The Emperor's Elefant

Chapter Five

When we got back to the harbour, Redwald’s cog was already tied against the jetty. A gang of local men was helping his crew unload the cargo. There was no sign of the knorr so she must have sailed for Dunwich. Redwald himself was at the foot of the gangplank, deep in conversation with a tall, bony man whose face seemed vaguely familiar.

‘Find any of the animals you were looking for, Sigwulf?’ the shipmaster asked me cheerfully. Clearly he was in a good humour.

‘A single white gyrfalcon, and two young ice bears.’

‘Gorm tells me he’s hopeful of having a second white gyrfalcon for sale, but someone will have to go and collect it from the trapper.’

The tall man was a dealer in hunting birds, and now I saw his resemblance to the skinny lad who had tended the agitated gyrfalcon. They were probably father and son.

‘Unfortunately, the two ice bears aren’t at all healthy. Their owner fears that they will soon die,’ I said.

‘That’ll be Ohthere,’ said the bird dealer.

‘He’s a farmer who got the bears as cubs from some people he called the Finna,’ I explained.

Redwald laughed. ‘Some farmer! Ohthere’s farm is as far north as anyone has dared to settle, and he explored and cleared the land himself. He’s as hard as nails.’

Clearly he already knew Ohthere well, and I made a mental note to be vigilant in my dealings with regular visitors to Kaupang market. They seemed to form a close-knit circle and were likely to serve their own interests when it came to setting prices and negotiating deals.

‘I’ve offered to buy the bears and he’s thinking about the price. I’m going back to see him tomorrow,’ I told the shipmaster.

Redwald watched as a porter balanced his way down the unsteady gangplank with several bottles of my Rhenish wine cradled in his arms. ‘Then I’ll come with you. I’ve got my own business in town that needs attention,’ he said.

‘There’s something else I need to discuss with you before then,’ I told him, with a sideways glance at Osric.

Redwald was quick on the uptake. He turned to the bird dealer. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Gorm, at your place.’

As Gorm walked off along the jetty, Osric and I followed the shipmaster up the gangplank. When we were out of earshot of the crew, I asked Redwald to be more discreet in his market dealings. ‘I would prefer that as few people as possible know why I’ve come to Kaupang,’ I told him.

He shrugged dismissively, then shocked me by saying, ‘It’s about time we discussed just how you’re going to pay for the goods.’

‘What do you mean?’ I demanded sharply.

‘Come with me and I’ll show you,’ he grunted.

He escorted us down the ladder into the hold, almost empty now except for a few remaining sacks and packing cases. Walo was seated on a sack, guarding our precious saddlebags with the silver coin.

‘I presume those bags contain your funds,’ Redwald announced bluntly.

There was no point in denying it. I nodded.

‘Mind if I take a look?’

‘As you wish,’ I said, though I felt a stab of suspicion.

I asked Walo to bring one of the bags across and he handed it to Redwald.

The shipmaster hefted one of them approvingly. ‘Carolus’s denarii?’ he asked me, raising an eyebrow.

‘Fresh from the Aachen mint.’

Redwald unlaced the saddlebag’s flap and picked out one of the silver coins. He held it up to the light falling in through the open hatch. ‘The Aachen stamp has been changed,’ he announced. ‘The cross in the centre is different, more ornate than before. Mind if I use this coin as a sample?’

‘A sample for what?’ I asked, my suspicions now thoroughly aroused.

‘I’ll show you.’

Keeping the coin, he handed the saddlebag back to Walo and then made his way into the gloomy shadows beneath the overhang of the deck. Rolls of spare sailcloth lay on a shelf built into the stern. Pushing them aside, he reached his arm into the space, felt around for a moment, tugged, and there was a soft thump as something shifted. It was too dark to see what he was doing, but when he turned to face us he was holding a bundle wrapped in oilcloth.

‘Tools of my other trade,’ he announced cryptically. From the package he extracted a set of small weighing scales, their weights, a soft leather pouch fastened with a drawstring, a tiny flask and a fist-sized object wrapped in a cloth bandage. Unwinding the bandage, he produced a flat stone, smooth and black, and laid it on top of a packing case. He unstoppered the tiny flask, dripped a small amount of oil on the surface of the stone, then wiped it. With quick, firm strokes he rubbed Carolus’s coin up and down on the stone, leaving a thin silver streak.

Next, he tipped out the contents of his leather pouch. A jumble of odd-shaped items rattled out on the surface of the packing case. Some were chunky, others flat or slightly dished, many had jagged edges or were thin strips folded over, twisted, and then hammered flat. They were all a dull grey.

‘The sea air takes the shine off them,’ said Redwald, picking out a flat piece about two inches across, one edge smoothly curved. It took me a moment to recognize a scrap of tarnished silver, probably chopped from a silver platter.

Redwald rubbed it against the stone, leaving a second silvery streak, parallel to the first.

‘See any difference?’ he asked Osric who had been watching him closely.

Osric shook his head.

‘It takes experience,’ Redwald told him. ‘The mark from the coin shows good silver, more than nine parts silver to one of copper. I happen to know that the platter fragment is silver mixed with copper, three parts to one.’

He swept up the pile of broken silver pieces and dropped them into the pouch. ‘As I told you, Sigwulf, the Northmen don’t trust coins. If Ohthere sells you those bears, he’ll want most of his payment in broken silver. And he’ll probably expect a couple of pieces of worked jewellery, something bright and gaudy, that he can trade to the Finna in future.’

He began to wind the bandage back around the black stone. ‘It’s going to be a tedious job demonstrating to him that every one of your coins is genuine. I’m not looking forward to it.’ He grimaced. ‘But first we have to agree a price for those bears.’

*

Next morning, I set out with Redwald and Walo for our meeting with Ohthere. Osric had volunteered to stay onboard the ship and watch over our silver hoard. He claimed that his crooked leg was hurting after the previous day’s walk. But the truth was that he and I were both feeling guilty that Walo had not yet had a chance to get off the ship and see Kaupang for himself.

Once again Kaupang’s street was thronged with customers, and as we made our way through the press of people Redwald drew my attention to two brawny individuals loitering outside one of the small wooden houses.

‘Hired guards. Every year that same house is rented by a dealer in precious gems and metals.’

At that moment the crowd ahead of us hurriedly parted to allow a group of half a dozen men to stride through. They were armed with swords and daggers and their leader was a big, red-faced fellow with a truculent expression. Walo had fallen behind to examine some wooden trinkets on a stall and was in their path. Redwald hastily turned back, grabbed him and pulled him aside. After the group had disappeared into one of the taverns, Redwald explained quietly that the man at the head of the group was a minor jarl, a local lord. His companions were his retainers and it was wise to steer clear of such people as they took offence easily.

A few steps further on, Walo again needed to be rescued. He had halted in front of a display of skins and furs, and the stallholder snapped at him to stop fingering the merchandise. Redwald quickly intervened. ‘That’s a sealskin, Walo,’ he explained.

‘It is like a big otter,’ said Walo, stroking the glossy pelt.

‘He can handle it all he wants, once he’s paid for it,’ grumbled the vendor, an old man with a long, lugubrious face and a heavy scarf wound around his neck despite the warm day.

‘Where did those white skins come from?’ I asked him. In a pile of smaller furs were several pelts that were a soft, lustrous white.

‘Winter fox and hare,’ said the old man.

My hopes rose. ‘Can I obtain these animals alive?’

‘They’re no good to you, Sigwulf,’ Redwald intervened. ‘By the time you get the creatures to the caliph they’ll have turned back to their normal brown. The animals are white in winter only.’

‘How about this, then? Fit for a jarl’s cloak,’ coaxed the old man. Struggling with the weight of it, he unrolled a massive white bearskin. The head and paws were still attached. I had witnessed the injuries inflicted on a dog by the hooked black claws of a yearling bear. Now the huge teeth set in the gaping jaw of an adult made me shudder. There was no need to confirm with the old man that he had purchased the bearskin from Ohthere.

We found Ohthere himself on the edge of town, as before, staring moodily in through the wooden bars of the stout cage. The two yearling ice bears were slumped on the bare earth, eyes closed. They lay so still that it was difficult to tell whether they were even breathing. Just inside the cage’s heavy door was placed a wooden water trough. Beside it were two trenchers heaped with what looked like strips of yellowy-white pig fat with thick black rind.

‘They’re still refusing to eat,’ said Ohthere, his frustration evident. He had his wooden stick with him and put the tip between the bars of the cage and pushed one of the trenchers closer to the nose of an ice bear.

Both animals ignored him.

‘What are you trying to feed them?’ asked Redwald.

‘Whale blubber, from my own larder.’

‘You must be getting desperate,’ teased the shipmaster. It was obvious that the two men were on friendly terms.

The shipmaster turned to me. ‘Ohthere has a weakness for whale blubber and hoards the stuff like a child. Don’t know why. It tastes vile.’

Ohthere snorted. ‘Not everyone thinks so. Wait here a minute.’ He strode off in the direction of his leather tent.

Redwald peered in at the two ice bears. ‘Are you sure about buying them, Sigwulf? They look as though they’re not long for this world.’

‘I’ll have to take that chance. They’re the only ones available, and maybe we can find a way of making them eat.’

Redwald shrugged resignedly. ‘Leave the negotiations to me. At least I should be able to get them cheaply because they’re half-starved.’

‘I’ve already told Ohthere that they are for King Carolus,’ I confessed. ‘I’m afraid that will have put up the price considerably.’

Ohthere emerged from his tent holding a slab of something in his hand. We walked across to meet him as he held it up for our inspection. One side had a thick skin, dark and slightly wrinkled. The rest of it was pale yellowish-white, two inches thick, and resembled solid jelly.

‘Best whale blubber, air dried,’ he announced. ‘Here, try a bite.’

He took a sailor’s knife from his belt, cut off a small cube, and offered it to me.

I popped the piece of whale blubber into my mouth and chewed cautiously, not knowing what to expect. The taste was surprisingly pleasant. As I bit down, I felt the oil squeeze out and run down my throat. It was vaguely soothing and reminded me faintly of hazelnuts.

At that moment Ohthere gave an annoyed grunt. He was gazing over my shoulder. ‘What’s that idiot doing!’ he growled.

Alarmed, I swung round on my heel.

It was Walo. We had left him standing beside the bear cage and had failed to keep an eye on him. He had unfastened the heavy door to the cage, opened it, and was crawling inside on his hands and knees.

‘He’ll get himself killed,’ I blurted, and started forward. But Ohthere’s grip on my wrist stopped me. ‘Don’t rush and don’t shout. It’ll only upset them. We need to get close enough to speak to your man quietly and tell him to back out.’

He glanced at Redwald. ‘The fewer the better. Best you stay here.’

Slowly and deliberately Ohthere and I began to walk towards the cage. Walo was fully inside now, crouched on all fours, facing towards the two ice bears. To my dismay I saw that both animals had raised their heads and were staring at him. The gap between them and Walo was no more than four or five feet.

‘I suspected he wasn’t quite right in the head,’ Ohthere muttered.

Walo had turned his back on the bears and was pulling the door shut behind him. I was appalled to see him then put an arm out through the bars and push in place the peg that served as a catch. He was now locked in with them.

‘At least they can’t escape, whatever happens,’ Ohthere said quietly.

Just then there was a low growl close to my right knee. My heart flew into my mouth. One of the scavenger curs had come between us, hackles raised, and with a continuous, rumbling deep in its throat was keeping pace with us.

Ohthere’s hand shot down. He grabbed the dog by the neck, squeezed fiercely, and the growl suddenly choked off. We halted while Ohthere bent down, placed his other hand around the dog’s throat, tightened his grip and held it until the dog’s frantic thrashing stopped. Calmly he laid its corpse on the ground.

Meanwhile Walo had made himself comfortable. He was sitting inside the cage with his back against the bars, facing the ice bears. They were still lying on the ground, but were fully alert, heads up, their black eyes fixed on the intruder.

I was about to creep forward but Ohthere warned quietly, ‘Better keep our distance.’

Walo had pulled something from his pocket, and was holding it to his lips. A moment later I heard the same four notes he had played in the farmyard back in Frankia, softly repeated.

First one bear, then the other, rose slowly to its feet. But they did not approach him.

Unperturbed, Walo kept playing. I was aware that beside me Ohthere had turned and gestured urgently at Redwald to stay back.

After a little while Walo put the whistle back in his pocket. Then he began to crawl on all fours towards the two bears, sliding the trenchers across the ground in front of him.

When he was very close, well within reach of the slashing claws, he halted. He crouched even lower, his face almost on the earth, and stretching out his arms, pushed the two trenchers sideways, away from one another.

‘He’s making sure the bears don’t quarrel over their food,’ said Ohthere, barely whispering.

Walo straightened up, sat back on his heels and waited. For several moments nothing happened. Then both ice bears padded forward a step or two, lowered their muzzles and sniffed the offering. Another pause, and finally both bears began to feed on the blubber.

I breathed a sigh of relief, expecting Walo to leave the cage. Instead, to my astonishment, he crawled even further forward until he was right between the animals, then he turned and sat cross-legged. Out came his deerhorn pipe and he started playing his simple melody again. On either side of him, the two young bears gulped down their food.

Redwald tentatively came forward to join us and I overheard Ohthere make a comment to Redwald. He spoke in hushed tones, and it took me a moment to understand him. The word he used for a bear was one that I had not heard since I was a lad. My own Saxon people consider the bear to be a creature with mystical powers, so they often refer to it with respect and indirectly, not as a bear, but as a beowulf. Now Redwald had used the same word, saying that if he had not seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed that anyone could tame the beowulf. The hairs on the back of my neck rose in prickles: beowulf means ‘bee wolf’.

In front of me was my dream in Aachen – Walo seated between wolves and covered with swarming bees. According to Artimedorus, if bees appeared in a dream with a farmer, they foretold the successful outcome of an endeavour. For all others, it was an omen of death.

From a safe distance we watched until the bears had eaten their fill. Only after they had curled up and fallen into a contented sleep did Walo cease playing his pipe. Then he unfastened the cage door and crawled out to rejoin us. He seemed completely unconcerned, as if nothing unusual had happened.

‘I’d like to hire him to look after the bears. What’s his name?’ Ohthere said to me.

‘Walo. His father was King Carolus’s chief verderer.’

Redwald gave me a warning look, making it clear that I was to hold my tongue. Addressing Ohthere, he said, ‘Walo is not for hire. Sigwulf has already offered to buy your two bears. But they will surely die if Walo does not feed them. In which case, the best price you will get for them is the value of their pelts.’

I kept my expression neutral. By now I knew Redwald well enough to recognize when the Frisian was about to drive a bargain.

‘Ohthere, I suggest we make a deal,’ Redwald continued. ‘Walo stays on with you, looking after the bears until it’s time for me to take my ship back to Dorestad. In return you will receive a payment midway between the bears’ value alive and the price you would get for their skins.’

Ohthere considered for a long moment. ‘On one condition – if the bears die before it is time for shipment, then it is Walo’s fault, and I still get my money.’

‘Agreed!’ said Redwald. Turning to me, he said briskly, ‘This is a good moment to sort out with Gorm how we obtain the additional white gyrfalcon he says he can supply.’

Leaving Osric to explain to Walo his new duties, Redwald and I went across the road to where Gorm and his son were watching over the line of birds of prey standing on their blocks.

‘I have a reliable supplier who specializes in gyrfalcons,’ Gorm told us. ‘He usually brings at least one white gyrfalcon for the Kaupang market, but this year he is delayed. I don’t know the reason, and I can’t spare someone to go to find out, or bring back the birds he has caught.’

‘What about sending your son?’ suggested Redwald.

The bird dealer stooped and picked up the half-eaten body of a mouse where it had fallen on the ground beside a perch block. He held it out towards one of the merlins. The fierce beak snapped the bloody morsel from his fingers. ‘Rolf’s too young. The trapper won’t trust valuable birds to a boy.’

‘How far away does this trapper live?’ I asked.

Gorm scratched his chin. ‘His name’s Ingvar and he’s probably still in the high country where he does his trapping. That’s a three-day ride from here.’

Gorm’s skinny son was shifting anxiously from foot to foot. I caught his eye, and saw how eager he was to prove himself.

‘If this Ingvar really does have a white gyrfalcon, I’m willing to accompany your son and fetch it,’ I said.

I must have sounded too keen because Redwald immediately put in, ‘You’ll have to lower the bird’s price if Sigwulf goes to such trouble.’

Fortunately, Gorm accepted Redwald’s argument and after only a small amount of haggling it was agreed that Gorm’s son and I would ride to seek out the elusive trapper and bring back any birds he had caught. Osric had come across to join me and, stepping aside for a moment to confer, we quickly came to the conclusion that it was best if he stayed aboard ship to safeguard our silver hoard while I was away. In the meantime Ohthere could take in Walo so the lad could tend the ice bears. That would leave Redwald free to get on with his business in the market.

‘The sooner we start out, the better,’ I called out, turning back to Gorm, and almost immediately regretted my enthusiasm when young Rolf went off at a run, and within minutes reappeared dragging our mounts by their rope bridles. They were two of the small shaggy breed that we had seen pulling a sledge up from the landing beach. There were no stirrups and once seated in the plain leather saddle, my dangling feet nearly touched the ground. I wondered if the diminutive animals were capable of carrying us far inland.

*

I had misjudged them. They set off at a scampering gait – half trot, half run – that was ideally suited to the difficult terrain. Rolf led the way confidently and I had only to let my little mount follow him at the same jolting pace as it dodged and weaved around the bushes and boulders along a trail no wider than a footpath. Our route was directly away from the sea and our progress was impressive, though at times I felt my spine was being rattled out of shape. For the first few miles the land was level, a mixture of sour bogland with stands of willow and alder, and tussocky rough pasture. We saw scarcely a dozen houses – basic cabins with log walls, a turf roof, a shed or two, and a small fenced enclosure for sheep or scrawny cattle. We spent our first night at the furthest of them where the landholder’s wife recognized Rolf. She gave us a place to sleep in the hay shed, and provided a meal of hard cheese, bread and milk, together with a satchel of the same provisions for our onward journey. Her husband was away at Kaupang market, she said.

The next morning the track veered more to the north-west and began to climb, gradually at first, then more and more steeply, winding its way up the ragged flank of a mountain range. Our ponies scrambled up the slopes with the agility of goats, their unshod hooves finding footing on the loose surface of stones and gravel. We left behind the bright sunshine of the coast and before long the grey of an overcast sky matched the sombre colours of the landscape. We were climbing into a wide, bleak landscape of rock and scree where stunted plants clung to tiny patches of thin soil. Ahead of us always loomed the mountains, the very highest peaks streaked with the last traces of the winter snow. Occasionally we crossed rivulets where ribbons of clear water trickled between the rounded stones, and we stopped and allowed our ponies to drink. I saw little wildlife apart from flocks of small, darting birds and several ravens, hovering like black rags in the breeze. Once, less than fifty paces away, I glimpsed a fox slinking away behind a boulder. Rolf spoke hardly at all, either from shyness or because he found my Saxon difficult to understand, even though it was close enough to his own tongue for us to agree on practical details. He never hesitated in our direction and appeared to know his way even when the last vestiges of a track petered out and we were riding across a rock-strewn wilderness.

We passed the second night of our ride in a lonely hut built entirely of stones ingeniously laid one upon the other in a single spiral course so that it made a cone shape and did not need a roof. The hut, if I understood Rolf correctly, belonged to the bird trapper we were seeking. It was empty except for some mouldering deerskins in one corner, a wooden stool with a broken leg, and the charred remains of a fire beneath the blackened smoke hole. Rolf had brought two small bags of oats for our horses and, once they had fed, staked them out on a rope long enough to let them pick and nibble at the mosses and tiny plants that grew among the rocks. Our own supper was the last of the cheese and bread.

The following morning was distinctly chilly and I was glad to get a fire going, using dried wood that I found stacked behind the hut. I was painfully saddle sore, the inside of my knees bruised and my buttocks tender. So I was glad when Rolf announced, ‘Today, Ingvar.’

We rode on, the landscape growing ever more barren until, shortly after midday, we were entering a high valley sheltered on both sides by mountain ridges. Another stone hut similar to the first one stood close beside a small stream, and this time it was in use. Two small horses, penned into a small enclosure, whinnied a greeting as we approached and I saw clothes draped to dry over a low rock wall. But there was no sign of Ingvar himself.

A hanging length of sacking closed the entry to the hut, and after we had tethered our ponies I followed Rolf inside, bending double under the single large flat lintel stone. There were no windows, and barely enough light to see by. The place smelled of wood smoke and soot. It was clean and sparsely furnished – a single stool, a couple of sheepskins pushed against one wall to serve as a bed, some bags hung on pegs, and a large black iron pot on a tripod. The pot contained three inches of cold, congealed stew. A length of fishing net lay on the bare earth floor just inside the doorway. The mesh was small, only suitable for catching sprats. I was puzzled why anyone would need fishing net in the mountains. The little streams we had passed were too shallow and stony to net for fish and we were very far from the sea.

‘Where do you think Ingvar’s got to?’ I asked the boy.

He rolled his eyes expressively and shrugged.

‘Maybe we should go looking for him,’ I suggested.

He shook his head. ‘We wait.’

I left the hut to look around for clues as to what might have happened to the mysterious bird catcher. Not far away was another shelter scarcely larger than a pigsty, with side walls of rock and a flimsy roof made by scraps of worn canvas thrown over some branches.

I crouched down and peered into the small entrance. There was a rustling of feathers. I thrust my head further inside and when my eyes had got used to the near-darkness I saw a pole rigged across the width of the shack. Attached to the pole by a leather strap around its foot was a huge bird: dark, hunched and motionless. It was a mountain eagle, far larger than a gyrfalcon. I was both impressed and disappointed. An eagle was not what I had come to find, but to have captured such a magnificent bird of prey was an achievement. I heard rustling again. It came from the ground on my right, from what looked like a chicken coop made of wooden slats. Unable to restrain my curiosity I reached in and dragged the coop out into the light where I could see it better. Inside were a score of very ordinary pigeons. I sat back on my heels, baffled. It made no sense that someone should take the trouble to go deep into the mountains to trap pigeons that could be caught much more easily near any farm.

Rolf was calling to me, and I returned to find that he had taken down one of the hanging bags and found stale bread and tear-shaped chunks of smoked meat, dark with a reddish purple tinge. We were very hungry so while the ponies drank at the little stream, we sat down on nearby rocks and began to eat. The meat, though a little tough, was delicious. It was with the third or fourth bite that I realized that the chunks, the size of a plum, were the smoked breasts of a small bird. Rolf did not know the bird’s name, only that it lived beside the sea. Like the fishing net, it was another Ingvar mystery.

The man himself appeared some hours later as the sun was dropping behind the mountains. Rolf spotted him first, a distant figure making his way down the slope of the mountain ridge, a small sack in his hand. As Ingvar reached the level ground and came walking towards us, I was overwhelmed by the eerie sensation that I was about to encounter someone I had met before. It was akin to the moment when I understood my dream of Walo and two wolves. But this time I was seeing a double: Vulfard, Walo’s father, had returned from the bottom of the aurochs’ pitfall, alive and unharmed. He and the bird trapper were uncannily similar in height and build and manner. Both were tough and wiry and had the same quick, light step, holding them very straight. Ingvar’s complexion was perhaps a little darker, but he had the same alert, foxy expression that I had seen on Vulfard’s face. I found myself looking for a cap with a feather, just like Vulfard’s, but Ingvar was bareheaded. Only when Ingvar was right in front of me did I see that where Vulfard’s eyes had been light brown flecked with yellow, Ingvar’s were a dark brown and they slanted above much higher cheekbones in the same narrow face. Something that Redwald had said to me earlier as we walked through the crowds in Kaupang’s market place told me that these facial features were signs that one of Ingvar’s parents was a native Finna.

‘You are welcome,’ he said in a clear, sharp voice. I was relieved to hear that his speech was easy to understand.

‘Gorm suggested that we come to find you. He missed you at Kaupang’s market,’ I said.

‘I’ll come to Kaupang as soon as I’m ready,’ the trapper answered.

‘Do you know when that will be?’

‘Maybe this week,’ he answered. The sack he was still holding moved slightly. Something alive was inside. ‘After I have washed, we will eat, then talk.’ Without another word he turned and walked away towards the shed where I had seen the captive eagle.

A little while later as the light was fading, Ingvar brought out the iron pot and the tripod from his hut, lit a fire, and reheated the stew. He added onions from a bag, some herbs, and a dozen more of dried breasts of the unidentified little bird.

‘Rolf tells me that this is from a sea bird,’ I commented. The hot meat was even more succulent than it had been when cold.

‘I don’t know its name in your language. We call it a lundi. In flight it flutters its wings like a bat and, in summer, the beak is striped like a rainbow.’

He sounded like Ohthere with his liking for whale blubber, and I tried to recall if this bizarre-sounding bird had been pictured in Carolus’s bestiary. But I could not remember seeing it there.

Ingvar leaned forward and stirred the stew with a stick. ‘In the nesting season I travel to the coast and net the birds in the cliffs. Their flesh keeps well, is nourishing and light to carry, and is ideal for when I am in the mountains.’

‘Is that why you have a fishing net?’ I asked.

‘That net is for a different purpose.’

‘Gorm told me that you can supply him with white gyrfalcons.’

The trapper studied my face, his expression serious. ‘Is that why you have taken the trouble to find me in the mountains?’

‘I came to this country, hoping to buy white gyrfalcons.’

‘Then tomorrow, if the spirits favour us, you may have your wish.’

My tiredness vanished. ‘Tomorrow you will catch a white gyrfalcon?’

‘If the spirits wish,’ he repeated.

‘May I come with you to see how it is done?’

There was a long pause as he considered my request. ‘You are the first person who has taken the trouble to come to find me in the mountains. If you give me your word that you will be quiet and calm and not disturb our quarry, you may come with me.’

It was very like what Vulfard would have said.

Then the trapper took me aback by adding, ‘And it will do no harm that you are a seidrmann.’

‘What do you mean – a “seidrmann”?’ I asked.

‘Your eyes are of different colours. That is the mark of a man who is at ease with the Otherworld.’

*

Ingvar and I set out next morning while it was still dark, leaving Rolf to look after the horses. The trapper had insisted on an early start, saying that we must be in position by the time the gyrfalcons began to hunt. He was carrying the same small sack he had brought down from the mountain the previous day, and once again its contents moved and shifted with a life of its own. The climb up the ridge was a stiff one and I was embarrassed that Ingvar had to stop from time to time so that I could catch up with him. The result was that it was already full daylight by the time we reached a natural ledge some fifteen paces broad on the shoulder of the mountain. It was, according to Ingvar, the ideal site to trap a gyrfalcon. I was gasping for breath and my legs were shaking with fatigue as I stood there gratefully sucking in deep breaths of the clean fresh air, and gazing out to the blue-grey haze on the distant horizon. It was going to be a warm, windless day. Below me rank after rank of hills and ridges fell away to where, beyond view, lay Kaupang and the market. Without knowing quite why, I felt confident that we would add to the number of white animals for the distant caliph in Baghdad.

I turned to speak to Ingvar. He was gone. I was alone on the ledge. For an instant I was close to panic, remembering childhood tales of men who could dissolve themselves into thin air. Then I saw his sack. It lay on the ground at the foot of the rock face, still bulging and moving.

I waited for a few moments and – as unexpectedly as he had vanished – Ingvar reappeared, ducking out from a narrow cleft in the mountainside, its entrance hidden in such deep shadow that it was invisible from where I stood. He carried a couple of long, thin whippy lathes, a coil of stout cord, a ball of light twine and – I was interested to see – a length of the fine-mesh fish net.

He gestured at me to hurry in helping him clear away the pebbles and dust from the level patch where I was standing. When that was done, he hammered two wooden pegs into cracks in the rocky ground, about six feet apart. Lashing the two lathes end to end to make what looked like a long fishing rod, he threaded the rod along one edge of the net. Next he bent the rod into an arc and attached the ends to the two ground pegs. Finally, he fastened down the trailing edge of the net with heavy stones. Belatedly I understood what he was creating. It was a bow net. The wooden hoop would lie flat on the ground until he tugged on the cord and it would swing up and over, dragging up the net and trapping anything beneath it.

In the area where the net would fall, Ingvar now placed two stones, one fist-sized, the other somewhat larger and heavier. He untied the neck to his sack, reached in and pulled out a live pigeon. It flapped and struggled as he tied it by the leg to the larger stone. Weighed down, the protesting bird made short fluttering hops but could not escape. I realized that the pigeon was to be our bait, in the same way that Vulfard had placed fresh leaves in the centre of the pitfall for the aurochs. But Ingvar had a surprise for me. He reached again into the sack, groped around and pulled out a second bird, not a pigeon but a smaller bird, the size of a thrush, pearly grey with a black stripe on its head. This he also placed in the centre of the trap, attached to the smaller stone.

‘Why do you need two birds in the trap?’ I whispered.

‘The gyrfalcon strikes so fast that he can snatch away his prey before the trap is sprung. The smaller bird will provide a warning that a falcon is in the area.’

‘A lookout?’

He nodded. ‘The smaller bird is very watchful, not like the foolish pigeon. We call it the “shrieker”. When it sees a hunting falcon in the sky, it screams and flutters, jumps up and down, trying to escape. Then I know to be ready.’

‘Won’t the falcon strike at the little “shrieker”, as you call it?’

He gave me a patient look. ‘If there was a nice plump pigeon nearby, what would you do?’

He scattered a handful of oats on the ground in front of the two birds and beckoned me to follow him to the hidden cleft. As he retreated into the shelter he laid out two cords: a strong one fastened to the hoop to pull it shut, and the other, no more than a thin line, to the free leg of the pigeon.

The cleft was just wide enough for us to sit side by side, hidden from view but looking out over the captive birds. I remembered Vulfard and my vigil in the forest, waiting for the aurochs. Instead of a forest glade rimmed by oak trees, I was watching over a flat, dusty ledge on which two staked birds pecked at grain.

Ingvar did not take his eyes off the tethered birds. He wound a couple of turns of the stronger cord around his right fist, and held the lighter line with the fingers of his left hand. He reminded me of a fisherman getting ready to strike the hook into the jaws of a pike.

‘For these last two months I have ben watching a gyrfalcon nest nearby,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The birds use the same nest year after year. It’s a family that often produces white birds. This year the chicks hatched much later than usual. That is why I delayed going to Kaupang market. I had to wait until they were old enough to look after themselves.’

‘So that there’s another generation for the future?’

‘Exactly. If I caught a parent too soon, the young would die and I would destroy my livelihood.’

‘What if an eagle swoops down on the bait, not a gyrfalcon?’ I asked.

‘Then the spirits are against me. A gyrfalcon, if it is white, gets a much better price than an eagle, nearly three times more.’

‘Why would anyone pay more for a falcon when an eagle is so much larger and more impressive?’

‘Have you seen how a gyrfalcon hunts?’

I shook my head.

‘There is no finer sight in the entire world. It patrols the land, flying low, until it frightens up its prey. Then it takes up the chase. The gyrfalcon is faster than any other bird. It can twist and turn, strike from above or below, and knock its victim from the sky. By contrast the eagle is a farmyard fowl.’

The floor of our hiding place was bare rock, hard and uneven. My backside, already sore from riding, had gone numb. I feared that I would soon get cramp. I longed to get up and stretch.

All of a sudden the little grey bird in front of us crouched down, pressing itself against the ground. Then it began to hop and flutter, screeching in panic. The pigeon continued to peck greedily at the grain.

I held my breath in anticipation. Between the agitated cries of the small bird, there came a shrill bird call, kree, kree, kree, distinct in the still mountain air. Ingvar tensed. ‘A gyrfalcon is circling above. Keep very still!’ he hissed.

With his left hand Ingvar tweaked the thinner of the two lines.

In response the pigeon jumped a few inches off the ground and flapped indignantly. Ingvar waited a couple of heartbeats and tweaked again. Once more the pigeon fluttered, drawing attention to itself.

There was a brief pause, no more than the time it took me to release a slow breath, and then with a sudden rush of wind a white shape hurtled from the sky like a thunderbolt. A burst of pigeon feathers flew up. I heard a distinct thump as the falcon struck its victim, the talons driving into the pigeon’s back. Then the predator – it was a white gyrfalcon – was crouching over its victim, shoulders hunched, the hooked beak stabbing down into the pigeon’s neck with an assassin’s thrust. The pigeon’s head flew off. It was all over in the blink of an eye, and in that instant Ingvar tugged firmly on the stouter cord, the hoop of the spring trap swung over, and the gyrfalcon was in the net.

Ingvar gave a whoop of satisfaction and sprang to his feet. ‘We must secure the falcon before it hurts itself,’ he said. The captive was thrashing and tumbling inside the net, frenziedly struggling to escape.

I tried to rise but had lost all feeling in my legs. I threw out a hand to help myself and, in my clumsiness, grabbed Ingvar by the back of his jerkin. My tug threw him off balance just as he was about to leave our hiding place and he fell across me. He swore at me, fearing to lose his prize. In that same moment, there was a second rush of wind and, from nowhere, another bird of prey came flashing down, striking deep into the swirling turmoil of the net. It was a second gyrfalcon, as white as the first.

The second bird’s headlong attack was its undoing. Its talons struck through the net into the pigeon’s carcass, closed, then caught in the mesh. The second gyrfalcon also became a tangle of fury, jerking and twisting to get free.

Ingvar had regained his balance. He burst out of our hiding place, slipping off his jerkin. Racing up to the second falcon, he threw the garment over it, trapping it in its folds.

‘Quick! There’s a spare net in the cave,’ he called to me.

I ran back, found the net, brought it to him and together we managed to wrap the furious gyrfalcon in its mesh.

Ingvar worked with calm efficiency, not losing a moment. Deftly he disentangled the second falcon’s claws from the mesh of the spring trap and handed me the bird, still wrapped. The dark brown eyes circled with bright yellow skin glared at me in fury as I clutched the struggling creature to my chest, determined not to let it escape. Meanwhile, Ingvar had pulled a length of cloth from his pocket. Gently he eased back the hoop of the trap. Slipping an arm under it, he dropped the cloth over the bird, smothered its thrashing wings, then enveloped its head. As soon as the bird’s head was covered, it became less agitated.

Ingvar gathered up the falcon and rose to his feet. ‘Bring your bird, we must seal them quickly.’

We hurried back to the cave where Ingvar produced a fine needle and thread, and with infinite care – though it made my stomach clench – ran stitches through the eyelids of the first falcon, then drew them together.

‘It doesn’t hurt them,’ he said, seeing my squeamishness. ‘And once the eyes are sealed, they are less likely to hurt themselves.’

It was true. Both birds stopped their frantic attempts to get free as soon as their lids were sealed, and we were able to set them down, to stand quietly on the floor of the cave.

Finally, Ingvar relaxed. ‘That’s the first time it has happened to me in twenty years of trapping,’ he confessed.

‘Two birds at a single time?’

‘The second falcon must have decided it could snatch away the dead pigeon.’

‘Are they the same birds you hoped to trap?’ I asked.

‘One of them is. It’s the male from the nesting pair I’ve been watching.’

‘And the other?’

‘Had it been the female, I would have released it so that it could feed the chicks.’

‘So you don’t recognize it?’

‘Never seen it before. It’s a different female. She must have been on passage, and just happened upon us. That’s what is so difficult to explain . . .’ The words died on his lips as he stared into my eyes, his expression wondering. ‘Unless the spirits had been asked to help.’

I knew what he was thinking: I had used seidrmann’s powers to summon the second bird from afar.

The look on Ingvar’s face was unsettling. I had an uneasy feeling that my journey to Kaupang was slipping out of my control.

*

At Ingvar’s hut that evening the trapper wrung the necks of all but three of his remaining stock of pigeons. The survivors would later be fed to our captive birds. He let the little ‘shrieker’ go free.

‘It served me well,’ said Ingvar as we watched the bird fly away, flitting over the boulder-strewn landscape. ‘I can trap another one next year.’

Rolf was given the task of plucking the dead pigeons for our supper, and we sat beside the cooking fire, adding dry sticks from the woodpile to produce a good roasting blaze.

‘Tomorrow we set out for Kaupang. You and I each carry a gyrfalcon, and Rolf carries the eagle,’ Ingvar said.

He selected a crooked branch, cut off a short section with his hunting knife, and began to scrape off the bark. ‘Rolf will need a travel perch for the eagle. That’s a heavy animal. If he places one end of this on his saddle tree, it will take the eagle’s weight.’

I watched the shavings curl up from the knife blade as the stubby perch took shape, and it occurred to me that Ingvar, a hunter living in the wilds, might know something about the mysterious unicorn. I was still smarting at the memory of being laughed at, so I raised the subject cautiously. ‘I read in a book that no bird can match the eagle for its courage.’

‘What book is that?’

‘It’s called a bestiary, a book about notable animals and their behaviour.’

In Carolus’s bestiary an eagle had been drawn on the page opposite the picture of the gyrfalcon, and I had read what was written underneath.

‘It claims that parent eagles train their fledglings to endure pain by holding them up and making them stare directly into the glare of the sun,’ I continued.

Ingvar held up the half-finished travel perch to check its shape. ‘Can’t say that I’ve ever seen eagles doing that. But if a cuckoo can get other birds to raise its young, why shouldn’t eagles have their own special way as parents?’

‘There was also a picture of a wild animal like a horse but with a horn. It’s white and very shy, yet it can be tamed. Have you ever seen or heard of such an animal?’

He paused, knife in hand, and regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure it’s a horse, not a deer?’

It was an echo of what Walo had asked when we set out from Aachen. He had said that if a unicorn shed its horn every year, then it was a sort of deer.

‘I don’t know,’ I said hesitantly. ‘The book doesn’t say.’

‘My mother’s people know of a wild deer that could be the animal you speak of. If you are gentle with it, the animal can be tamed.’

His mother’s people, I presumed, were the wild Finna. ‘And is this a white deer?’

‘Some are.’

‘Can you draw me a picture?’

Using a twig Ingvar scratched an outline of the animal in the dust. The body, legs and head could well have been a unicorn. But when he came to sketch a full set of branching horns, it was clear that this was not the creature of the book.

He saw the disappointment on my face. ‘It’s not the animal you are seeking?’

‘No. The animal I’m looking for has a single horn, a spike that springs directly from the forehead. You cannot mistake it. The horn is made in a spiral like the strands of a rope.’

Ingvar’s face was alert with sudden interest. ‘There is such an animal. Some years ago I came across a broken piece of its horn.’

My heart gave a lurch. ‘Where was this?’

‘I had gone to the coast to catch those birds whose flesh you so enjoy. A broken piece of its horn was lying on the beach, just a small fragment. Maybe the creature had been fighting with a rival and damaged the spike.’

‘Do you still have it?’

He flipped his knife in the air, caught it by the blade, and held it out to me.

‘Take a look,’ he said.

The handle was dark wood, much polished with use. Where it tapered towards the hilt was a creamy yellow band, the width of my little finger. I looked at it more closely. It had been inset into the wood, and was a section of pale horn or some sort of ivory. Without question, the surface bore the distinctive spiralling twist of the unicorn’s horn.

*

The moment I got back to Kaupang, I placed the gyrfalcons in Gorm’s care and hurried off to check on Walo and the two ice bears. Ohthere was standing in front of their cage, chewing on what I supposed was his favourite whale blubber.

‘If they get any bigger I’ll have to build them a larger, much stronger enclosure,’ he said as I joined him.

In the week I had been away, the two ice bears had thrived more than I would have imagined possible. They had grown several inches in height and length, put on weight, and their fur was losing its ugly yellow tinge.

‘So Walo’s doing a good job,’ I said.

Ohthere nodded. ‘Twice a day he crawls in there, plays that wretched pipe, gives them food and water, brushes their coats, scratches them behind the ears. I won’t be surprised to see him rolling around and wrestling with them one day.’

‘So he’s tamed the bears.’

‘Not at all! If anyone else goes near them, they start that snaky movement, side to side with their heads. A warning that they’re about to lash out. They won’t let anyone near them except Walo.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘With Osric. The two of them are helping Redwald. That crafty rogue drove a shrewd bargain over the price of my bears.’

As I walked away, heading into the town, he called out, ‘And tell Redwald that I want to talk with him about who’s going to pay for their food. They’re consuming eight chickens every day, and all the lard I can get my hands on.’

I identified Redwald’s place of work by a pile of quern stones. They were heaped outside one of the small, wooden houses just beyond the slave market. Inside I found Redwald standing in the light from the window, moodily rubbing a piece of broken silver jewellery against his touchstone. He looked round as I entered and treated me to a smile of genuine welcome.

‘Back already, Sigwulf! How did you get on?’

‘Two more white gyrfalcons, one male, one female. And an eagle, but that’s of little interest.’

He reached up and brushed back the strand of hair, which, as usual, had slid away from his bald patch. ‘Carolus’s mews master will find a place for that eagle.’

‘And pay you handsomely?’ I suggested.

‘Of course. I’m a Frisian. I never miss a chance to turn a profit.’

‘Yet you don’t seem to have sold many of the quern stones.’

He waved dismissively. ‘They have their uses. Everyone knows that Redwald brings a cargo of wine to Kaupang each year as well as quern stones. So when they see the display, they know there’s a decent drink nearby. It avoids open competition with the other taverns.’

‘Is Walo with Osric on your ship?’

‘You’ll find both of them next door. I’ve rented half that building.’

It was one of the long boat-shaped structures with a turf roof and, when I entered, I found that wooden partitions divided the interior into a line of rooms, each with its own door, all firmly closed. The first one I looked into contained an array of barrels and crates. I recognized the wine that had been Redwald’s cargo. The next was a drinking den, with several rough-looking customers seated on benches with their cups and tankards. They gave me a less-than-welcoming reception as I peered in. I closed the door hastily and went to investigate the next room that proved to be much smaller, with a single table and a couple of stools. Walo and Osric were bent over the table, sorting through a pile of fresh plant leaves.

‘Walo, I’ve seen the ice bears. You’re doing a splendid job,’ I congratulated him.

Walo bobbed his head and grinned happily.

‘How did you get on with the trapper?’ Osric asked.

I told him about the two white gyrfalcons and described the sliver of unicorn’s horn that decorated Ingvar’s knife.

‘I’ve got something to show you,’ said Osric. He glanced at Walo. ‘Can you find somewhere to put these leaves so they dry in the sun?’

‘What are those?’ I asked my friend as Walo carefully gathered up the leaves.

‘Black horehound is your Saxon name for the plant. Chewing the leaves staves off sea sickness.’

I waited until Walo had left the room and was about to ask Osric why he had left our silver unguarded, when my friend forestalled me.

‘Hear me out, Sigwulf,’ he said flatly. ‘The silver’s in safe keeping . . . what’s left of it. The only times I’ve been off the ship were when I knew Redwald was safely in town, and it’s just as well that I came ashore.’

He held my gaze, his dark eyes troubled. ‘I had a chance to talk with one of those Khazar slave traders while you’ve been away.’

‘Is there something wrong?’

‘There could be.’ Osric lowered his voice. ‘The Byzantines won’t be pleased when they learn about our mission to Baghdad. The Khazar confirmed that the basileus in Constantinople is at war with the caliph. It’s an all-out conflict, Christian against Saracen.’

I recalled that the caliph styled himself Commander of the Faithful. ‘Do you think they will try to disrupt our mission?’

‘The basileus would prefer Carolus to despatch troops to help him fight his battles, not send exotic animals as presents to the foe.’

‘Maybe Constantinople won’t find out what we are about,’ I said.

My friend shook his head. ‘Not a chance. The Greeks place their spies everywhere. No one pays more for gathering intelligence on their neighbours. I wouldn’t be surprised if they allowed the Khazars to travel to Kaupang on condition that they brought back information for them.’

‘But the slave traders don’t know why we’ve come to Kaupang.’

‘I’m afraid they do. I as good as told them.’

I was shocked. Osric and I had agreed to keep our mission a secret. We would explain our presence in Kaupang only to those who, like Ohthere and Gorm, could supply white animals. By being discreet, we should avoid coming to the attention of King Offa who was sure to have his informers at the market. I opened my mouth to ask Osric why he had been so reckless, when he held up a hand and cut me short. ‘I think you will agree it was worthwhile.’

My friend reached under the table and brought out a long, thin package wrapped in heavy purple velvet cloth and secured with a cord of crimson silk. ‘I mentioned to the Saracen that I had originally studied to be a doctor. He said he had acquired an item likely to be of great interest to a medical man.’

‘Sounds as though he was trying to sell you something.’

‘He was, and I was sufficiently intrigued to ask him to show me what he was talking about.’

I waited for Osric to continue. His slim brown fingers were untying the knots in the silk cord. Slipping off the binding, he set the package on the table and gently unrolled the square of velvet to display what it contained.

A complete unicorn horn.

I felt something tighten in my chest, and for several moments was lost for words. The horn was exactly as depicted on the brow of the unicorn in Carolus’s bestiary. Two inches thick at the base, it was the length of my outstretched arm and tapered to a fine point, the twisting spiral impossible to mistake.

My hand shook as I reached forward and picked it up. It was a little lighter than I would have expected, and the same faded yellowish-creamy colour as on the haft of Ingvar’s knife.

‘Where did the slaver get it?’ I asked, my voice husky with shock. The material felt more like ivory than horn.

‘He wouldn’t tell me directly, only that it was in trade. I suspect that he was lying. Slavers will raid remote villages to grab their victims, and they take the chance to pillage the settlements. I think this is plunder.’

I ran my fingers along the length of the horn, feeling the twist of the spiral glide beneath my touch. ‘Why would it be of value to a doctor?’

‘Items of great rarity are often considered to have medical value. For example, pearls are ground to powder and taken with a herbal infusion as a treatment for convulsions.’

‘Did the Khazar know that it is a unicorn’s horn?’

‘He wasn’t sure what it was. Only that it was something very unusual.’

I passed the horn back to my friend. ‘What did you tell him it was worth?’

‘I tried to avoid giving a value, but then he said he was thinking of offering it to one of Kaupang’s dealers in precious stones and jewellery.’

‘So you bought it.’

My friend treated me to one of his thin-lipped smiles. ‘It was expensive – twelve hundred silver denarii.’

‘The cost is not important,’ I assured him. ‘It would have been a disaster if we had lost the horn. Besides, by the time Redwald has finished haggling with Ohthere and Gorm over the price of the bears and the falcons, he’ll have saved us at least that much.’

‘The Khazar insisted on being paid at once,’ Osric explained. ‘I had to use our coins from the Aachen mint. That’s how the slaver worked out that we must be agents for Carolus himself. He as much as told me so.’

He began to roll the horn back inside the velvet cover. ‘The Khazars know we’ve purchased white bears, and are buying up any white gyrfalcons that are for sale. They’ll be wondering what Carolus wants these animals for. If they also know that white is the imperial colour in Baghdad, they’ll be stupid not to have made the connection between Carolus and the caliph.’

I was so elated at having proof of the unicorn’s existence that only now I thought to ask Osric what he had meant when he said the unused portion of our silver hoard was in safe keeping.

‘I handed the last few coin bags over to Redwald,’ he answered calmly. ‘He’s put them in that secret cubby hole aboard his ship.’

I stared at him. ‘Was that wise?’

Osric was unperturbed. ‘Ohthere was pressing to be paid for the ice bears, and by the time he had a down payment and the Khazar got his coin, less than a third remains.’

A faint shadow of doubt clouded my satisfaction. I wondered if we were putting too much trust in the shipmaster. Even a third of Carolus’s original funds was a temptation for someone sufficiently unscrupulous.

*

Freed of the necessity to mount guard over our silver hoard, Osric and I redoubled our efforts to obtain clues as to where the unicorn itself might be found. We could not interrogate the Khazars because they packed up and left Kaupang abruptly, less than a day after selling the unicorn horn to Osric. So instead we split up and worked the market, asking traders and their customers, sailors down by the landing place; anyone who looked as though they might provide us with information. We were met with blank looks, humorous and sometimes ribald inventions and – as often as not – outright laughter. If we had picked up the slightest hint about where the unicorn lived we would have travelled there immediately, but with each passing day there were fewer people to answer our questions. Midsummer’s day was the highpoint of Kaupang’s annual market and soon afterwards a number of traders began shutting up shop and heading home. The fine weather also left us. Mornings that dawned full of bright sunny promise turned into afternoons when masses of close-packed clouds sailed overhead and a chill west wind rattled the canvas covers on the remaining stalls. The gusts brought sudden, heavy showers. When it rained, Walo usually stayed with his ice bears, and Osric and I would take shelter in the building where Redwald had rented rooms.

It was on such an afternoon that I decided not to wait to be drenched by a downpour from a bank of smoke-coloured clouds moving in rapidly from the sea. Already there were rumbles of distant thunder, and a curtain of heavy rain trailed below the storm’s underbelly. Hurrying my steps, I reached the building ahead of Osric. The drinking den was crowded and several of the clients smelled of wet manure, so I made my way to the smaller room where Osric and Walo had checked their horehound leaves. I stood by the small window, looking out and waiting for my friend. The light dimmed as the storm swept in, and the rain began to come down in a solid cascade, splashing up from great puddles in the rough ground behind the building. I jumped as a flash of lightning lit the sky at no great distance, rapidly followed by an enormous crash of thunder. I came to the conclusion that Osric had got out of the downpour elsewhere so was surprised to hear the door of the little room open behind me. I turned to greet him, but the two men who entered were strangers.

‘Shouldn’t last long,’ I commented cheerfully. I tried to recall where I had seen them before. They were both thickset, rather jowly men dressed in plain, unremarkable clothes. The shoulders of their jackets were only speckled with raindrops so they must have ducked in to shelter just before the cloudburst. The taller one had a heavy, rather stupid-looking face that emphasized his hulking menace. His colleague was even less attractive, with a bull neck and deep-set black eyes that looked as if they had been poked in his pudding-like head with the point of a charred stick.

Neither man responded directly to my greeting. They edged further into the little room, then the taller one closed the door behind him, leaned against it, and folded his arms.

‘Odd-eyes aren’t welcome in this town,’ said Pudding Head nastily. Another crash of thunder drowned the rest of his words.

‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked. It was a feeble response as I tried to work out why the men wanted to pick a quarrel.

Pudding Head moved closer. ‘A seidrmann brings bad luck.’

‘I may have odd eyes, as you call them, but I’m no seidrmann.’

He laughed coarsely. ‘Then why do you keep company with a cripple who looks as if he came from Niflheim and a moonstruck idiot servant?’

Niflheim was the home of the dead. Osric’s dark skin must have seemed outlandish to these yokels.

‘I’m not a magician,’ I repeated, a tight knot of fear gathering in my stomach. Belatedly I recognized the two men. They were the same pair of guards that I had seen from time to time outside the jewellery shop. The jeweller himself had closed up and departed from Kaupang a week earlier so I wondered who now employed them or whether the two men were acting on their own. I could only suppose that they were planning to rob me. I looked for a means of escape. The window behind me was too small, and the ruffian at the door was too burly.

The heart of the thunderstorm was now right over Kaupang. Outside, the torrential rain fell in a steady roar. Peal after peal of thunder shook the building. The air suddenly felt chilly, though that was not what made me shiver. Pudding Face pulled out a knife. The two men were not here to frighten me or even to beat me up. They intended to kill me.

I had long since returned to Redwald the sailor’s knife he had loaned me, and now my only weapon was the knife I used for cutting up food, a blade just four inches long. I pulled it from my belt as I backed away towards the window and saw the look of disdain in the hard, black eyes of my attacker.

I had fought in pitched battles, on foot and on horseback, and with sword and shield. But being trapped in a small room by a pair of cut-throat killers was outside my experience.

Pudding Head was circling to my left, my exposed side, his knife held low in front of him. He jabbed it towards me menacingly. I jumped back out of range, then realized that he was intent on driving me round the little room in a circle, until my back was to his colleague Stupid Face. There I would be clasped in those thick arms and held while his companion put the blade into a fatal spot.

I backed away further, felt the edge of a stool against my knee, and – not taking my eyes off the knife man – picked it up to use as a shield. Pudding Head took a half-pace forward, his expression cold and calculating.

I bellowed for help, shouting at the top of my lungs. With sudden desperation I knew there was little hope of being heard over the crash of thunder and the drumming of the rain and, even if I was, my cries might well be mistaken for a noisy brawl in the nearby drinking den.

Nevertheless, I kept yelling and yelling, thrusting the stool at Pudding Head’s head making him step back.

He waited his moment, then suddenly reached out with his free hand and grabbed the stool, and used it to propel himself forward. I tried to dodge his knife, but he was too quick. I felt a sharp burning sensation as the blade cut me, on my right side, sliding off a rib.

I yelped from fear and pain. He had not let go of the stool, and for a moment we wrestled together, each trying to tug the stool from the other. My initial surge of energy was ebbing rapidly. I would either drop the stool or be forced backward within range of Stupid Face guarding the door.

I shouted again for help, and the cry had scarcely left my throat when there was a great splintering and smashing of wood. The man with his back against the door was propelled head first into the room as someone shoulder-charged the door from the passageway outside, carrying away its hinges.

Ohthere. He burst in, carrying the same heavy stick that he had used to fend off the dogs from the bear cage. He wielded it as a cudgel. Before Stupid Face could recover his balance, Ohthere drove the blunt end of the stick hard into his stomach. The man doubled up with a grunt. Ohthere then stepped across to where I was fending off Pudding Head and brought his stick down with a resounding crack on the hand that held the knife. I made the mistake of letting go the stool, and Pudding Face had the wit to swing it at Ohthere, who failed to duck in time. The edge of the stool caught him on the side of his head and he staggered back. Taking advantage of the moment, both attackers turned and bolted for the door.

I was too exhausted to do more than take jagged gasps of breath and press my hand against my wounded side, feeling blood.

‘How badly are you hurt?’ asked Ohthere.

‘Nothing fatal,’ I managed to answer. Then, dizzy and in shock, I staggered to the stool that lay on the floor, righted it, and sat down. ‘Who were they? They were trying to kill me . . .’

Ohthere was rubbing the side of his head. ‘I’ve no idea. But they’ll have made themselves scarce by now.’

‘Should we report the incident?’

‘There’s no one to report to. The only law in Kaupang is the one you take into your own hands. If you can track them down, you could take revenge. But if they are the jarl’s men, it’s a waste of time. They’ll have his protection.’

I noticed that Ohthere’s clothes were soaking wet. ‘It was lucky you came by, despite the rain. Otherwise I’d have been done for.’

He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘A little damp won’t stop me from calling on Redwald to arrange the final payment for the bears. I heard shouts and recognized your voice.’

‘I got a good look at the two men. Perhaps Redwald knows where to track them down,’ I said.

I got up from the stool and hobbled out of the building, leaning on Ohthere’s arm. The rainstorm had eased as rapidly as it had started. The last few raindrops were flicking down, and the ground outside was muddy slop. Just before we reached the door to Redwald’s office, I turned to Ohthere. ‘Could you find Osric for me? He’s good at dealing with wounds.’

‘Of course. I left him at my place, with Walo.’

While Ohthere squelched off, I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts: Northmen rarely killed those whom they believed to have magical powers. They feared retribution from the Otherworld. If there was a different motive for the attack, someone must have known that I was by myself, sheltering from the rainstorm. Immediately Redwald sprang to mind. The shipmaster, I recalled, had identified to me the same two brutes when they were on guard outside the jeweller’s shop. Redwald’s office was just a few steps away. He could have spoken with the two would-be assassins in the adjacent drinking den to tell them that the moment was right. Redwald already had his hands on what remained of our silver hoard aboard his ship. If he killed me, all that would remain would be to dispose of Osric, perhaps on the voyage back to Dorestad. With us out of the way Redwald could also claim his commission from Carolus’s mews master for bringing back the gyrfalcons, and probably get a reward for obtaining the ice bears as well.

I limped into the shipmaster’s office, alert to his reaction when he saw that I was alive.

Redwald was seated alone at his changing table, leaning forward and concentrating, and he ignored my arrival. He was placing matching weights into the two pans of his moneyer’s weighing scales to check the balance. When he looked up and saw blood on my shirt, he made a sucking sound through his teeth.

‘What happened to you?’ he asked as I sank down on a bench facing him.

I told him of the unprovoked assault and described the two men. ‘I think they were previously guards for the dealer in precious stones, the man who had his premises a little way along the street.’

I watched him closely for signs of guilt but he only tugged at an earlobe as he considered his reply. ‘You could well be right.’

‘Do you know anything about the dealer?’

He sat back with a sour smile. ‘I make it a policy to stay clear of him. His line is in gems and fine ornaments. If he thought I was infringing on his trade by doing more than changing money and handling broken silver, he would try to put me out of business.’

‘Would he set his men on me because I’m with you?’

He shook his head. ‘Only a madman would carry a commercial rivalry that far.’

‘Surely you don’t believe they tried to kill me because they thought I practise black magic!’

‘No, though it’s common knowledge that Ingvar caught two gyrfalcons in the same trap when you were with him. Everyone says that’s not natural.’ He paused and gave me a look of shrewd calculation. ‘What about King Offa? You told me that he had a grudge against you.’

‘How would he have found out that I’m in Kaupang?’ I said.

‘Of course he has his agents here, though I wouldn’t know who they are, or want to,’ Redwald answered. ‘I don’t pry into King Offa’s affairs. My trade with Mercia is too valuable . . .’ His voice tailed away, and a heavy silence hung in the air between us. ‘There’s a coincidence, though. If your identification is correct, one of the attackers came to see me last week. He wanted money changed.’

Redwald reached inside his tunic and pulled out a small soft leather pouch. ‘Northmen trust gold coins even less than silver ones. They get rid of them as quickly as possible.’

He untied the little pouch and shook the contents on the table, a mix of half a dozen gold coins of varying thickness, shape and size.

He picked up one of the coins and handed it to me. ‘Take a look.’

The coin was the size of my thumbnail. It was recently minted so the markings were clear. I recognized the wavy lines of Saracen writing.

‘That was one of the coins that your mysterious attacker – if we have the right man – wanted me to change into silver,’ Redwald said.

I turned the coin slowly in my fingers. ‘Advance payment for a murder?’

‘Possibly. Equally, it might have been his gambling winnings or part of his legitimate wages from the jeweller, though the latter would have been very generous.’

Unwisely I took a deep breath and winced as I felt the stab of pain from my wound. ‘I’ll get Osric to translate the writing after he’s bandaged the gash in my side. If we know where the coin comes from, that might tell us who was behind the attack.’

‘You don’t have to ask Osric. Turn the coin over and read what it says,’ said Redwald.

I did so. Among the Saracen symbols was an inscription in Roman letters: ‘Offa Rex’.

‘This is Offa’s coinage?’ I said, puzzled. ‘Why the Saracen writing?’

Redwald leaned back on his chair and I recognized the look that he had on his face when he was about to impart one of the secrets of his trade. ‘A couple of years ago, Offa decided to issue a coin in gold, not his usual silver. He wanted to expand Mercia’s trade with Hispania. Having a coin that the Saracen recognized would make payments easier. So his mint master took his mould from a genuine Saracen coin, a gold dinar, and changed a single detail – inserting Offa’s name.’

‘So those cut-throats were Offa’s hirelings.’ The thought that Offa had not forgotten my existence and was prepared to have me killed made my stomach twist.

‘Not so fast,’ warned Redwald. He slid a second gold coin across the table towards me. ‘This was another coin your knife-wielding friend wanted me to change for silver.’

This coin bore a cross on one side, and two stylized heads on the other. Both wore crowns, one with long pendants hanging almost to the shoulders. I looked up at Redwald questioningly. ‘Where does this one come from?’

‘Constantinople. That’s a Byzantine solidus.’ Redwald raised an eyebrow. ‘The figure on the left is the young Basileus Constantine.’

‘And the one with the dangling decorations?’

‘His mother, Irene. She acts as regent. Can you think of any reason why someone in Constantinople wants you done away with?’ He gave a bleak smile. ‘Just in case they try again, I think we should bring forward the date of our departure from Kaupang. I seem to remember that I gave my word to deliver you and your friends safely back to Dorestad . . . and that’s when I’ll be paid my bonus.’

At that moment Osric limped into the room. He made me stand up and peel off my tunic so that he could examine the wound. As he cleaned the gash with a rag soaked in rainwater, I reflected to myself that either Redwald was innocent of my attempted murder or he was a most ingenious liar. He had provided me with two suspects. The first was King Offa whose agents had hired the killers to rid their master of a longstanding nuisance. The second was the basileus in Constantinople. As Osric had pointed out, the Emperor of the Greeks had reason to wreck Carolus’s mission to the caliph.

I racked my brains trying to understand how the Greeks could have known why Carolus had sent me to Kaupang. The Khazars could not yet have carried back their report to Constantinople. Then I recalled Osric’s other warning: the Greeks have their spies everywhere. Their sources at Carolus’s court could have alerted the basileus even before Osric and I left Aachen.

*

Redwald lost no time in preparing for us to leave Kaupang. He sold off the rest of his wine cheaply and arranged for the remaining quern stones to be left with a local factor. On the morning before the cog was due to set sail, I went with Walo to fetch the three white gyrfalcons and the eagle. They had been left in the care of Gorm, and the bird dealer’s son had already picked the stitches from the eyelids of the more recently captured birds so that they could see, and had been gentling them so that they were easy to handle.

Gorm himself helped us carry the birds down to the cog where she lay against the jetty. Climbing down into the ship’s hold, we found two of Redwald’s sailors slinging a long wooden bar by ropes from the deck beams. It was a travelling perch.

While Gorm and I looked on, Walo wrapped sacking around the wooden bar so that the falcons’ talons could get a firm grip.

‘Here, you can’t do that!’ shouted one of the sailors. Walo had picked up a length of light rope, and was hacking it into short lengths with the knife he used for cutting up the ice bears’ food.

‘Let him be,’ said Gorm sharply. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

Walo had begun rigging the lengths of cord so that they dangled beside the perch.

‘What are those for?’ I asked the bird dealer.

‘So the birds can reach out and get a grip on the cords with their beaks when the ship rolls,’ Gorm explained. He turned to Walo. ‘How about you staying on in Kaupang? I could use a really good assistant.’

To my alarm Walo’s moon face went pale, and his half-closed eyes began to glisten with tears. He shook his head violently and looked at me pleadingly. He was frightened of being abandoned.

‘That’s all right, Walo,’ I reassured him. ‘I need you to look after the ice bears. You can remain with Osric and me.’

Walo mumbled something, and I had to ask him to repeat what he had said. ‘The bears have no names,’ he muttered.

Gorm hastened to make up for his blunder. ‘Sigwulf, I think that Walo believes that you were going to leave the ice bears behind because you hadn’t given them any names.’

My mind went blank and I looked at the bird dealer. ‘What do you suggest?’

He chuckled. ‘My son has been calling them Modi and Madi these past few days. Maybe that fits.’

‘Why’s that?’ I had never heard either name.

‘They’re gods, sons of Thor. Modi means “angry”, Madi means “strong”.’

I looked across at Walo. ‘Will those names suit?’ I asked.

He brightened and gave me a shy nod.

‘Then it’s time we got Modi and Madi down to the ship,’ I told him.

He reached inside his shirt and pulled out his deerhorn pipe that hung on a leather thong around his neck. ‘They will follow me here,’ he said.

I was lost for words. The two animals were no longer the feeble, sickly creatures that had arrived in Kaupang. They were larger and heavier, active and quick, and they enjoyed mock fighting. Rearing up on their hind legs, they battled and growled, seizing their opponent’s neck or limb in their formidable jaws and twisting and tugging. It required little imagination to picture the danger if they ever got loose.

Gorm came to my rescue. ‘I’ve got a better idea, Walo. We’ll bring them to the ship on a sledge.’

And that was how it was accomplished. Redwald’s sailors built a double-size sledge on top of which they constructed a sturdy cage. It had to be large enough to contain both bears at the same time because Walo assured us that the animals would become distressed and unpredictable if separated. He himself sat inside the cage with the bears while they were moved in case they needed calming. After much coaxing we harnessed four terrified horses to the sledge. Then all of us – Gorm and his son, Redwald, Osric, Ingvar the bird catcher, Osric and myself – hauled on drag ropes and we set out for the dock. Our progress along Kaupang’s rutted and pot-holed street, even with the bears securely caged, caused uproar. Merchants shuttered their shops while we passed, stallholders evacuated their stands, and only the most curious of their customers remained to gawk at us. Every step of the way we were accompanied by a horde of wildly excited dogs, snapping, snarling and barking.

We reached the jetty where Redwald’s crew waited until the top of the tide, then slid the entire contraption across and onto the cog’s deck where it was fastened down with strong ropes. While this was being done, I was concluding a last-minute purchase with Ingvar’s help. Among the pack of curs attracted by the commotion of our departure were several dogs with short fox-like faces beneath high-set triangular ears. Of medium size, they were stocky and active and had curly tails. They gave an impression of sharp intelligence and it occurred to me that if their thick coats of short dense fur were washed and cleaned, they would be off-white. Like everything else in Kaupang, they were for sale.

Thus we loaded five dirty and quarrelsome dogs as extra cargo. The rest of the pack lined the beach in a noisy frenzy as the gap widened between ship and shore, and we left Kaupang to the same sound as our arrival – the barking of dogs.