrow morning at the Hundred Court.
I returned to the tavern at the inn when the evening bell at Saint Mary’s church rang. My companions were already enjoying a pot of stew, which smelled enticingly of rosemary.
One of the girls brought me an earthenware bowl. And since the flavor definitely lived up to the aroma, we sat in silence enjoying the lamb in cream sauce. I sopped up the last of the dripp
ings with a slice of bread, and then pushed the bowl away.
“Not bad.” I belched politely behind my hand and leaned across the table. “Not much of a rumor mill, that marketplace.”
“No,” Winston agreed, shaking his head. “We only picked up one item of interest.”
I cocked my head.
“We had a drink at a stall where there was a Viking who’d had one too many.”
I smiled. Now that was my kind of Viking. It’s usually easy to get men like that talking.
“The king had revoked the man’s shore leave—that’s why he was here. He was on his way to join his shipmates back on board.”
“So Cnut is calling his Vikings back to their ships because he’s planning to start pillaging again?” I asked. Cnut had sent the majority of his Viking fleet home months ago, before the big meeting in Oxford, so he didn’t currently have enough ships to engage in raids.
“No, the king isn’t calling them back to pillage. According to our informant, Denmark is his goal.”
Denmark? Cnut was going to leave his newly won kingdom and sail back across the sea to his homeland?
“Yes. There’s news from Denmark. The king’s brother Harold is said to be near death.”
That explained it. If Harold Sweynsson died, Cnut was next in line for the kingdom of Denmark and it would be important for him to be in the country when the death occurred—or as soon as possible thereafter—so that he could be hailed king.
“So the king dreams of ruling a unified kingdom including England and Denmark, one that extends from the Baltic Sea to the Irish Sea?” I said.
“Harold doesn’t have any sons,” Alfilda explained. “So Denmark is free for the taking.”
Now I saw what was going on more clearly. “Ah, so with the king at sea or back in Denmark, he’ll need loyal men here in England.”
A Man's Word (The King's Hounds series) Page 4
