Viking 2: Sworn Brother

by Tim Severin

  I saw what I thought might be a flaw in the moneyer’s defences. ‘What about the striking irons?’ I asked. ‘Couldn’t someone copy one of them, or steal one, and start making coins that are indistinguishable from the genuine article?’

  Thurulf shook his head. ‘It takes great skill to craft a striking iron. The metal is particularly hard. The shank is of iron, but the flat head is steel. To engrave the right image takes a master craftsman. New striking irons are issued by the king’s officers when the design of the coin changes. Each moneyer has to buy them from the iron-maker, and return all the striking irons of the older design. More counting out and counting in.’ He sighed. ‘But recently my uncle was authorised to have a master craftsman engrave irons here on the premises and that’s a great relief. After all he’s been a moneyer for nearly forty years.’

  ‘You mean your uncle is a moneyer for the Saxon kings, as well as for Knut?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Thurulf cheerfully. ‘He was a moneyer for Ethelred the Ill-Advised long before Knut came along. That’s why my uncle has amassed such a fortune. Kings may change, but the moneyers stay the same and go on making their commissions.’

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON Thurulf took me to see his uncle at what he called ‘the exchange’. It was another sturdy building, closer to the waterfront, where the little stream called the Walbrook empties into the Thames near the wharves. There I found Brithmaer sitting at a table in a back room, writing figures in a ledger. He glanced up as I came in, again with that bland and careful look. ‘Did Thurulf show you the jewellery stock?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I answered. ‘He showed me the coin makers, and then we went to eat at a tavern near the docks.’

  Brithmaer did not react. ‘No matter. Now that you’re here, I’ll explain how the jewellery side of my business operates, so you can do whatever it is that the queen wants.’

  He nodded towards three or four locked chests on the floor beside him. ‘This is where the preliminary assessment is made. When foreign merchants arrive in London port, they usually visit this office first of all. They need to pay the port dues to the harbour reeve and, as this is a royal tax, they have to pay in English coin. If they don’t have any English coin they come to my office. I give them good English silver stamped with the king’s head in exchange for their own foreign coins or whatever they have to offer. Most of the exchange work is straightforward, and done in the front office. My clerks know the comparative value of Frisian coins, Frankish coins, coins from Dublin and so forth. If they don’t recognise a coin, they weigh it and place a value on the metal content. But occasionally we get items brought to us like this.’

  He pulled out a heavy iron key and unlocked the largest of the chests. Opening the lid, he reached in and produced an ornate buckle, which glinted gold in the weak afternoon light.

  ‘As you can see, this is valuable, but how valuable? What is it worth in English coin, do you think? Maybe you would care to give me an opinion.’

  He passed the buckle over to me. I knew he was testing me so I looked at it cautiously. Compared to the metalwork I had seen in my Irish monastery, it was crude stuff. Also it had been damaged. I weighed it in my hand. For something that looked like gold, it was remarkably light. ‘I have no idea of the value,’ I said, ‘but I don’t think it would be worth very much.’

  ‘It’s not,’ the old man said. ‘It’s not genuine gold, but gilt over a bronze base. I would say it was once part of a horse harness belonging to some showy chief, perhaps among the Wendish people. It’s amazing what shows up in the hands of the merchants, particularly if they come from the northern lands. Everyone knows the reputation of the Norse as raiders. A merchant may come in from Sweden looking to exchange a pile of broken silver bits and some foreign coins, then find he has not enough value for what he needs, reach into his purse and produce this—’

  The old man rummaged in the chest, and pulled out something I recognised at once. It was a small reliquary, no bigger than the palm of my hand and made in the shape of a tiny casket. It was crafted in silver and bronze, and decorated with gold inlay. Doubtless it had been looted from an Irish monastery. It was an accomplished piece of metalwork.

  ‘So what do you think that one is worth?’

  Again I exercised caution. Something about Brithmaer’s attitude sent me a warning signal.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I have no idea. I don’t know what it is used for or how much precious metal is in it.’

  ‘Neither did the illiterate barbarian who brought it in to me,’ said the old man. ‘For him it was just a pretty bauble, and because his wife or mistress could not wear it as a brooch or hang it round her neck as a pendant, he couldn’t find a use for it.’

  ‘So why did you buy it?’

  ‘Because I could get a bargain.’

  Brithmaer dropped back the lid of the chest. ‘Enough. I presume that your job is to be here at the exchange so that, when a merchant or a sailor comes in with something similar, you are on hand to assess whether the queen would like to add it to her jewellery collection. If you go to the front office, my clerks will find a space for you.’

  So began a long, tedious spell for me. I was not born to be a shopkeeper. I lack the patience to sit for hours gazing vacantly out of the door or, when the weather allows, to stand in the street, hovering to greet a potential customer with an attentive smile. And because it was the start of winter and the sailing season was at an end, very few ships were working upriver with cargoes from the Continent. So there were very few clients. Indeed there were almost no visitors to Brithmaer’s exchange, except for two or three merchants who seemed to be regular customers. When they arrived, they did not deal with the clerks in the front room but were shown directly to see Brithmaer in his office in the back. Then the door was firmly closed.

  Whenever the boredom got too great to endure, I would slip out of the building, stroll down to the wharves and find a spot out of the wind. There I would stand and gaze at the waters of the Thames sliding past me with their endless patterns and ripples, and I would mark the slow passage of time by the inexorable rise and fall of the tideline on the river’s muddy foreshore, and ache for Aelfgifu. She never sent me word.

  FIVE

  BY MID-DECEMBER I was so racked by longing to see Aelgifu that I asked Brithmaer for permission to look through his existing stock of jewellery for items which might catch the queen’s eye. He sent me to Thurulf with a note telling him to show me the inventory in the strongroom. Thurulf was glad to see me. We had adjacent rooms at Brithmaer’s home, but each morning went our separate ways – I to the exchange, Thurulf to the workshop floor. Once or twice a week we met up after working hours and, if we could avoid Brithmaer’s attention, slipped out of the house to visit the taverns by the docks. We always timed our return to be outside the heavily guarded door to the mint when Brithmaer’s two night workers reported for duty, and we entered – unnoticed, we hoped – with them. The night workers were both veterans of the moneyer’s bench, too old and worn-out for fulltime labour. One had an eye disease and was nearly blind, so he sat at the bench and worked by touch. The other was stone deaf after years among the din of hammers. The men spent a few hours each night at their well-remembered places at the workbench, in lamplight, and I would often fall asleep to the patient clink, clink of their hammers. The general opinion was that it was an act of charity for Brithmaer to give them part-time employment.

  ‘What are you doing here at this time of day?’ said Thurulf, obviously pleased when I showed up mid-morning with Brithmaer’s note. He was glumly counting up the contents of the bags of the old-issue coins stored in the strongroom before they were melted down for new coinage. It was a job he particularly loathed. ‘The bags never seem to grow any less,’ he said. ‘Goes to prove that people are hoarders. Just when you think you’ve cleared the backlog, another batch of old coins comes in.’

  Thurulf put aside the wooden tally stick on which he was cutting the number of bags of coin, a notch for each
bag. Locking the door behind him, he took me to where the jewellery was kept. At the far end of the minting floor was the workroom for the craftsman who cut the faces of the striking irons. He was a suspicious, surly figure and unpopular with the other workers, who resented that he was paid far more than them. I never learned his name because he only came to the mint one day a week, went straight to his workroom and locked himself inside to get on with his job.

  ‘There’s not enough work in preparing striking irons to keep a craftsman employed, even one day a week,’ explained Thurulf, relishing his chance to display his moneyer’s expertise. ‘When all the striking irons for a new coin issue have been made, another full set of irons won’t be needed until the king decides a new design for his coin, and that might not be for several years. In the meantime the work is mainly repairing and refacing damaged and worn-out striking irons. So my uncle decided that his craftsman might as well make and repair jewellery during his extra hours.’

  Thurulf pushed open the door to the workroom. It was a cubbyhole equipped with the same sort of heavy workbench that was used in the main workshop, a small crucible for melting metal and an array of punches and engraving tools for cutting the faces of the striking irons. The only difference was the large ironbound chest tucked under the bench. I helped Thurulf tug this out and heave it up on the bench. He unlocked it, rummaged inside and produced some jewellery, which he spread out. ‘It’s mostly repairs,’ he said, ‘replacing a missing stone in a necklace, tightening up the mounts, mending a clasp, straightening, cleaning and polishing an item so that it will catch the customer’s eye. A lot of what is here is rubbish – imitation gold, low-grade silver, broken odds and ends.’

  He picked through the better pieces on the bench, and selected a handsome pendant, silver with a blue stone set in its centre and an attractive pattern of curved lines radiating from the mount. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you can see how this pendant is hung on a chain through that loop. When my uncle acquired the piece, the loop was cracked and flattened and our man had to reshape and solder it. Then he went over the decoration lines again with his engraving tool – they were a bit faded – and made them more distinct.’

  I took the pendant from Thurulf. It was easy to detect where the mend had been done and the scratches of the new engraving. ‘Your man’s not very skilled, is he?’ I commented.

  ‘Frankly, no. But then most of our clients aren’t too discerning, said Thrulf blithely. ‘He’s a working engraver,, not an artist. Now look at this. Here’s something he could repair if only he had the right stones to fill the holes.’ He handed me a necklace made of red amber beads strung on a silver chain. After every third bead a crystal, the size of half a walnut, was held in a fine silver claw. Like nuggets of smooth, fresh ice, the crystals threw back the light from flat surfaces cut and polished on them. Originally there had been seven crystals, but now three of them were missing, though the silver mounts remained. Had the necklace been entire, it would have been spectacular. As it was, it looked like a gap-toothed grin.

  ‘I thought you said your uncle’s workshop made jewellery,’ I commented.

  ‘Nothing complicated,’ Thurulf replied, lifting a leather pouch from the chest and unfastening the drawstring. ‘This is what we specialise in,’ and he pulled out a necklace.

  My heart gave a little lurch. It was a necklace, made very simply by joining a chain of silver coins together with links of gold. I had seen one around Aelfgifu’s neck. It was the only item she had worn on the day we first made love.

  ‘Your uncle said that I could look through the chest to pick out anything which I thought the queen might like.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Thurulf amiably, ‘though I doubt that you’ll find much that has been overlooked. My uncle knows his clients and his stock down to the tiniest item.’

  He was right. I picked through the box of broken jewellery and managed to find no more than a couple of bead necklaces, some heavy brooches, and a finger ring which I thought might please Aelfgifu. They added up to a feeble excuse to visit her.

  ‘Would it be possible to make up a coin necklace for her?’ I enquired. ‘I know that she would like that.’

  ‘You’d have to ask my uncle,’ Thurulf said. ‘He’s the coin expert. Even hoards them. But that’s what you’d expect from a moneyer, I suppose. Here, I’ll show you.’

  He tipped the contents of a second pouch over the workbench and a cascade of coins tumbled out in a little pile. I picked through them, turning them over in my fingers. They were of all different sizes, some broad and thin, others as thick and chunky as nuggets. Most were silver, but some were gold or copper or bronze, and a few were even struck from lead. Some had holes in the centre, others were hexagons or little squares, though the majority were round, or nearly so. Many were smooth with handling, but occasionally you could still see the writing clearly and the images. On one coin I read the Greek script that the Irish monks had taught me; on another I saw runes that I had learned in Iceland. On several was a script with curves and loops like the surface of the sea riffled by a breeze. Nearly all were stamped with symbols – pyramids, squares, a sword, a tree, a leaf, several crosses, the head of a king, a God shown with two faces, and one with two triangles which overlapped to make a six-pointed star.

  I slid the coins about on the bench like counters in a board game, trying to align a sequence that would make a handsome necklace for my love. Instead I found my thoughts flying out like Hugin and Munin, Odinn’s birds, his scouts who fly out across the world to observe and report to their master all that happens. By what routes, I wondered, had these strange coins reached a little box in a strongroom belonging to a moneyer for King Knut? How far had they come? Who had made them and why were these symbols chosen? My fingertips sensed a vast, unknown world that I had never imagined, a world across which these little rounds and squares of precious metal had travelled by paths I would like to explore.

  I assembled a row of coins, alternately gold and silver, that looked well. But when I turned them over to check their reverse sides, I was disappointed. Three of the coins were blemished. Someone had dug fierce little nicks in the surface with something sharp. ‘A pity about those nicks and pits,’ I said. ‘They ruin the surface and destroy the images.’

  ‘You find those marks all the time,’ Thurulf said casually. ‘Nearly half the old-issue silver coins that we get from the northern lands carry those cuts and scratches. It’s something foreigners do to them, especially in Sweden and the land of the Rus. They don’t trust coins. They think they might be fakes: a lead base coated with silver, or a bronze core which has a gold wash applied to make it look like solid gold. It’s possible to achieve that effect, even in this small workshop. So when they are offered a coin in payment, they jab the point of a knife into it or scratch the surface to check that the metal is genuine all the way through.’

  I abandoned the idea of making up a coin necklace for Aelfgifu, and instead prepared a package of the necklaces and brooches which I thought might please her. Thurulf wrote down a careful list of what I was taking. Then we left and locked the strongroom, and one of Brithmaer’s burly watchmen escorted me and the jewellery to the palace.

  I asked to see the queen’s chamberlain and told him that I had samples of jewellery for the queen to view. He kept me waiting for an hour before he returned to say that the queen was too busy. I was to return the same day the following week to seek another appointment.

  As I was emerging from the palace gate, a leather stump tapped me on the shoulder and a voice said, ‘If it isn’t my young friend, the huntsman.’ I turned to see Kjartan the one-handed huscarl. ‘Someone said you had found a job with Brithmaer the moneyer,’ he said, ‘but by the glum look on your face, it would seem that you had found Fafnir’s golden hoard and then lost it again.’

  I mumbled something about having to return to Brithmaer’s workshop. My escort, the watchman, was already looking impatient. ‘Not so fast,’ the huscarl said. ‘At year’s end we hold our
gemot, the dedication feast. Most of the brigade is still in Denmark with Knut, but there are enough of us semi-pensioners and a few back on home leave for us to make a gathering. Each huscarl is expected to bring one orderly. To honour the memory of our good friend Edgar I would like you to be my attendant. Do you accept?’

  ‘With pleasure, sir,’ I replied.

  ‘I’ve just one condition to make,’ said Kjartan. ‘For Aesir’s sake, get yourself a new set of clothes. That plum-coloured tunic you wore last time at Northampton was beginning to look very shabby. I want my attendant to be turned out smartly.’

  The huscarl had a point, I thought, as I pulled my much-worn tunic out of the satchel when I got back to my room. The garment was spotted and stained and a seam had split. The tunic was getting a little too small for me. I had filled out since coming to England, partly due to exercise and good meals when living with Edgar but more from all the ale I was drinking. For a moment I thought of borrowing something to wear from Thurulf, but I decided I would be adrift in his larger garments. Besides, I was already in his debt for our visits to the taverns. I received board and lodging from Brithmaer but no wage, so my friend was always buying the drinks.