The Pagan Lord. Bernard Cornwell
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‘Sigurd Thorrson?’
‘That’s him, and a fair man.’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ I said. I had not only heard of him, but I had killed his son in the last great battle between Danes and Saxons. Sigurd hated me, and he was Cnut’s closest friend and ally.
‘And you’ve heard nothing bad, I dare say,’ Rulf said, then moved to look down into Middelniht. ‘And your name?’ he asked. He was counting the men, and noting the shields and swords stacked in the hull’s centre.
‘Wulf Ranulfson,’ I said, ‘out of Lundene, going home to Haithabu.’
‘You’re not looking for trouble?’
‘We’re always looking for trouble,’ I said, ‘but we’ll settle for ale and food.’
He grinned. ‘You know the rules, Wulf Ranulfson. No weapons in town.’ He jerked his head towards a long low building with a black-thatched reed roof. ‘That’s the tavern. There’s two ships in from Frisia, try not to fight them.’
‘We’re not here to fight,’ I said.
‘Otherwise the Jarl Sigurd will hunt you down, and you don’t want that.’
The tavern was large, the town small. Grimesbi had no wall, only a stinking ditch that circled the huddled houses. It was a fishing town and I guessed most of the men were out on the rich ocean banks. Their houses were built close together as if they could shelter each other against the gales that must roar off the nearby sea. The largest buildings were warehouses full of goods for seamen; there were hemp lines, smoked fish, salted meat, seasoned timbers, shaped oars, gutting knives, hooks, thole pins, horsehair for caulking: all things that a ship sheltering from the weather might want to make repairs or replenish supplies. This was more than a fishing port, it was a travellers’ town, a place of refuge for ships plying the coast, and that was why I had come.
I wanted news, and I expected to find it from another visiting ship, which meant a long day in the tavern. I left Middelniht under Osferth’s command, telling him that he could let the crew go ashore in small groups. ‘No fighting!’ I warned them, then Finan and I followed Rulf and his companion along the pier.
Rulf, a friendly man, saw us following and waited for us. ‘You need supplies?’ he asked.
‘Fresh ale, maybe some bread.’
‘The tavern will supply both. And if you need me for anything you’ll find me in the house beside the church.’
‘The church?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Has a cross nailed to the gable, you can’t miss it.’
‘The Jarl Sigurd allows that nonsense here?’ I asked.
‘He doesn’t mind. We get a lot of Christian ships, and their crews like to pray. And they spend money in town so why not make them welcome? And the priest pays the jarl a rent on the building.’
‘Does he preach to you?’
Rulf laughed. ‘He knows I’ll pin his ears to his own cross if he does that.’
It began to rain, a slanting, stinging rain that swept from the sea. Finan and I walked about the town, following the line of the ditch. A causeway led south across the ditch, and a skeleton hung from a post on its far side. ‘A thief, I suppose,’ Finan said.
I gazed across the rain-swept marsh. I was putting the place in my mind because a man never knew where he might have to fight, though I hoped I would never have to fight here. It was a bleak, damp place, but it provided ships with shelter from the storms that could turn the sea into grey-white chaos.
Finan and I settled in the tavern where the ale was sour and the bread rock hard, but the fish soup was thick and fresh. The long, wide room was low-beamed, warmed by an enormous driftwood fire that burned in a central hearth, and even though it was not yet midday the place was crowded. There were Danes, Frisians and Saxons. Men sang and whores worked the long tables, taking their men up a ladder to a loft built into one gable and provoking cheers whenever the loft’s floorboards bounced up and down to sift dust onto our ale pots. I listened to conversations, but heard no one claim to have worked their way south along the Northumbrian coast. I needed a man who had been to Bebbanburg and I was willing to wait as long as I needed to find him.
But instead he found me. Sometime in the afternoon a priest, I assumed it was the priest who rented the small church in the town’s centre, came through the tavern door and shook rain from his cloak. He had two burly companions who followed him as he went from table to table. He was an older man, skinny and white-haired, with a shabby black robe stained with what looked like vomit. His beard was matted, and his long hair greasy, but he had a quick smile and shrewd eyes. He looked our way and saw the cross hanging at Finan’s neck and so threaded the benches to our table, which was beside the ladder used by the whores. ‘My name is Father Byrnjolf,’ he introduced himself to Finan, ‘and you are?’
Finan did not give his name. He just smiled, stared fixedly at the priest and said nothing.
‘Father Byrnjolf,’ the priest said hurriedly, as if he had never meant to ask Finan for his name, ‘and are you just visiting our small town, my son?’
‘Passing through, father, passing through.’
‘Then perhaps you’d be good enough to give a coin for God’s work in this place?’ the priest said and held out a begging bowl. His two companions, both formidable-looking men with leather jerkins, wide belts and long knives, stood at his side. Neither smiled.
‘And if I choose not to?’ Finan asked.
‘Then God’s blessing be upon you anyway,’ Father Byrnjolf said. He was a Dane and I bridled at that. I still found it hard to believe that any Dane was a Christian, let alone that one could be a priest. His eyes flicked to my hammer and he took a pace back. ‘I meant no offence,’ he said humbly, ‘I am just doing God’s work.’
‘So are they,’ I said, glancing up to the loft floorboards that were moving and creaking.
He laughed at that, then looked back to Finan. ‘If you can help the church, my son, God will bless you.’
Finan fished in his pouch for a coin and the priest made the sign of the cross. It was plain he tried to approach none but Christian travellers and his two companions were there to keep him out of trouble if any pagan objected. ‘How much rent do you pay to the Jarl Sigurd?’ I asked him. I was curious, hoping that Sigurd was taking an outrageously large sum.
‘I pay no rent, God be praised. The Lord Ælfric does that. I collect for the poor.’
‘The Lord Ælfric?’ I asked, hoping the surprise did not show in my voice.
The priest reached for Finan’s coin. ‘Ælfric of Bernicia,’ he explained. ‘He is our patron, and a generous one. I’ve just visited him.’ He gestured at the stains on his black robe as if they had some relevance to his visit to Ælfric.
Ælfric of Bernicia! There had been a kingdom called Bernicia once, and my family had ruled it as kings, but that realm had long vanished, conquered by Northumbria, and all that was left was the great fortress of Bebbanburg and its adjacent lands. But my uncle liked to call himself Ælfric of Bernicia. I was surprised he had not taken the title of king.
‘What did Ælfric do,’ I asked, ‘throw the kitchen slops at you?’
‘I am always sick at sea,’ the priest said, smiling. ‘Dear sweet Lord but how I do hate ships. They move, you know? They go up and down! Up and down till your stomach can take no more and then you hurl good food to the fishes. But the Lord Ælfric likes me to visit him three times a year, so I must endure the sickness.’ He put the coin into his bowl. ‘Bless you, my son,’ he said to Finan.
Finan smiled. ‘There’s a sure cure for the seasickness, father,’ he said.
‘Dear