Winter of Discontent

expeditions to purchase extra supplies and they had apparently been accepted by the locals as being pirates, which was an acceptable occupation on the north-east coast.

“Damn it all, where are William and his men?” Alan demanded in frustration as he sat on a flat rock eating a breakfast of porridge sweetened with honey.

“Something important must have come up,” commented Sven easily, as he dipped a piece of stale bread into a cup of mead and then popped it into his mouth. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. This is a pretty easy way to spend a campaign. Permanent dry quarters. Good and plentiful food. Two days of work a week for each ship, sailing up and down the coast to stop us getting bored.

Alan scowled at the accuracy of the complacent remark. Apart from the time actually spent ashore in the enemy-held towns there was little risk and life was easy- certainly much easier and less dangerous than being in an army on the march. However, he hated not knowing what was happening and was anxious to get back home to Thorrington where Anne would be nearing her time. After the problems with the last birth, where her life and that of the baby had only been saved by his intervention, he was determined to be home when her time came.

Two weeks later Alan sat at a table in the corner of the tap-room at the ‘Bull and Bear’ tavern at Hartlepool, sipping at a quart pot of ale. This was the second of the pre-arranged meeting times and places for the week for Gundred, skald Thorkell Skalleson’s woman. She hadn’t attended at the previous scheduled meeting, and Brand had told him when he’d returned to the hide-out cave from his journey north the previous week that the woman had also missed those two meetings. Until then the rendezvous system and exchange of information had proceeded well for six weeks, with Gundred making the short journey from Durham to Hartlepool at least weekly to meet with either Alan or Brand. Alan felt that her absence for over two weeks didn’t bode well for her, as with what she and her man were being paid to spy on the English earls and the Danes only serious illness or worse would keep her away.

Skald Thorkell Skalleson sat at table with the English earls and the Danish princes. The information that he had provided over the last few weeks, regarding the numbers and disposition of the rebels and the Danish invaders and the intentions of their leaders, had been sufficiently important that Alan was reluctant to simply drop the whole scheme. In wartime information was priceless and frequently meant the difference between winning and losing. Alan glanced out of an open window and saw that full darkness had now arrived. Gundred was over two hours late and obviously not going to arrive now that the town gates were being closed. He’d been carefully paying attention to the others frequenting the tavern that evening and had noted with relief that, other than several whores, nobody was paying him any attention. Given the difficulties he’d had in obtaining refills for his ale pot, that lack of attention had included the slatternly serving-wench.

With a muttered oath he rose slightly unsteadily and made his way down to the harbour where the rowing boat was waiting to take him back to the longship Havorn, which was moored against the river bank a mile upstream to keep the crew from getting into trouble. There he explained his concerns to Sven, the Norwegian captain.

Sven grunted an acknowledgement of the information imparted and after a long pause the taciturn Viking finally commented, “Why don’t you ask the other spy? You’re due to see him tomorrow. I’m sure that word would get out if the skald has been taken up for spying. Gundred may just be ill or have had an accident.” Alan nodded his agreement at this advice. Sven then continued, “By the way, I’ve arranged with Osbjorn’s steward for us to patrol to the south and receive regular supplies from the commissary, for both ships.”

Alan’s brain froze with amazement for several seconds before he could exclaim, “What in God’s name possessed you to do that? Why would you approach the local authorities when we’re spies?”

Sven snorted in derision. “Because they’re not stupid. A longship can slip in and out a few times without getting noticed, but one or the other of the ships are here nearly half the time. I told Henning that we camp up here because otherwise the crews get paralytic and start brawls, and it’s the only way to keep them under control. He can understand that. They knew we were here, but he just hadn’t gotten around to finding out who we were. Now he knows, or thinks he does, he won’t cause any problems. We get five barrels of ale, two barrels of ship-biscuit and two bushels of dried beans a day, and two pounds of meat per man per day, for both ships. We have to buy our own fresh bread and fresh vegetables. We also get paid a shilling a week for each man. He didn’t want to be responsible to pay us, but I insisted. Now that he thinks he knows who we are, he’s happy as a pig in shit and will leave us alone. This week’s supplies are stored over there under that tarpaulin.”

Alan shook his head in disbelief and walked off towards the ten-man leather tent that he shared with other members of the crew, and sat down next to the fire to eat a meal of beef stew made from the rations that the Danes had provided, and washed down by English ale paid for by Prince Osbjorn. Finally he gave a laugh at the irony that the Danes were paying wages to the men who were spying on them and he was still chuckling when he wrapped himself in his blanket to sleep.

The following afternoon Alan met with the spy Eadmer at ‘The Anchor’ tavern. As he walked into the tap- room he suffered the usual twinge in the stomach from the stench of unwashed bodies, vomit, urine, stale beer, rotting floor-rushes and animal excrement. His eyes watered from the drifting smoke from the small central fire, which in the absence of a chimney eventually seeped out under the eaves of the poorly-made thatched roof. Alan couldn’t understand how such an establishment could continue to exist, given the insalubrious conditions, poor fare and poor service- after all it wasn’t as if the drink was cheap. After a close look around in an unsuccessful attempt to locate Eadmer’s minders, Alan approached the nondescript spy, who was wearing a leather jerkin and breeches and with a red woollen cap. Eadmer waved away the slatternly woman who had been sharing his table, slipping her a silver penny as Alan sat down after carefully examining the cleanliness of the small wooden bench.

Eadmer launched straight into his report without any preliminary pleasantries, talking slowly and carefully to allow Alan to mentally record the information he was receiving. A serving-wench approaching with two quart jugs of rancid beer was waved away by Eadmer, who had rented the table by a previous purchase of a pint jack which sat untouched on the table. Eadmer picked up his beer mug and surreptitiously began to pour it onto the floor, so as not to draw attention by leaving an untouched drink when they eventually vacated the table.

When Eadmer had finished his report, which was intended to then be carried by the longship to King William’s agents further south, Alan explained the problem with Gundred and skald Thorkell Skalleson. “So that’s who you’re using. A fairly good source- if you can trust him, since he’s a Dane. Still, the Danes probably are no more fond of gold than anybody else, and any amateur spy is likely to be a weak tool. Missing two weeks of scheduled meetings isn’t a good sign, but I haven’t heard any rumours of spies being caught at Earl’s Hall at Durham, which is where the earls are staying. You’ll need to go up to Durham and see whether they’ve got cold feet, or what else is going on.”

Alan grunted his acknowledgement of the advice. “I’ll get the ship to take me up to Monkwearmouth tomorrow.”

“Nah! Nah!” replied Eadmer, waving a hand negatively. “You’ll be too noticeable that way. You’ve got the locals around here used to you, but questions will be asked if you head north instead of south. Buy a couple of nags and ride up to Durham with your servant. That way you won’t receive any undue attention- there are hundreds of armed men on horses and you won’t even be noticed. A longship would be noticed.”

Alan did as he had been bidden and early the following morning purchased two rough hackamores and their tack from one of the less-disreputable horse-traders, carefully examining their legs and gait at a trot. While they weren’t animals that he’d be prepared to take on a campaign he was satisfied they could cover the eighteen miles to Durham and then back.

Alan and his page Leof arrived at Durham a little after mid-day, payed their pontage toll to cross the wooden bridge over the River Wear and entered the town from the south. After weeks of living rough in either the hide-out cave or a tent at the camp on the bank of the River Tees Alan saw no need to patronise cheap and uncomfortable lodgings and chose a non-descript but comfortable inn called ‘The Duck amp; Drake’, taking a small and sparsely furnished but clean room on the first floor. The horses were ensconced at a small stable a few yards down the street, the young groom being given twopence to rub down and feed and water the animals.

After a midday meal of bacon and vegetable pottage, day-old bread and hard cheese washed down by ale, Alan decided to have a brief look at the town before he sought Gundred and the skald. By southern standards Durham was a large town rather than a city and was nestled on high ground on the north bank of the River Wear in a tight loop of the river, so as to be afforded protection by the water on three sides. The site