‘I said the boy was to be brought, now bring the boy, fat man.’
‘It’s an hour up the hill,’ said Ofaeti. Then he looked at the simmering king and said, ‘I’ll go, I’ll go.’
‘Good. Bring him and make no fuss about it. Do not alert the Raven.’
‘You’re the boss,’ said Ofaeti. He turned and went out of the hall, gesturing at Fastarr to come with him.
The king took up his wine and swallowed down his temper. Then he spoke to Leshii in a more even voice. ‘So what did he say, the saint? What revelations did he bring forth?’
Leshii glanced about him. The warriors in the king’s house seemed almost to crackle with excitement. All eyes were on him and Leshii had been in enough losing deals to know when it was time to call it quits and get out. This was one of those moments. However, while the king was there, there was no question of that.
‘Come on, merchant, what did he say?’
Leshii wondered if he should lie but thought better of it. Latin was spoken widely enough for the king to have heard from elsewhere. The truth was the only safe course.
‘He said she was here,’ he said.
‘Really?’ Leshii could see that behind the king’s light manner was a boiling rage. ‘Why do you think that was?’
‘I am not a magician, lord.’
The king stood, so quickly that Leshii almost leaped backwards. Sigfrid was clearly only just managing to keep a hold on his fury.
‘Oh, but you are, merchant, you are. I have heard that I knew you as a child — my men here tell me. But I have no memory of you. Have you wiped it away?’
Leshii was relieved. If that was all this was, he could talk his way out of it.
‘I merely said that your renown was so great that I knew of you and your father as a child, even in my home beyond the Eastern Lake. They sing of your deeds there. Perhaps your warriors misunderstood me. My command of your language is not so sure.’
‘It is good enough to lie in,’ said Sigfrid.
Leshii said nothing, as he guessed whatever he said would not do him much good.
The king clapped his hands together. ‘Good Saerda,’ he said, ‘show our esteemed guest what you found in his packs.’
‘You gave your oath not to touch them!’
‘Nor did I. Saerda caught a boy trying to steal from them,’ said Sigfrid. ‘A thief opened your packs, merchant, not one of my warriors. And why are you so keen that no one should see your wares? It’s an unusual merchant who doesn’t display his goods.’
‘I prefer to be there when they are displayed, my lord, or I find I get a rather poor price for them, nothing being the poorest price I know.’
‘There are worse payments than nothing at all,’ said Sigfrid, tapping at the hilt of the sword on his belt.
Saerda shot a brief smile towards Leshii and dragged one of the packs forward. It had been opened. Leshii felt his heart beginning to race as the berserk reached within and pulled something out. There was a flash of pale gold in the candlelight. Aelis’s hair.
‘What’s this, merchant?’ The king’s voice cracked in his anger.
Leshii breathed out slowly and spread his arms wide. He needed to calm himself.
‘I bought it from a peasant woman on the way here. It will make a fine wig; any of your warriors would be proud to take it to their wives.’
The king set his jaw. Then he took something else from the bag, something small enough to fit into his fist. He held out his clenched hand.
‘What do you think I have in here?’
‘I am a low man and would not like to guess the minds of kings,’ said Leshii.
‘A good answer. Mine is better. Would you like to hear it?’
‘If it pleases you.’
‘I have your death, merchant.’
Leshii swallowed. He had thought, in the safety of the clearing with the lady, that he had lived a long life and would not mind leaving it for the chance of riches. Now his life seemed very short indeed. Strange thoughts came into his head. I haven’t done anything, he thought. I haven’t lived. He had walked the silk trails with a camel, gone to the frozen shores of the north, seen the Holy Roman Empire and the southern olive groves, but, facing his own death, he saw the reality of his life. He had done all these things alone. He thought of his mother. She was the last person he had really loved, been willing to die for. That, he realised, was what he meant when he told himself, I haven’t done anything. He had never replaced that love — with that of a friend, a woman, a child. Trade had been everything to him, and now here he was in his last deal, trying to bargain for his life.
The king came over to where Leshii was standing and opened his hand. In it were two fine lady’s finger rings, one with the single lily of the Margrave of Neustria on it, the sign that would announce the wearer as a high-born woman, a descendant of Robert the Strong. The Vikings had suffered at his hands and eventually killed him, so they knew his crest very well.
‘Taken in payment for silk, my lord. Who has made a story from some tresses and a few baubles here?’ He glanced at Saerda.
The king seemed to think for a second.
‘Where was this trade made?’
‘Just the other night, lord. A strange fellow brought these things, tall and clad in a wolfskin. I did not like him much but he seemed willing to pay a good price for-’
The king held up his hand. ‘We will see,’ he said. ‘Your boy will be back before the night is out and we’ll see what tales he has to tell.’
‘He is not a talkative fellow, sir,’ said Leshii.
‘He’ll say enough, whether he speaks or not. If he is, as I suspect, the lady I’m looking for, then I’ll gut you here on the floor myself.’
There was a commotion outside and a man entered the hall, short of breath. It was one of the berserkers who had met him on the hill on the first night — a tall, wiry man with a scar that ran across his cheek and sliced off the top of his ear. He was carrying something over his arm. It was a bundle of wet cloth.
‘What do you have for us?’
The berserker threw the cloth down. It hit the reeds with a squelch. It was stained but anyone could see it was the fine silk and brocade of an expensive dress.
‘Found where the merchant had his camp,’ said the man. ‘It’s Frankish, my lord, and no mistake.’
‘Exactly as worn by the lady we pursued,’ said Saerda.
Sigfrid drew his sword and strode forward as Leshii threw up his arms to try to fend him away.
15
Voices, and pressures in his head. Dizziness, confusion and pain. The confessor had known the Raven was trying to enchant him but he had struggled against it.
They had come at him, knowingly or not, through his weakness for human touch. He had felt the woman holding him, the brush of her hair against his face, heard the beauty of her singing and, against himself, had drawn comfort from her embrace.
It was a woman — he could tell from the shape of her, the softness of her thin arms, even the sound of her breath. He had tried to get away from her at first, to move as best he could, but he was so cruelly tied it was impossible. The pain at his throat from the rope was awful, the Raven’s chant hypnotic, the woman’s voice entangling his thoughts like a coil of smoke from an incense burner entangles a sunbeam. He could have resisted them all, remained as himself fully present in the agony of the rope, had it not been for her touch.
He began to lose track of time. He would drift away from the pain, and her embrace would seem like the
