The angry shouts had come from the upper floor. There was a yelp and then a man was hurled down the stairs. He was a young man who crashed against the steps, bounced and collapsed on the floor. He did not move. Men stood, either to help him or to protest against the violence, but then all of them went very still.
They went still because a man was coming down the stairs. A big man. The first we saw were his boots, then massive thighs, and then he came into view, and I saw it was Waormund. He was bare chested, his clothes over his arm. He carried a sword belt with a sheathed sword; a big blade for a big man. There was not a sound in the tavern except for those heavy boots on the stairs. He paused after a few steps and his harsh face, blank-eyed and scarred, looked around the room. Benedetta gasped, and I put my hand over hers, warning her to keep silent.
‘Scum!’ Waormund snarled at the room. ‘Little Danish bastard thought to use my woman. Told me to hurry! Anyone else in a hurry to use her?’ He waited, but no one made a sound. He was terrifying; the width of that muscled chest, the sneer on his face, and the size of the heavy sword had cowed the room into submission. Benedetta was clutching my hand beneath the table now, her grip tight.
Waormund came down the last steps. He paused again, looking down at the youngster who had offended him. Then, very deliberately, he kicked him. Kicked him again and again. There was a yelp from the boy, then no sound except for Waormund’s massive boot crashing into the prone body. ‘East Anglian pussies!’ Waormund snarled. He looked around the tavern again, plainly hoping someone would defy him, but still no one spoke or moved. He looked at our corner, but just saw two hooded people and a priest. The rushlight was weak, the room shadowed, and he ignored us. ‘Danish god-damned pussies!’ He was still trying to provoke a fight, but when no one responded he picked an ale pot from the closest table, drained it, and stalked into the night.
Benedetta was crying softly. ‘I hate him,’ she whispered, ‘I hate him.’
I held onto her hand beneath the table. Men were helping the fallen youth and conversation was starting again, but subdued now. Jorund, who had stood when the boy was thrown down the stairs, had gone to see what damage had been done and came back a moment later. ‘Poor boy. Broken ribs, crushed balls, lost half his teeth, and he’ll be lucky to keep an eye.’ He sat and drank some ale. ‘I hate that man,’ he added bitterly.
‘Who is he?’ I asked.
‘Bastard called Waormund. Lord Æthelhelm’s mastiff.’
‘And it seems he doesn’t like Danes,’ I said mildly.
‘Danes!’ Jorund said wryly. ‘He doesn’t like anyone! Saxon or Dane.’
‘And you?’ Father Oda asked. ‘You fought against the Saxons, yet now you fight alongside them?’
Jorund chuckled. ‘Saxon and Dane! It’s a forced marriage, father. Most of my lads are Saxons, but maybe a third are Danes, and I’m always having to stop the silly bastards from hammering each other senseless. But that’s young men, isn’t it?’
‘You lead men?’ I asked, surprised.
‘I do.’
‘A Dane leading Saxons?’ I explained my surprise.
‘The world changes, doesn’t it?’ Jorund sounded amused. ‘Coenwald could have taken my land, but he didn’t, and he knows I’m the most experienced of all his warriors.’ He turned to look at the room. ‘And most of those lads need experience. They’ve never seen a proper fight. God help them, they think it’s a tavern brawl with spears. Still, I hope to lead every last one of them home, and soon!’
Jorund was a good man, I thought, yet fate, that most capricious bitch, might demand that I face him in a shield wall one day. ‘I hope you lead them home very soon,’ I said, ‘and that you gather your harvest in safely.’
‘I pray the same,’ Jorund said. ‘And I pray never to see another shield wall as long as I live. But if it is to be a real war then it won’t take long.’
‘It won’t?’ I asked.
‘It’s us and the West Saxons against the Mercians. Two against one, see?’
‘Maybe the Northumbrians will fight alongside the Mercians,’ I suggested mischievously.
‘They’ll not come south,’ Jorund said scornfully.
‘Yet you say there’s a rumour that Uhtred of Bebbanburg is already here,’ I said.
‘If he was here,’ Jorund said flatly, ‘he’d have his army of northern savages with him. Besides, there’s plague up north.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘We hear tales,’ he went on, ‘and they say Jorvik is a city of corpses.’
‘Jorvik!’ I asked, unable to keep the alarm from my voice.
‘So they say,’ Jorund said.
I felt a cold shiver. My hand went to touch my hammer amulet and again found Gerbruht’s wooden cross. Father Oda saw the gesture. ‘I pray God that’s just another rumour,’ the priest said too hurriedly. ‘You leave the city soon?’ he asked Jorund, evidently trying to move the conversation beyond the fear of plague.
‘God knows, father,’ Jorund said, ‘and God isn’t telling me. We stay here, or maybe we don’t stay here. Maybe the Mercian lad will make trouble, and maybe he won’t. He won’t if he has any sense.’ He poured the last of the jug’s ale into our beakers. ‘But I didn’t come to bore you with talk of war, father,’ he said, ‘but wondered if you’d be kind enough to give us a blessing?’
‘With pleasure, my son,’ Father Oda said.
‘I hope you recover, mistress,’ Jorund said to Benedetta. She had not understood the conversation in Danish, but smiled her thanks to Jorund, who now called the room to silence.
Father Oda gave the blessing, enjoining his god to bring peace and to spare the lives of all the men in the tavern. Jorund thanked him and we left, walking
