A Pound of Flesh

by Susan Wright

  The sight of land was welcomed by everyone onboard. As we passed by the sparsely wooded shoreline shrouded in mist, I was reminded of my homeland. Much of the coast was wild between the broad swaths of pasturage and fields. Though the air was moist and chill, it was no longer the bone-shattering cold of the ocean.

  We stayed overnight in the mouth of a wide estuary. There were a good number of longships anchored in the calm of the river, just out of reach of the encroaching waves. All of the double-prow Noroships put me in mind of Tillfallvik.

  Once we set sail again, going upriver, the salt water rode the tidal bore far inland. Busy yards and structures lined the riverbanks. People kept pointing to our knaar. Some waved in frantic welcome, as if we were returning kinsmen. Others fled at the sight of our square sail and the serpent rising from the bow.

  An imposing fortress of stone marked the principal town of Londinium. From far downriver the round-topped turrets at each corner could be seen. The ground around it was scarred, and there was a rawness to the red and white stones, as if they had been freshly laid. The fortress was attached to an ancient gray wall, nearly as tall, with a round, crumbling top. Within the wall was a mass of pointed roofs with seemingly no room to walk between them. Londinium dwarfed every town I had seen in Viinland.

  Then directly ahead appeared an incredible structure—a wooden building spanned the mighty river from one bank to the other. It was a bridge, built on as large a scale as the fortress and town wall. It was supported by thick posts that disappeared into the swirling brown water. People and horse-drawn carts crossed it, ignoring the churning water rushing below.

  Our mast was too tall to go underneath, so the oarsmen struck the sail and rowed us to a wharf that jutted far into the river. Of the other large ships docked there, few were Noroships like ours. Most had two masts, with big-bellied hulls pierced by small round windows. A few were sleek with triangular sails, exactly like the winged ship that had come from Stanbulin to take away my slave-mates. I swallowed my apprehension, unwilling to let Lexander know how the sight of them unnerved me.

  A commotion was raised as we pulled in. On the dock, several men waved their arms as if to ward us off, while at least two dozen more arrived on the run brandishing broadswords and round shields. Lexander ordered the oarsmen to hold as he called out to them.

  The warriors were concerned that we might be loyal to a northern Noroking called Swegn. Lexander assured them we were from Viinland, which had no allegiances in the Auldland. Eventually we were allowed to berth. But we were treated suspiciously, the warriors remaining on guard along the wharf.

  As we docked, Lexander turned to me. "I must deal with these men. I will do better if I know you are safe here. Will you stay in the knaar, Marja?"

  "Yes, I’ll stay."

  Lexander’s expression softened in a smile. I longed to set foot on land, but it gave me a secret thrill to be able to please him.

  Lexander jumped onto the wide wharf, and I settled down to wait with much more equanimity than the oarsmen. The warriors kept them from disembarking, and they muttered amongst themselves at this inauspicious greeting.

  I was reassured by the number of olfs flitting from place to place. There were a remarkable range of sizes and shapes, from olfs so fat and squat that they looked like bubbles with hands and feet, to tiny sprites that were no bigger than my little finger. The sprites buzzed together in clouds, descending on whatever intrigued them. Soon I was laughing out loud at their antics, grateful to return safely to land.

  After more discussions among the officials, several of the warriors returned with Lexander and they poked underneath the canvas, examining the blocks of translucent wax. I stayed out of the way and didn’t say a word. Before they returned to the wharf again, Lexander gave orders for half the oarsmen to go ashore for the evening. The other half were to stay onboard and protect the goods. It had been a weary journey, and they all longed for some good ale and women. Those left behind would get the next day off, but they grumbled so loudly that I wouldn’t have been heard if I had rebelled. Among those remaining behind were several of the Vidaris freemen. Lexander had ordered them to protect me with their lives.

  I leaned on the side of the ship, watching everything on the waterfront. The tall bridge cut off most of my view upriver, but the town lay before me. The surrounding wall of gray rock, smoothed with age, stood higher than most of the wooden structures within.

  The construction yard in front of the fortress was busy with movement as the tower was completed. The fortress was a massive square block with a few narrow windows here and there in the formidable facade. The top was lined with square battlements where men could crouch and take aim at any warband that tried to invade the town.

  The ground was very flat, so I could see only the road along the river and the roofs and chimneys of buildings beyond. There were workshops of every description lining the riverfront, mostly one story but some with two. Women poked their heads out from the upper floors, shaking out cloths or dumping basins directly into the street.

  The potbellied ship beside us was briskly selling casks of wine from its hold. The shipmaster rapped out a continuous spiel about the wine—both new and old—and the price per cask. The shipmaster mostly spoke in the Noromenn’s tongue as a steady stream of buyers queued on the waterlogged dock. They wore knee-length tunics with braies, wide-bottomed breeches. The wealthier ones fastened a mantle to their shoulders with decorative brooches. Their hair was long and they had full beards and mustaches like my father’s kin.

  The men in armor guarding the docks were different. They spoke the Frankish language amongst themselves, and were clean-shaven with close-clipped hair. Though they weren’t large in stature, they were well formed from hard work. Their snug tunics were very short and their leggings were tight, their swords fastened to low-slung belts. One squat warrior in a leather jerkin sewn all over with lozenge-shaped metal plates ordered four casks of wine and hired some hunched, servile porters to carry them back to his own ship.

  There were also some men whose heads were shaved in a round circle on top, leaving a fringe of greasy strands hanging all around. Their robes were long, reaching to their feet, and were invariably black as night. Some carried long staves to swipe at the urchins and beggars who gathered round them. I guessed from their garb that they were clerics of Kristna. They reminded me of Issland, where the numerous Kristna followers had denounced all otherworldly spirits, harming the fragile ground. Yet despite the prevalence of Kristna followers here, the olfs and sprites didn’t seem to be in the least imperiled.

  I received a number of curious looks, and eventually I realized it was my Skraeling parka and pants that were drawing attention. No other woman wore form-fitting pants as I did.

  I withdrew under the canvas, letting it drop for privacy, and pulled out the bag Silveta had given me. The crimson dress was wrinkled from its long confinement, but I cared not about that. Silveta had also provided a brush, which I used to untangle my long, snarled locks. I braided my hair in one plait down my back as was customary here, and tied it with a bright red ribbon torn from the sleeve.

  Silveta had also tucked in her own purse, full of coins. I tied it to my waist, under the skirt, where it would not be tempting. The final gift was a gold-linked chain with teardrops sparkling along its length. I wrapped the chain several times about my waist, then looped it in a knot and let the ends dangle between my legs. All the women were girdled so, and I thought it best to try to adhere to the customs of the place. It felt odd to have my dress held so close around my hips, but it did show off my figure to good advantage.

  I emerged from under the canvas to appreciative stares from the oarsmen. The air was chill, so I put the cloak around my shoulders, glad to hide the swell of my bosom from the hungry eyes of the men. The freemen of Vidaris planted themselves between me and the rest of the crew, clearly anxious for Lexander’s return.

  I was determined to give Lexander no cause for concern. I ignored the m
en, and quietly played finger games with the sprites, letting them jump between my hands, while olfs took turns swinging from my long plait and trying to undo the ribbon. I sang songs to them, and hummed under my breath.

  I opened myself to them as I did with the olfs in my homeland. As the day wore on, I realized that somehow I was already familiar to them. Time and distance meant little to the olfs, who were connected by other means.

  Meanwhile the town lay tempting, just out of hand’s reach. The great fortress that loomed over us was like a magnet, pulling me toward it. Perhaps Lexander was inside right now. I wanted to follow him, but I had agreed to wait.

  Bells pealed through the town at regular intervals, including the night, ticking off several days as Lexander traded the goods we had brought from Markland. Merchants came to our knaar and surveyed our hold. Then ivory and wax were off-loaded by the oarsmen while bags of cloth, spices, precious dyes, and barrels of olive oil arrived.

  I tried to be invisible throughout, but too many of the merchants licked their lips at the sight of me. It made Lexander even more tense than he already was.

  The fog was usually thick in the mornings and evenings, blanking out the sight of the houses along the waterfront, burning off only at midday. Sometimes I couldn’t see the fortress, and at its worst, the ship next to us became a hulking shadow.

  We had some trouble with our oarsmen. Two didn’t return once they ventured out, and at first Lexander thought they had abandoned their posts without the pay they had been promised. But one eventually reappeared with knife wounds from fighting robbers. Others suffered beatings and blackened eyes.

  When I showed Lexander the purse of coins Silveta had given me, he took it, his fingers tantalizingly grazing my palm. "The best way for me to get inside Becksbury is to be exactly who I am—a master whose house has been destroyed. It will give me a chance to find out what they know about the other houses in the Auldland, and to determine the best way to destroy Becksbury so another pleasure house will never be raised in this town."

  "Then I must be your slave. I certainly know how."

  "It will be dangerous, Marja. Think of Helanas. I can do only so much to protect you without alerting them."

  I was nodding. "I think it’s best. That way I can speak to the slaves."

  "You mustn’t tell anyone the truth. If we’re discovered, then we both are in grave danger."

  "You trained me well, Master." I couldn’t help smiling slightly as I said it.

  But Lexander was not amused. "They will read your eyes, Marja. They will know you love me, as Helanas knew, and that will make them suspicious."

  "As you wish," I said obediently, the perfect slave.

  He was not satisfied, but I would not be denied.

  I was more than ready when the morning finally came to bid our faithful oarsmen farewell. We stood on the dock watching as the knaar pulled out, the yellow sail freshly mended for the return voyage home.

  Lexander and I set out, leaving the waterfront behind. The smells and sounds grew overwhelming. The predominant odor was no longer dead fish, but rotting offal, burned wood, and the acrid stench of hides being cured. The fog soaked everything—my clothes and hair, the thatch on the houses, and the slippery cobblestones underfoot.

  Each street was dedicated to a particular trade—candle making, bread baking, ironworks, carpentry, and weaving. On every corner was a public cookshop selling roasts and stews of birds and fish. The vegetables and roots sold from carts were rather wizened and small. There were no cattle, but a great many pigs rooted in tiny pens and searched for tidbits in the center ditch of the road. Most of the meat I saw butchered, hanging in haunches and full-bodied, came from pigs that had been smoked or spitted.

  We passed one row of houses that had recently burned to the ground. People shifted through the piles of blackened beams to find iron pots and kettles. Some carried off the timbers to use in their own buildings. All of the dwellings looked so flimsy that a strong wind threatened to blow them over. They were mostly of wood with only a few stone houses here and there, decorated with pointed crenellations along the eaves and the round-arched windows and doors. The stonework was rough, done with pick and ax.

  The most impressive structures were the Kristna sanctuaries, usually surrounded by a fenced yard or protected by a thorn hedge. When I asked what the stone and wood markers were for, Lexander said the dead Kristna followers were not cleanly burned but were placed underground with the worms and bugs. That had been Birgir’s fate, and in my homeland burial was only for the dishonored.

  There were countless people in Londinium, and too many without homes or means of livelihood. Some unfortunates had sores marring their skin, and they held their hands out and lamented for the lack of a meal. I saw legs missing and eyes filmed white or sunken and scabbed over. The cripples and beggars gathered around the finer buildings as if drawn like flies to a venison haunch.

  Lexander ignored them, sometimes clearing a path for me by pushing them aside with an iron-tipped stave he had acquired.

  We could hardly get past a huge crowd gathered in front of the blacksmith’s shop. At the sound of a piercing scream, I leaped in fright. The crowd let out a cry of victory.

  A hard-eyed man held something aloft, dripping bright red. It was a hand chopped off at the wrist. With a shout of glee, he drove a nail through it, pinning it to the door. Blood streamed down the boards, and through the shifting crowd, I could see a man on his knees, clutching the stump of his arm. His broken cries went on unheeded.

  "No . . ." I breathed, my knees weakening.

  Lexander put his arm protectively around my shoulders. "’Tis a moneylender who made bad coins. That is the punishment for stinting on silver in pennies in Danelaw."

  "It can’t be." It was too dreadful.

  "This is not your homeland, Marja. You little know how civilized your people are compared to those in the Auldland." His expression was grim as he ushered me along. "I wanted to protect you from this."

  I could not forget those white fingers clutching at nothing as the life force poured out. I swallowed hard, trying to force my stomach to settle.

  We continued on streets that twisted until I didn’t know our direction in the fog. At times I thought we were heading to the river, but Lexander knew exactly where to go. He must have assessed the Danelaw pleasure house in the past few days, though he hadn’t spoken to me about it.

  Indeed, the massive town wall rose at the end of the street. "We are almost at Becksbury." He released my arm.

  "Yes, Master," I replied obediently.

  Lexander looked pained, so I could not indulge my secret titillation. I followed him like a good pleasure slave, clasping my hands together and keeping my eyes on his heels.

  We reached a round-arched gate in a stone wall that was taller than Lexander. He rang the bell, and almost immediately it was opened by a servile old man.

  "Take me to your master," Lexander demanded imperiously.

  The old man bobbed without daring to answer in return. He used a large handbell to summon the huscarl, a sharp man of mature years, who asked Lexander, "What is your business, sir?"

  "I’m an old friend of your master’s from Stanbulin," Lexander said impatiently, looking around the courtyard at the outbuildings and a barn that were hulking shadows in the fog.

  The huscarl treated Lexander with utmost respect as he led us through the courtyard. Two modest timber halls stood at right angles to each other.

  There were few olfs, and I knew that boded ill for us. I would have to guard myself well, or I could inadvertently reveal everything.

  The huscarl showed us into the larger hall. Inside, rough tree trunks served as pillars and heavier crossbeams supported the pitched roof. It was smaller than the fire hall on Silveta’s estate, but still it felt drafty and echoingly empty. Tapestries were hung on the walls, some faded or grimed by soot. The ceiling was clouded with smoke from the fire that burned fitfully in the center of the floor. Ponderous irons
held the logs while the coals drifted in a pile below. The only light came through narrow slits high in the pointed eaves that let the smoke out.

  Not far from the fire were several settles—long, high-backed benches that were cushioned in blue pillows. A man and a woman were lolling there, looking bored. The man had sparse pale stubble on his head and his face was without beard, as Lexander’s naturally was. But this man looked older, with skin the color of aged bronze and deep grooves on either side of his mouth.

  He was suspicious at the first sight of us. But when Lexander removed his peaked cap revealing his smooth head and sparkling amber eyes, the man leaped to his feet. "You bring word from Saaladet?"

  Lexander glanced at the huscarl, and the master impatiently dismissed his servant with a silent wave. "I am Lexander of Vidaris, in Viinland," Lexander explained. "I’m on my way to Stanbulin."

  The eager light in the man’s eyes faded as if he had suffered a mighty disappointment. He slumped back down, deliberately turning his head to stare into the shadows.

  But the woman rose from the settle, unfolding herself as languidly as if emerging from a bath. "Viinland, you say? Surely that is on the other side of the world."

  Her eyes ran over Lexander as she appraised him. She was a tall, fine mistress, much like Helanas in her pleasing form. But she had ice-blue eyes and her fine white hair brushed her forehead and neck in pretty wisps.

  Lexander did not smile in return. "Vidaris was attacked and burned to the ground by raiders. My consort died in the conflagration, and all my slaves were stolen except for this one."

  The mistress cast a negligent glance at me. I could see through my lashes that she cared not what had brought Lexander here, only that he was a pleasant diversion. "I am Drucelli of Becksbury. You are welcome, Lexander."

  But the master was not pleased. Perhaps it was the interest Drucelli displayed in Lexander, or perhaps it was merely his nature. "You lost your house?" he sneered. "And now you slink back to Stanbulin?"