The little group exited the market place and walked in silence along another narrow street that headed east. Ulrich was still seething while Skar seemed indifferent. Einar was too worried that his companions would turn on him to embark on idle chatter.
As they progressed he could not help noticing that the surroundings were becoming more and more unsavoury. The other streets may have been crowded and smelly but there were lots of children running around, playing or generally up to no good. On the street they were now on there were noticeably fewer people under thirteen winters old. There seemed to be very few women around either. Well, at least what Einar would have described as respectable women anyway. There were a lot of public ale halls offering drink, food and accommodation to travellers, something there was obviously no shortage of in Dublin. Raucous singing and laughter came from their doorways. Several men they passed in the street were swaying unsteadily on their feet. Einar spotted one man on his hands and knees near a tavern door, vomiting into the filth-clogged ditch that ran down the side of the street. He shook his head, taken aback at such an open display of unmanliness and lack of self-respect. Many of the other buildings along the street appeared to be used for the slaughter of animals and the butchery of their corpses. The edgy atmosphere was enhanced by the squeals and frightened cries of pigs as they died and the drainage ditches that flowed on either side of the wooden walkway ran dark red with spilt blood as well as all manner of other vile sludge. The copper-stench of blood permeated the air. Einar had heard of areas in cities like this one. They were the places that sailors newly arrived on foreign shores flocked to, intent on expelling the frustrations of shipboard life and losing themselves in ale and the company of dubious women. The denizens of these places were more than happy to exchange those commodities for the silver and gold in the sailor’s purses.
About halfway down the street they came to a long, low-roofed, thatched building with an open door. A giant of a man with the biggest belly Einar had ever seen sat on a three-legged stool outside it. He was completely bald and wore a black eyepatch over his right eye. A hefty, wicked-looking club that appeared to be made of some sort of knobbly black wood rested across his knees.
Skar stopped outside the building.
‘Hey Ulrich,’ he called to his companion, pointing to the open door, his blond-bearded face cracked in a grin. ‘Maybe we should send the boy in there to make a man of him?’
Ulrich stopped, turned on his heel and took a couple of steps back to see what Skar was pointing at. For a second he peered into the building, then walked off again, chuckling to himself as he went.
Einar caught up with Skar and took a look through the doorway. He blinked, at first confused with what he saw; then with a start he realised that his eyes were not deceiving him and the room inside really was filled with naked women. Not just any women either: they were all young, very pretty women. His jaw dropped open and he was unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of pale skin, firm breasts and round buttocks. Two of the women were looking out towards him and he recognised the same hollow-eyed despair he had seen on the faces of the slaves in the marketplace.
Suddenly his vision was filled by the massive bulk of the one-eyed man with the club who had risen from his stool.
‘Everything here costs silver or gold, lad. Including looking,’ the big man growled. He spoke the Norse tongue but his accent had a lilting tone to it that reminded Einar of the Irish who had taken him captive.
He stepped back, startled and confused. ‘I— I have no silver,’ Einar stammered. ‘I have nothing.’
‘Then keep walking,’ the big man said, his voice now laden with threat.
‘Come on,’ Skar said, beckoning up the street with a cocked head. ‘At least you got a free look, eh?’
They travelled a little further until they arrived at what looked like another large merchant’s hall. An extended porch jutted out from the double doors into the street, providing a short corridor portal, at the end of which stood two men. Both were large-framed and heavily muscled. One was tall and brown-haired. To Einar he looked slightly like a Dane but his clothes were strange. His hair was what could only be described as ‘styled’. It was shoulder length but unbraided and brushed smooth and straight with a parting in the centre of his forehead. His chin was clean shaven but the bottom half of his face was covered by outlandishly long moustache that hung down from his top lip; these too were combed to straight smoothness. Over a leather jerkin he wore a mail coat that was new, sand-polished and glittering even in the dull Irish sunshine. Around his neck, suspended by a chain, was a silver amulet in the form of an equal-armed cross. Einar had seen the same symbol around the necks of some of the Christians he had met in the mound in Orkney and knew this was a symbol of Christ, the God worshipped in Ireland along with their other Gods, Patrick and Bridget. His legs were covered in cross-braided leather stockings and his blue cloak was swept over his shoulder where it was fastened with an intricate gold and red-garnet brooch. He looked like he was going to a feast rather than standing in a muddy street. His nose was crooked, showing it had been broken sometime in his life and his blue eyes cast an arrogant gaze around him.
‘Who on earth is that?’ Einar asked as they got closer.
‘That peacock,’ Skar said from the corner of his mouth, ‘is a rare breed in these parts. That is one of those people who these days like to call themselves Englishmen, though they’re really just the bastard offspring of Danes, Angles, Saxons and Welshmen. They’re also the most proud and pig-headed folk you can ever have the misfortune to run up against. Don’t be fooled by his fancy appearance though. They’re a filthy lot. They only wash themselves about once a year.’
The Englishman’s companion at the hall entrance was a head taller than him. He had the long blond hair of a Norwegian but was dressed like an Irishman in kilt and long wrap-around cloak. Both were attempting to look casual, the Englishman leaning with one shoulder against the porch wall, but the wary glances they cast up and down the street showed they were alert and vigilant. Both shared the same aura as Skar and Ulrich, that of seasoned warriors for whom violence and confrontation was a full time occupation.
Noticing the approach of the Úlfhéðnar, both men in the doorway straightened up. Their gazes were now appraising as they assessed an approaching threat. Einar was slightly surprised to see something else in their eyes too. Recognition.
‘Well, look who’s here,’ the Englishman said, an amused sneer was on his lips and his tone bore a mocking edge. ‘If it isn’t Eirik Bloody Axe’s lap dogs. What are you doing here in Dublin?’
Einar expected an angry reaction but Ulrich and Skar seemed unfazed.
‘King Eirik’s werewolves, you mean.’ Ulrich reply was calm and there was a slight smile on his lips. ‘Well, well. If it isn’t the death merchant’s own personal bodyguards. I could well ask you the same question. Does King Guthfrith know your master Ricbehrt is in his city? I imagine he might ask some awkward questions about just what he’s doing here.’
‘Ricbehrt is travelling on private business,’ the Englishman said, with a shake of his head. ‘He believes that travel broadens the mind.’
Ulrich snorted. ‘Fills his treasure-chests, more like. Let’s stop this horse’s shit, shall we? We all know why Ricbehrt is here and we’ve come to conclude the business we spoke to him about before in Hedeby. When he sees the amount of gold King Eirik will be putting on the table he’ll be more than happy to talk.’
The Englishman regarded him coolly for a moment, then nodded. ‘All right,’ he said, flicking his head to his large companion. The other man went in the door, leaving the men outside looking at each other with a sort of playful contempt.
‘Who’s this?’ The Englishman broke the silence, looking at Einar with hooded eyes. ‘Another of your dog-boy troop?’
Ulrich looked more offended by the suggestion that Einar was a Wolf Coat than at the way the Englishman had referred to the company. ‘Him? He’s some farmer boy from Iceland we have to wet nurse because his uncle is important to King Eirik. You know what it’s like, Edgar. Bloody statecraft.’
The Englishman rolled his eyes and nodded, the tenseness in the air dissolving as both men found fellow feeling in the common annoyances of their occupations.
The door opened again and Edgar’s companion returned.
‘Ricbehrt agrees to see you,’ he said. Einar recognised his accent as akin to that of his Irish captors. ‘Come in.’
He and the Englishman stood aside to let them enter. As they walked towards the door the tall blond-haired guard put out a hand in front of Einar.
‘Not you, though,’ he said.
‘What?’ Einar protested, indignant at being stopped.
‘We’ve met the others before but we don’t know you,’ Edgar said.
Einar looked at his companions, who had turned to see if they would vouch for him.
Ulrich merely shrugged. ‘Understandable,’ he said. ‘Ricbehrt doesn’t want everyone in the city knowing his business.’
‘This suits you, doesn’t it?’ Einar said, his voice laden with accusation. Ulrich merely looked at him with cold eyes. Realising he would get no support from Ulrich he said, ‘What am I supposed to do? Stand around in the street waiting for you?’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Skar said, reaching into the leather purse that hung at his belt. He pulled out a few silver coins and tossed them to Einar. Einar’s instinctive reaction was to catch them. His cupped hands grasped three but two others fell into the mud.
‘Go back to that house of slave girls and enjoy yourself. We won’t be long.’ Skar continued.
‘He won’t need long,’ Ulrich said with a grin. All four men laughed, then Ulrich and Skar turned once more and entered the house.
Under the mocking gaze of the two bodyguards, Einar bent to pick up the fallen coins. Standing up again he was about to turn and leave when something caught his eye.
He froze, not sure he could believe what he saw.
Round the neck of the big blond-haired guard was an amulet that hung on a leather thong down the front of his chainmail shirt in the same manner as the Englishman’s cross: a small oblong of stone with a design etched into it, the grooves then filled with gold to highlight the pattern. It was undoubtedly the same design as that on the amulet his mother had given him. The hand and the fish.
‘What are you staring at?’ the bodyguard growled, seeing the thunderstruck expression on Einar’s face.
‘Your amulet,’ Einar said. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘None of your business,’ the man said. ‘Now go away.’
‘What does it mean?’ Einar said, a note of pleading entering his voice that only provoked more contempt from the bodyguard.
‘It’s a symbol of my clan,’ the big man said.
‘My mother was Irish,’ Einar said.
‘Good for her,’ the Irishman said. ‘I won’t tell you again—’
‘Does this mean she could have been from your clan?’ Einar pleaded. ‘What is your clan?’
‘I said, go away.’ The big Irish man stepped closer, his hand dropping to the hilt of the knife sheathed at his waist. The Englishman still stood with folded arms but the look in his eyes left no doubt that he felt the same as his companion.
Einar, realising he had no weapon and was outnumbered two to one by professional warriors, backed away.
With a frustrated sigh he took one last look at the amulet and then walked away.