Knights of the Hawk

as always there were a few noblemen who disagreed with the Church’s judgement and kept them to help with the running of their households. As we had found in the years since coming to Britain, however, slavery was common among the folk who lived in these isles, as it was among the Danes and the Moors, who perhaps once a year would venture north to these shores, bringing boatloads of dark-skinned, black-haired women and children from distant, sun-parched lands, who spoke in tongues no one could decipher and whose strange beauty entranced all who set eyes upon them.

Eithne was no beauty, but she was young, and to many men that was more important.

‘How did you end up at Elyg?’ I asked.

‘Does it matter, lord?’

I supposed it didn’t, not really, but I was curious, and when she saw that my interest was genuine, she sighed and told me the whole story. In fleeing Dyflin with the few coins she’d been able to scrape together, she had been able to find passage with a trader, only for their ship to be ambushed when they were less than a day out of port. The captain of the raiders had seen Eithne and taken a fancy to her at first sight, and rather than resist him she had pretended to love him in return.

‘I thought it would be easier that way,’ Eithne said sadly. ‘I didn’t realise I’d thrown off one yoke only to place another around my neck.’

He had taken her back to his hall in Kathenessia, and had married soon after. From what she told me it seemed he had been kind enough, treating her well and clothing her in the richest fabrics he could afford and bestowing her with silver bracelets and brooches, and she had kept up the pretence, realising that she was unlikely to find greater happiness anywhere else. Then this year, hearing that there might be glory and fortune to be won in the Fens, he had ventured south, and since he could not bear to be apart from Eithne for long, he had taken her with him.

‘And now everything has come full circle and I find myself back here,’ she said bitterly. ‘The last place I wanted to be. If Ravn sees me-’

‘He won’t,’ I replied confidently. Even if he still lived in these parts, this Ravn might not even remember her after so long.

‘But if he does-’

‘Even if he does, you’re safe with me.’

‘You promise you won’t take me back to him?’

I was about to say, only half in jest, that that depended on how much he was willing to pay to see her returned, for, though it shames me to say so, I was briefly tempted. I remained desperately poor, and the reward for dragging a fugitive slave back to her master would go some way to replenishing my coin-purse. Yet I had vowed myself to her protection, and I was not one to go back on my pledges, especially given that I’d already tricked her the once, into coming with me. She trusted me, and I would not betray that trust.

‘I swear it,’ I told her. ‘And, after I’ve done what I’ve come here for, I promise to see you safely back home. Where is home for you, anyway?’

‘A small village that doesn’t have a name, where the great river empties into the wide western sea.’

That was no great help, for such a place could be anywhere. ‘Do you know where exactly?’

She shrugged. ‘A short way downstream from the city the Danes call Hlymerkr.’

I nodded, though I had never heard of such a place. How I’d manage to take her home or even when exactly, I hadn’t yet worked out. But I would.

She was still pale and anxious when, later that day, we clambered from Hrithdyr on to Dyflin’s muddy quayside, hauling our packs up after us. The local reeve, or whatever the word for such an official was in the tongues of that place, came to collect from Snorri the silver penny that was the daily price for keeping a vessel moored here, and after paying it the Dane led us up the city’s narrow, dung-reeking alleys to the place where this Magnus could be found.

Despite everything I’d heard about Dyflin and the folk who frequented it, it was nothing like I had imagined: not nearly as large, nor as impressive to look upon, compared with either Lundene or the great cities of Normandy, with their towering vaulted churches and encircling stone walls that stood the height of six men. Indeed it seemed to me a sorry place. While a few long halls that probably belonged to merchants or noblemen stood proud upon the higher ground to the south, much of the rest of the city looked as if it were being swallowed up by the mud. Crumbling, sunken-floored houses huddled close together on either side of streets ankle-deep in filth. In one place a stream had become clogged with straw and leaves and dung and the putrid remains of an animal that might once have been a hog, and had overspilled its banks, flooding the road and leaving wide pools through which we had no choice but to trudge. One part of the town was burnt to the ground, leaving only blackened timbers and piles of ash, whether as the result of some accident or a recent raid I could only guess. Traders called out in tongues I did not understand, grabbing at our sleeves to catch our attention, pointing to stalls laden with fresh- caught fish or else with bolts of brightly coloured silks from far-off lands. Bone-thin, toothless beggars leant upon sticks as they held out hands in hope of receiving a coin or two, while children played with wooden horses in the alleys between houses, eyeing us suspiciously before they resumed their games.

Snorri led us up the hill in the direction of a wide, flat, grassy mound that looked as though it should have formed part of a castle, except that no tower stood upon it, nor was it surrounded by any palisade.

‘That’s where they hold the thing,’ Snorri told me when I asked what it was.

‘The thing?’ I asked.

‘It’s our word for an assembly of elders and nobles, like the hundred courts you have in England.’ He pointed towards the mound. ‘That’s where they make the laws, pass judgments on disputes, of which there’s no shortage here. Men fighting over money, or women, or both-’

I was only half paying attention to him, for I was suddenly aware of a group of women who had stopped to fix us with stern glares. A few men even went so far as to spit on the ground as we passed, which I thought strange. Obviously they recognised myself, Serlo and Pons for foreigners, either by our manner of dress or, more probably, from the cut of our hair, for unlike the Danes and the English, who tended to let theirs grow long, ours was shaven short at the back and at the sides, in the style favoured in France. Still, I thought such attentions strange, given that they must be well used to seeing people from all parts.

‘It’s because they’re English,’ Snorri explained. ‘Many thegns came and settled here together with their families in the months and years after Hæstinges, preferring exile over submission to a foreign king. They all know a Norman when they see one. I thought you knew.’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t.’

Hardly had I set foot in this city than it seemed I was already making enemies. I checked to make sure that my sword was belted upon my waist, which of course it was. Hopefully I wouldn’t have any need of it.

Thankfully they were content to stare and spit and nothing more, and we soon left them behind us, arriving shortly at a high-gabled hall with timbers that were half-rotten in places. A boy who might have been a servant or a slave met us at the door and regarded us sullenly.

‘Heill nu, Björn,’ Snorri said by way of greeting, in what I presumed was the Danish tongue, since although it sounded a little like English, the words were not all familiar. ‘Er thin meistari her?’

‘Ma sva vera,’ said Björn with a shrug, eyeing Snorri with suspicion, as if not quite sure whether he was to be trusted. ‘Hvi? Hverr vill veita?’

‘Seg honum at Snorri Broklauss vili hitta hann at mali.’

Björn glowered and hesitated for a moment, before disappearing into the gloom of the hall.

‘This Magnus,’ I said to Snorri, ‘is he a Dane?’

‘You might think it to look at him. From what I gather, though, the blood in his veins is English. Truth is, I don’t know him well enough to say for sure.’

‘And you think this Englishman will be willing to help us?’

‘I’m telling you I don’t know where he’s from. I hear he’s from noble stock, but then again I hear many things. He speaks both tongues well, and he has many Danish friends. That’s all I know.’

Not to mention a Danish name, I thought, although perhaps that was not so unusual. Men often considered me a Breton, although it was some years since I’d last returned to the place of my birth, but my name was French, given to me by my Norman mother.

‘How far do you trust him?’ I asked.