Knights of the Hawk

Nineteen

We spent a restless two nights at the Two Boars while the Dane, whose name we learnt was Snorri, concluded his business. Restless, because I was convinced that those men who had come looking for me at Earnford would not be far behind us, and because I was aware, too, that the longer we lingered in one place, the greater the chance of our being caught.

But they did not come, and so it was with some relief that at last we sailed, Hrithdyr’s hold having been filled with bolts of wool-cloth, barrels of salted porpoise-meat, Rhenish quernstones and casks of English wine that came from the vineyards further up the Saverna valley. The wind was on the turn, however, a sure sign of worse weather to come, and Snorri kept looking to the grey-darkening skies and muttering in his own tongue, all the while fingering a small chain that hung around his neck from which, I noticed, hung both the heathen hammer and the Christian cross. Perhaps he still held to some of the old ways but was fearful of our Lord’s wrath and so wore the cross as well to placate Him, or possibly he thought that by worshipping both our God and those of his pagan ancestors, his soul would be guaranteed a place in one heaven or the other. Whatever he believed, his prayers seemed to work, for the storm that we’d all predicted failed to come, at least on that day.

We entered the Saverna early that afternoon, hugging close to the Wessex shore while the grey waters grew ever choppier and the wind whipped the waves into white stallions. No storm came that evening either, though, and so the following day we crossed to the Welsh side, making port on an island where stood a small stone chapel dedicated to a certain St Barruc, of whom none of us had ever heard. We were just in time, too, for no sooner had we dragged the boat up the shingle on that island’s sheltered shore than we were pelted with hail, and a gale rose from the west and the sea foamed and crashed against the cliffs. There we were forced to wait until the wind turned again and the seas calmed.

Still England lay in sight to our larboard side, although it was no more than the faintest sliver of green and brown and grey on the horizon. Only then did I realise that in the five years since the invasion, not once had I left its shores. I had ventured on brief forays into Wales and marched into the far corners of the kingdom, close to the borderlands where King Guillaume’s realm ended and that of the Scots began, but never in all that time had I made the voyage back across the seas, as so many others had done. The Breton had become a Norman, had become bound to England. And now I would leave that land behind me. The land where I’d made my reputation, where I had lived and loved and lost. The kingdom I’d given everything short of my life to defend, and all, it seemed now, for nothing.

I stood by the stern, looking out across the white-tipped waters towards those vanishing cliffs as Hrithdyr rose and dipped in the swell and the wind filled its sails, until a sudden squall blew in and cloud veiled that land, and I could see it no longer.

It took more than a week for us to reach Dyflin. Even I, who knew little of the sea, knew that the autumn was ever a difficult time to set sail. The winds were changeable, storms could arrive with little warning, and pirates lurked, looking for easy plunder, knowing that shipmasters were eager to make it home in time for Christmas or Yule or whatever other name they gave to the winter feast, their holds filled and their coin-purses bursting with whatever they had earned from that year’s dealing. God must have been with us, for we saw no sign of them, despite all the warnings of the folk who lived on those shores, who said that their low-hulled, dragon-prowed longships had been spotted roving further along the coast. Nevertheless we proceeded with care.

The journey could probably have been made in better time, but Snorri was a cautious man, and one who clung to his superstitions, too. He refused to leave sight of land unless the signs were wholly favourable, and even then only after he had cast the runesticks to assure himself that a watery fate did not await us. Not that I blamed him. Far better to be cautious than dead. Besides, the open sea was already rough enough for my liking. As we left the Welsh coast behind us and, with a following breeze filling our sails, struck a course west towards Yrland, I remembered one of the reasons I’d never made the journey back across the Narrow Sea in the past five years. The horizon rose and fell and rolled and pitched from one side to another, and my belly churned, and I huddled down by the stern, my eyes closed, as I tried to hold back the sickness swelling within. To no avail.

‘I thought you Flemings were well used to the sea,’ Snorri said after what must have been the third time I’d spewed over the ship’s side. He slapped me on the back as I heaved up what I hoped were the last of my stomach’s contents, wiped away some that had seeped down my chin, and spat in an effort to rid my mouth of the taste.

‘Not this Fleming.’ Another swell of bile rose up my throat, and I readied myself to retch once again, but it subsided.

‘The last time I was in Saint-Omer, it was still being rebuilt after the great storm, the one that struck that midsummer’s night. Were you there then?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I wasn’t.’

He shook his head sadly. ‘I was there. I saw the winds bring down the monastery’s bell-tower, saw rain such as you have never seen turn the streets into rivers, wash whole houses away. Ships were torn from their moorings, cast downriver and out to sea, though not Hrithdyr. She alone weathered the tempest. That’s how she got her name. Stormbeast, I suppose you would call her in your tongue. A terrible night, that was.’

‘I heard the tales,’ I lied. This was the first I’d heard of any such storm. If only he would stop harassing me with these questions about a place I’d never so much as visited.

‘That tavern is almost the only part of the old town that still stands.’ He gave a laugh. ‘The Monk’s Pisspot, everyone called it, on account of that’s what the ale there used to taste like. You know the place I’m talking about, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘Who could forget it?’

But Snorri was not laughing any more, and that was when I realised my mistake. Saint-Omer was among the richest ports in Flanders. Had there been any such disaster, news of it would surely have reached our ears. There had been no midsummer’s storm, and neither, I realised now, was there any tavern by that name. He was testing me.

If he’d had his suspicious before, he knew for certain now that I was not who I claimed to be.

‘So what are you?’ he asked. ‘An outlaw? An oath-breaker, maybe?’

‘I’ve broken no oath.’

‘Then what? You’re obviously fleeing something. Old Snorri has wits as well as beauty, you know. He can tell these things.’

I returned his stare but did not speak.

‘You’re entitled to your secrets, I suppose, if that’s the way you want to keep it. Your gold’s good and that’s all that concerns me. I’m not one to pry into another man’s business. I knew you were no Fleming, though, from the moment we met.’

‘How?’

‘The way you speak, for a start. Did you think you could trick someone who’s travelled as widely as I have? Anyone who lives his life on the whale-road can easily tell a Fleming from a Norman from a Gascon from a Ponthievin by the sound of their voice.’ He sighed the heavy sigh of one who had seen his share of fools over the years, and had grown tired of their games. ‘If you want my advice-’

‘I don’t,’ I muttered, but he went on, unperturbed.

‘-it’s that you should tread carefully, Goscelin of Saint-Omer, or whatever you’re really called. Count yourself lucky that I’m not the sort who’s easily offended, but there are many that won’t take kindly to men who try to deceive them. If there’s one place you don’t want to start making enemies, it’s in Dyflin.’

‘I can take care of myself,’ I answered, though the conviction in my words was undermined somewhat as I felt another heave coming. Grabbing the gunwale to steady myself, I leant over the side, but by now I had nothing left to give and only the slightest dribble came out.

‘Onions,’ Snorri said.

‘What?’ I asked, after I’d wiped a sleeve across my mouth.

‘Onions. I always recommend them for anyone who suffers from ship-sickness. Raw is best, but if you can’t stomach that then boiled will do. Also rosemary and ginger, if you can acquire them. Grind them into a powder and mix them with water. Better still would be to add the juice of a quince, although you’ll be lucky if you find any this side of the Narrow Sea.’

I thanked him for his suggestion, though I’d tried many a remedy for various ailments in my years, few of which I could honestly say had ever seemed to do much good.

‘Why Dyflin?’ he asked. ‘Of all the places to choose exile, why there?’

‘I’m looking for someone.’

‘Who?’

I hesitated, wondering whether or not I should tell Snorri. But I supposed he had shown faith in me, despite the fact that I had lied to him, and that was worth something. The least I could do was return the favour.

‘A man called Haakon Thorolfsson,’ I said at last. ‘Have you heard of him?’

‘Haakon Thorolfsson?’ he asked, as if testing the name on his lips to see if it brought forth any memory. ‘I can’t say the name is familiar, but then there aren’t many of us Danes still living in Dyflin these days; it’s an Irish town now, mostly. What is he, a merchant?’

‘A warlord.’

‘A warlord?’ He nodded towards my scabbard. ‘Looking to sell your sword to him, are you?’

I glared at him in warning and he raised his palms to show that he meant no offence. ‘As I said, your business is your own. But I might be able to help you. I know a man who lives in the city, who hears many things and knows many people. Magnus, his name is. I’ll take you to him, if you want. He might have heard of this Haakon, and if he has, there’s a good chance he’ll know where you can find him, too.’

His generosity surprised me, considering that I was but a stranger to him, but I wasn’t about to refuse such an offer. Sometimes fate is harsh and at others it is kind, and all a man can do is take advantage of its kindness while it lasts.

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I’d like to meet your friend.’

‘I didn’t say he was my friend. Although that’s not to say he’s my enemy, either. Truth be told, he’s not the friendly sort. He keeps himself to himself. Around your age, he is, probably a few winters younger, fond of his secrets. A brooding kind of man, with a temper hotter than hell’s fires.’ He gave me a gap-toothed grin. ‘In many ways you remind me of him.’

I was about to protest, but at that moment a shout came from the lookout by the prow, who had spied land in the distance, ahead and a little to our steerboard side. At once Snorri left me and began barking orders to his crew in their own tongue. The lookout’s eyes were better than mine, and it was a while longer before I was able to see it: at first only a rocky headland rising high above the savage, white-foaming waves, then further along wide beaches of dark sand and shingle, with green meadows and gold-bronze woodlands beyond, and faint wisps of rising hearth-smoke marking out villages and farmsteads, though we were too far away to make out any houses. Cormorants and other seabirds soared in their hundreds, occasionally breaking away from the flock to dive beneath the waves, only to resurface moments later with glistening, writhing fish in their bills.

At last we had come to the land beyond the sea. To Yrland, and, I hoped, one step closer to finding Oswynn, whatever fate had befallen her and wherever she happened to be.

To my eyes Yrland seemed a quiet country, with few villages and halls that I could make out, but such appearances, Snorri told us, belied its true nature. A seething cauldron of violence, he described it, and spoke ill of its people, too, calling them as cunning and rapacious as wolves. This was a land, he said, in which no man’s holdings were safe, where chieftains and princelings led marauding bands, despoiling everything in their paths in pursuit of their bloody feuds. Every other man called himself a king, but only one held any real claim to overlordship, and that was Diarmait, who ruled the southern half of the island, including Dyflin and the other ports, and had received the submission of the north. But he was old and frail now, and said to be in poor health besides, and the authority that once he had held over the many squabbling families was waning.

‘Already this year there has been open war between them,’ Snorri said. ‘He nearly lost his kingdom because of it. There will be worse to come when he dies, too. His last surviving son and heir perished last year, so what will happen no one knows, except that there’ll be all manner of adventurers and sellswords flocking to these shores, looking to ply their trade. Probably this Haakon you mentioned will be among them.’

Not if I found him first, I thought, though I did not say it.

It took another three days from first spying Yrland’s coast before finally we made port in Dyflin. We travelled slowly, hugging as near as Snorri dared to the spray-battered cliffs and stacks where guillemots gathered. He did this, he said, for two reasons: firstly so as to be less easily spotted, and secondly to deter any raiders who might be on the prowl for trading ships like ours. Open water was where we were most vulnerable, for whereas Hrithdyr was wide and slow, the ships the pirates favoured tended to be sleek and fast, with slender beams, high prows, and oars as well as sails. Close to land, however, the risks were greater where raiders were concerned. Floating masses of seaweed might become tangled in their oars, while there were sheltered creeks and inlets in which their prey could easily hide. Instead, Snorri explained, they usually preferred to attack when the prey was easy. And so it proved, for although on two occasions we spied sails on the horizon that we suspected might belong to such sea wolves, both kept their distance, obviously deciding that we were not worth the effort of a pursuit, and thus we were spared.

A biting easterly wind was gusting at our backs, piercing our spray-soaked tunics, its chill working its way into my very bones, when we sailed around yet another headland and at long last spotted Dyflin in the distance. Winter was on its way, it seemed. I wrapped my cloak tightly around me. We had to wait a few more hours for the flood tide, and so we anchored in the estuary in the meantime, furled the sail and gazed upon the sprawling city with its crumbling timber palisades, its wharves and slipways and beaches and landing stages where ships both large and small had been dragged high above the tideline and were being caulked in preparation for their last voyages before the snows.

My sickness had at last abated, and it was Eithne who now looked ill. Indeed I’d heard hardly a word from her throughout the entire voyage, the brashness that I recalled in her from our first meeting having ebbed away over the last few days.

‘Please, lord,’ she said now, and there was fear in her eyes. ‘I don’t want to go back there.’

‘Why not?’

She hesitated, glanced around to check that no one else was watching, and then turned around and pulled at the collar of her dress, revealing a black symbol, roughly as long as my thumb and shaped something like a letter R except more jagged, which had been branded on to her chest, just below her shoulder-bone. At once I understood.

‘You’re a slave?’ I asked.

‘Was, lord. I ran away two years ago. There’s another, if you want to see it.’ She lifted up her skirt to show me her thigh.

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I don’t need to see.’ Some of Snorri’s crewmen were beginning to take an interest, nudging each other and pointing in our direction, particularly the younger ones, some of whom were barely more than pups and would probably have counted themselves lucky to glimpse the merest flash of a woman’s bared ankle. ‘Is that your master’s mark?’

She nodded. ‘His name is Ravn. He’s a merchant. He lives in Dyflin, or used to, anyway.’

‘Why did you run away? Did he beat you?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘He was a good master, in that sense. Not cruel. He gave us warm clothes and fed us well, us Irish ones, anyway. He was fond of us, though some of the others he treated less well. The work he gave us wasn’t hard, and he looked after my mother when she was sick-’

‘Why, then?’

‘I saw the way he looked at me sometimes when I was churning the butter or building the fire. I saw the hunger in his eyes and I was afraid that when I came of age he’d want me to help warm his bed, as my mother did while she still lived.’

‘So you fled.’

‘Yes, lord.’

As reasons went, that was far from the worst I had heard, and it was hard not to feel sorry for her. We Normans tended not to keep or trade slaves, the bishops having preached that both practices were sinful, though 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.

‘About as far as I trust you,’ Snorri replied flatly, which I supposed was only deserved. ‘Let me do the talking, at least to begin with. If he’s here, that is, and I’m beginning to think he isn’t.’

‘If he isn’t, where will we find him?’

‘At this hour?’ He nodded in the vague direction of the setting sun. ‘Probably down at the stews by the docks. Whores and slaves are what Dyflin is best known for. Fine girls, there are, from all over Christendom and even beyond, as plump or as skinny as you like. You won’t find better this side of the sea. Probably there are boys as well, if you’re inclined that way; our Lord might judge, but not old Snorri. I’ll show you later where-’

He didn’t get the chance to finish, since at that moment the door opened. Standing there was a sour-faced man of around twenty years, by my reckoning, tall and long-limbed, with fair hair that was tied back, a shaggy woollen cloak of a style that I’d seen many Dyflin folk wearing draped around his shoulders, and a flagon in one hand.

‘Snorri Broklauss,’ he said, without warmth, his words sounding more than a little slurred. He greeted him in English, which, I thought, was just as well. ‘I was wondering how soon it would be before you next showed your face here. You knew that wine you sold me had spoilt, didn’t you?’

The Dane frowned. ‘Spoilt, lord?’

‘It made me sick, Snorri. Sick like a pig, all over my hall. I was spewing all that night and the next day too.’

‘That’ll happen if you try to drink the whole barrel at once, lord,’ Snorri said gravely, his expression even.

For an instant I thought Magnus might strike him for such discourtesy, but instead his expression softened and a smile broke out across his face. ‘So, what have you come to sell me this time?’

‘I’m not looking to sell,’ Snorri said. ‘I’ve come looking for your help.’

‘My help?’ Magnus snorted, and took a swig from his flagon. ‘You want my help?’

‘I want information, or rather this man does.’ The sea captain stepped back and gestured in my direction. ‘He calls himself Goscelin, from Saint-Omer. He has some questions which I thought you might be able to answer for him.’

Ale-addled as he was, it took a few moments for Magnus’s gaze to settle upon me. He looked me up and down, glanced over my shoulder at Serlo and Pons, Godric and Eithne, and snorted again. ‘A Fleming?’

‘So he claims,’ Snorri said.

The other man sneered. ‘And does this Goscelin have a voice of his own?’

He wore no weapons, and yet despite his youth he had the look of a warrior, or at least someone who had witnessed much hardship in his life, and fought many battles, both with the sword and without. There was a certain hollowness in his bleary eyes that matched the ale on his breath, and a world-weariness in his manner that I found strange for one of his age, and for which I couldn’t account. He didn’t strike me as the kind of person who could help me.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ I said nevertheless. ‘Snorri seems to think you might know where to find him.’

‘That depends,’ said Magnus.

‘On what?’

‘How much I know depends on how much you’re willing to pay.’

I had travelled that road before. I had wasted half my worldly wealth in paying spies who offered me nothing in return. Nothing, that was, except for lies. I could ill afford to make the same mistake again.

‘No,’ I said. ‘First you tell me what you know, and then I pay you however much I think that information is worth.’

‘How about this?’ he asked. ‘You give me the name of the one you’re looking for, and I’ll tell you whether or not I know where he can be found, and how much it will cost you. You decide then whether you think I’m telling the truth, and either hand over your silver or leave. Agreed?’

Ale dulled the wits of most men, but clearly not this one. A part of me wondered whether it was better to go and try my luck elsewhere, but how was I to tell who was reliable and who was not? I didn’t know this city, and so I was relying on the opinion of one who did. And he had brought me here.

‘Agreed,’ I said eventually, albeit with some reluctance.

‘So tell me.’

‘I’m looking for a man called Haakon. Haakon Thorolfsson, of the black-dragon banner. I hear he was last seen here in Dyflin around five months ago.’

Magnus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Haakon Thorolfsson?’ His cheeks flushed an angry scarlet, and he spat. ‘What do you know of him?’

‘Nothing,’ I said, confused. ‘That’s why I’m-’

‘Did he send you to taunt me? Is that it? What more does he want from me?’

‘Of course he didn’t send me,’ I said. ‘Why would I be asking you where to find him if he had?’

Magnus swigged again from the flagon, and fixed me with a look of disdain, but said nothing.

‘So you’ve heard of him,’ I said.

‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. A friend of his, are you, or else looking to sell your sword to him?’

Snorri had taken me for a freebooter as well. Was it so obvious, I wondered, that I had become a masterless man, one of those landless, wandering warriors that until recently I had so despised?

‘He’s no friend of mine,’ I replied. ‘And my services aren’t for sale.’

‘What, then?’

‘He stole something that belongs to me,’ I said. ‘I want it back.’