entered, shaking rain from their cloaks. The doorman bowed and scraped before them, making no attempt to relieve them of their swords. Customers on all sides hoisted their cups with cries of welcome. The arrivals were men of consequence. Their leader, tall and swarthily handsome, wore his long black hair dressed in oiled ringlets. Down his back hung a cape of indigo wool hemmed with gilt brocade and fastened at the neck with a clasp, beautifully worked, depicting serpents eating their tails. Gold ringed his fingers and silver bangles as big as quoits dangled on his wrists. His sword hilt was of carved ivory wrapped with silver wire, its pommel fashioned into the shape of a beaked monster. His arrival was a signal for celebration. Conversations grew livelier and a fiddler who played for drinks took up his rebeck and began to saw away.
‘A Scottish chieftain?’ Wayland whispered.
‘Irish swells. Don’t rush away just yet. Let’s find out what brings them to this burgh.’
On his progress to the bar, the dashing leader noticed Wayland’s dog and drew his companions’ attention to it. When the taverner had served them, they leaned with their backs against the counter, reviewing the clientele as if it were a troupe recruited for their entertainment. The leader drank from his silver-mounted beaker and looked Wayland and Raul over with insolent intensity. He wiped suds from his lip and flashed square white teeth. ‘Lachlan’s the name,’ he said. ‘And these bucks are my associates, O’Neil and Regan. You’ll be the traders from England.’
‘Aye,’ Raul said. ‘We’re nearly done in this port. There’s precious little worth buying.’
Lachlan strolled over. ‘I’m a merchant myself. Headed for London.’
‘Oh yes?’ Raul said. ‘What goods do you trade in?’
‘Slaves. Mainly slaves.’
Raul made a stealthy survey of the drinkers. ‘You sell Scottish slaves to the English?’
Lachlan parked himself at the end of their bench and smiled. ‘The very opposite. I sell English slaves to the Scots and Norwegians, but I save the best for the mart in Dublin.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Taverner, two cups of corn ale for my English friends.’
‘Thank you,’ Wayland said. ‘We were just leaving.’ His dog heaved up and shook itself.
Lachlan waved in its direction. ‘That’s a fine hound you’ve got.’
Wayland dipped his head in acknowledgement.
Lachlan sauntered towards the dog. It looked to Wayland for instruction and stood still, its eyes following Lachlan as he circled it, assessing its points and passing on his appraisal to his companions.
‘There’s wolf in that hound. And Irish, too, if I’m not mistaken. Where did you come by it?’
‘My father bred it in Northumberland.’
‘What do you call him?’
‘He doesn’t have a name.’
Lachlan spluttered into his ale. ‘You must value your dog very low if he’s not worth a name.’
Raul stepped in. ‘Wayland couldn’t name the dog because he lost his tongue, and when he found it again, it had learned to do his bidding without a word being spoken.’
‘You’re jesting.’
‘Cross my heart. It’s uncanny.’
Lachlan regarded Wayland. ‘Do you pit it?’
‘What?’
Lachlan enunciated as if addressing a half-wit. ‘Does it fight other dogs for wagers?’
‘No.’
‘Nor with bears or bulls or other beasts?’
‘No, it doesn’t fight.’
The news saddened Lachlan. ‘That’s a good dog going to waste,’ he told O’Neil and Regan. He turned back to Wayland. ‘How much will you take for it?’
‘It’s not for sale.’
Lachlan clucked his tongue. ‘Everything’s for sale, lad. You’ll find that out when you’re better acquainted with life.’
‘I don’t want to sell it.’
‘I won’t even haggle. Name your price.’
Wayland swallowed and shook his head.
‘You’re called “Wayland” if I heard a’right.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Wayland hated that craven ‘sir’, but there was something about the rich Irish slaver that made him feel like a bumpkin.
‘Well, Wayland, you’ll find that when Lachlan takes a fancy to something, he won’t be shaken loose.’ He opened a silver-mesh purse and laid pennies on the table coin by coin until Wayland stopped counting and looked away as if he were being shown something obscene. Lachlan sprinkled another few coins for good measure. ‘No man can say I’m a stinter. That’s as much as I’d pay for a slave.’
Wayland stood mute and miserable.
‘Go on, lad, pick it up.’
‘You’d be wasting your money. The dog won’t go with you.’
Lachlan’s voice was soothing. ‘I don’t want it for a pet. I won’t gentle it. Just give me care of it for a week and I swear it will know me for its master. By god, there’s not a dog whelped that I can’t man.’ He raised his beaker. ‘Am I right, boys?’
The dog clacked its teeth and made for Wayland.
Lachlan laughed. ‘I fancy he’d like to sink his chops into me.’ He struck his thigh. ‘Damn, it’s a crime to have such a game beast and not make sport with it.’
‘Come on,’ Wayland told Raul. ‘Vallon will be wondering what’s keeping us.’
‘Is Vallon your master?’
Wayland kept going and was halfway to the door when Lachlan said his name again. Wayland stopped.
Lachlan’s hand fell on his shoulder. He spoke into Wayland’s ear. ‘I’ve bought virgins from their mothers who fell to their knees and kissed my hand in gratitude. You can’t argue with silver. If I were to go to your master Vallon, I guarantee that by midnight you and your dog would be my legal property.’
Wayland could see the gold gleaming on Lachlan’s fingers. ‘I told you. The dog’s not for sale.’
Lachlan flicked Wayland’s scalp. ‘Away with you then, and take your nameless cur with you. I was being over-generous. The glim flattered it. Now it stands in clearer light, I can see it’s too long-boned to make a fighting dog.’
They would have left unscathed if Raul hadn’t tried to get in the last word. ‘That dog’s no cur.’
Lachlan had already turned away and seemed to have dismissed the matter. ‘What else do you call a dog that’s too gutless to fight?’
‘It doesn’t fight because it doesn’t need to.’
‘Shut up,’ Wayland hissed.
Lachlan appealed to his friends. ‘A pair of riddlers. A dog that does what it’s told without being told and doesn’t fight because it doesn’t have to.’
Raul’s face was flushed. ‘The dog kills whatever stands in its way. It doesn’t fight them. It just kills them.’
Wayland groaned.
Lachlan caressed his jaw. ‘Does that go for dogs?’
Raul shrugged. ‘I ain’t seen one yet that would stand up to it.’
Lachlan grinned. ‘Fetch Dormarth,’ he said, and Regan hurried out. ‘Do you know that name?’ he asked Wayland. ‘In Ireland’s old religion, Dormarth is the hound that guards the gate of hell.’
Lachlan picked up a coin and let it drop back on to the pile. ‘My offer still stands. Your dog won’t be worth a penny dead.’
Wayland’s breath shuddered in his throat. ‘Nor yours.’
Lachlan cocked a brow. ‘If you fancy it that highly, you’ll want to wager on the outcome.’
‘I don’t have any money to gamble.’
Lachlan laughed. ‘Hazard your own person. A lad as comely as you would fetch a pot of silver in Dublin town.’ He reached out to pat Wayland’s face.
