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  ‘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.

  Twenty-Six

  Ivar scratched the iron-grey hairs of his beard.

  ‘What are they up to?’ he said. Einar noted the lines age had carved into the old man’s face were deepened by concern. His bushy eyebrows were knitted as he considered what Einar had just told him.

  Einar had not taken Skar’s advice to go back to the hut full of slave girls. His mother had warned him about such places and though the memory of those naked bodies he had glimpsed still disturbed his mind, her warning (that such places were dens of thieves who took all your money while you were otherwise engaged and were pits of disease that would rot your private parts) overcame his lustful yearnings.

  Instead he had made his way through the bustling city to King’s Gard. It had not been hard to find. A fortress within a fortified town, the ramparts of King’s Gard overshadowed the streets beyond the slave market in the south-east part of Dublin. Like the outer defences, the king’s enclosure was surrounded by a ditch, behind which was a bank topped with a palisade of sharpened wooden stakes. This inner wall encircled many outbuildings and an enormous feasting hall that was by far the largest Einar had ever seen. As long as three ships and with a high, pointed roof, the hall of King Guthfrith was twice as long and half again as tall as that of the richest chieftain in Iceland. It would even have towered over his uncle’s hall in Orkney.

  Ivar had left a man at the gate of the enclosure to vouch for Einar and on his word he had got in past the warriors on guard. Ivar and Einar now stood in one of the outbuildings of the hall that had been turned over to the Jarl of Orkney’s men as lodgings. A team of thralls had dragged three big wooden tubs of water in for them to wash in. Earlier the water had been hot and clean but by the time Einar got there all the others had taken their turns in the tubs, leaving it tepid and an uninviting grey colour. The other jarl’s men were now combing their hair and getting dressed into their best clothes in preparation for the feast. Einar was half submerged in a tub, rubbing his left armpit with a bar of chestnut soap.

  ‘Two washes in as many days? You should be careful,’ Ivar smiled. ‘You’ll make an Englishman jealous.’

  ‘I know, and it’s not even ‘Washday’,’ Einar said. Then he frowned, puzzled. ‘What do you mean about the Englishman?’

  Ivar snorted. ‘They’re filthy pigs. We call the sixth day of every week ‘Washday’ but for them that day only comes round once a year. They also think we wash to try to steal their women, rather than because we have pride in ourselves. Can you blame those Englishwomen though? If you were an English lass, who would you want to share your bed? A stinking local or a Norseman who takes care of himself?’

  ‘How often do the women wash?’ Einar wondered. ‘I met an Englishman today and he was more preened than a rooster.’

  ‘Oh they’re proud, all right,’ Ivar said. ‘They spend a lot of time making sure they look good, but get close to them and the smell of sweat is awful. They change their shirts as often as they wash. But tell me more about this Englishman you met.’

  ‘I saw him in town,’ Einar said, wanting to confide in Ivar but remembering he had promised not to. His wash finished, he got out of the tub and Ivar handed him a cloth to dry himself with.

  His thoughts were disturbed by a high-pitched squealing from outside. Pigs were being slaughtered.

  ‘It sounds like they’re preparing quite a feast to celebrate my cousin’s betrothal,’ Einar commented as he rubbed himself dry.

  Ivar grunted. ‘You sound almost bitter. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for the Irishwoman too? Thank the Gods I’m too old to be beguiled by a pretty face and a dainty round arse. If I didn’t know better I’d say she was a witch the way she casts her glamour on you young men.’

  Einar felt his cheeks redden and he looked away. ‘The princess? I hardly noticed her,’ he muttered.

  Ivar guffawed. ‘Really? Not like your cousin then. That fool’s like a moonstruck calf the way he dotes on her. She’s cast her spell on him all right. His father will be disappointed.’ At the mention of the jarl all the mirth drained from Ivar’s face and he looked distracted.

  ‘What is really going on, Ivar?’ Einar said as he began to pull on his clothes. His best clothes were lost to his Irish captors so to his embarrassment he would have to wear the shabby clothes he had arrived in to the feast.

  Ivar looked round, chewing his bottom lip. Einar could see he was trying to come to a decision.

  ‘As you said in the marketplace, I am the jarl’s nephew,’ he coaxed. ‘You said I can be trusted.’

  Ivar looked round once more, double-checking that the rest of the jarl’s men in the room were too far away to overhear. He then nodded and took a step closer to Einar.

  ‘All right,’ he said, speaking in a lower tone. ‘We only told you half the story before. Your cousin’s wedding is part of the plan, but there is more to it. Thorfinn is not really interested in peace with Guthfrith. Or rather Eirik Bloody Axe of Norway isn’t. You’ve seen with your own eyes, Einar, how rich this city is. The wealth of the world flows through here. It sits at one end of a trade network that stretches as far as Miklagard. In the west it’s the richest market outside Hedeby in Denmark. The Danes control the two biggest markets in the world.’

  ‘But Guthfrith is King of Dublin?’ Einar knitted his brow.

  ‘And Guthfrith is a Dane,’ Ivar continued. ‘Well, a half-Irish descendant of a Dane. His allegiance is to King Sigtrygg of Denmark. Both Sigtrygg and Eirik covet each other’s realms the way a man bored with his own beautiful wife lusts after his neighbour’s comely spouse. The time is coming when they will fight it out and the victor will take both kingdoms.’

  ‘So what’s the point of this marriage then?’ Einar asked, his bottom lip jutting out.

  ‘It’s supposed to give Guthfrith the impression that your uncle means peace,’ Ivar said, ‘but as you know Thorfinn is already moving against the lands in the north, and the Irish king there pays tribute to Guthfrith. Guthfrith will not be happy losing land to a vassal of Eirik of Norway, nor will his own overlord, Sigtrygg. It brings Norway one step closer to Sigtrygg’s realms. One step closer to Dublin.’

  ‘So I was my uncle’s pawn but he in turn is the pawn of King Eirik?’ Einar said.

  ‘And Guthfrith is the pawn of Sigtrygg the Dane,’ Ivar said. ‘And like that little Wolf Coat said, the kings are the pieces on the tafl board of Odin. But what of this marriage agreement, you ask?’

  Einar nodded, pulling his long, rough woollen shirt over his head.

  ‘What we were supposed to do was sail here and confirm the betrothal,’ Ivar said through gritted teeth. ‘Guthfrith is placated. He’s no fool but the arrangement suits him as much as Thorfinn. He won’t expect the father of his new son-in-law to attack him, will he? That would be a bit personal. Also it puts his own little set of eyes and ears – his daughter – inside the
household of his rival, Jarl Thorfinn.’

  ‘So how does that help?’ Einar asked.

  ‘The plan was supposed to be that we would sail away taking the princess with us,’ Ivar sighed. ‘Then if Guthfrith decides to take umbrage at the land grab in the north we have his daughter as a hostage. Only now it looks like that young fool, your cousin, may have actually fallen in love with the girl. The Gods alone know what he’ll do now. Will he follow the plan through or…?’ he trailed off.

  ‘Or what?’ Einar said.

  Ivar shrugged. ‘Take her father’s side? Betray us? Who knows? When a man falls in love with a woman, all his wits leave him.’

  ‘Can you blame him?’ Einar said as he began running a bone comb through his hair and beard. ‘She’s beautiful.’

  Ivar raised an eyebrow, a smile playing across his lips. ‘I thought you said you didn’t notice her?’ he said.

  At that moment the door crashed open and Hrolf swaggered in. He was dressed in a magnificent blue-dyed tunic, embroidered with many twisting animals in bright coloured threads. Einar looked at his cousin’s finery then down at his own drab clothing, ruefully noting the obvious contrast that everyone else would see too. Especially the princess.

  ‘Look at the state of you, Einar,’ Hrolf sneered. ‘I suppose that’s regarded as the height of fashion in Iceland? It’s my betrothal feast tonight. You look like you’re going to muck out the horses.’

  Einar blushed and looked at the floor.

  ‘Are you all ready?’ Hrolf spoke to the rest of the men in the room. They answered with nods and ‘ayes’. ‘Then let’s go to the feast! By the Gods, men, the Irish know how to throw a party. We’re in for a great night.’

  He turned on his heel and left the room. The others began filing out after him.

  ‘Keep your eyes and ears open at the feast, lad,’ Ivar muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he and Einar fell in line behind them. ‘And let’s hope Hrolf loves his own father more than his new wife. Otherwise we’re all dead men.’

  Twenty-Seven

  The King’s Gard was a flurry of activity. Slaves hustled around the courtyard lighting torches to illuminate the darkening evening. Richly dressed guests arriving at the gate were ushered towards the huge double doors in one of the towering triangular gable ends of the king’s great feasting hall. Hrolf, Ivar, Einar and the jarl’s men made their way across the courtyard to the entrance. Einar, coming from the sparse lands of Iceland where trees were scare and every precious scrap of wood had to be imported, marvelled at the amount of timber contained in the portal alone. The doors themselves were twice the height of a man and as thick as one’s chest. They were stout and would prove a formidable barrier to attack. At the same time they were a thing of astounding beauty. Every inch of the dark wood was covered by carvings of twisting, turning beasts and plants that swirled across the surface, weaving around each other and through themselves. The surrounding panels depicted scenes from songs and sagas. Einar recognised a carving of the legendary hero Sigurd, his sword skewering the heart of the dragon Fáfnir. There was also a depiction of the magical smith, Völundr, hamstrung and working at his forge near a portrayal of Thor sitting in a boat and fishing for the monstrous worm, the Miðgarðsormr. Alongside them were other carvings of folk whose impressive portraits suggested they too were heroes and Gods, but they were foreign to Einar.

  A desultory winter rain had begun to drizzle from the darkening grey sky above and the warmth that flowed from the hall’s entrance like hot breath was welcome. Inside, two long fire pits stretched in parallel down the floor for most of the length of the hall, running away from the entrance almost to the far end. The light from the fires was added to by countless torches that burned in brackets along the low walls. The smoke from the combined blazes drifted up into the high ceiling where it was extracted by the breeze outside through twin holes at the top of both end gable walls – the wind eyes.

  Hrolf led the Orkney company towards a tall man who stood near the entrance, welcoming the groups of nobles as they arrived in the hall. The man towered over the others, at least as tall as Skar. His head was completely bald and his chin was clean shaven, though long drooping moustache hung from his upper lips like the Englishman Einar had seen earlier. He also wore blue plaid breeks and had a woollen cloak of the finest quality draped around his shoulders, clasped at his right shoulder by a big, round brooch that shone with gold and sparkled with garnets. In contrast to the finery of his dress his face spoke of violence with a scar down one cheek, a badly broken nose and one missing front tooth. Seeing Hrolf approach with the others, the man turned towards them with a smile on his face that looked warm but a look in his eyes that seemed wary.

  ‘This is King Guthfrith Ivarsson,’ Hrolf announced, bowing his head in a gesture of respect that the others mirrored. ‘My father-in-law to be.’

  ‘Guthfrith Ui Ivar.’ The king grinned, clapping a hand on Hrolf’s shoulder. ‘When you’re one of the family, lad, you’ll need to get used to the Irish version of our name.’

  Hrolf grinned like an idiot and held a hand out to Ivar. ‘Of course I shall. King Guthfrith, this is Ivar Olafsson, my father’s counsellor and right-hand man.’

  Hrolf ignored Einar, but given his humble attire, Einar was happy enough about that as he glanced around at the other guests dressed in their finest clothes. Guthfrith greeted them all with enthusiasm but Einar could not help thinking that the look of slight suspicion never left his eyes. He reasoned that it was probably understandable, given that they were strangers and represented the household of a rival for power. The king began introducing the surrounding nobles who were the Hearth Men of the King’s Gard, the men he relied on to run his kingdom and to whom he trusted his personal safety. The men and their wives all seemed to be a mix, half-Northmen, half-Irish. Even their names were a combination with many of them bearing the Irish titles of Ui or Mac before Norse names like Askil, Thorketl or Olaf instead of appending ‘son’ to their fathers’ names.

  ‘Go inside,’ Guthfrith bellowed. ‘Make yourselves at home. Get a drink!’

  Einar and the Orkneymen walked down the hall. Most of the floor was hard-packed dirt but the centre was covered by a dazzling tessellated floor made of thousands of red, white and black tiles that were set into concentric patterns of rectangular whirls, key patterns and what looked like the crooked-cross sign of Thor except it only had three legs instead of four.

  Two parallel long tables ran up the hall lengthways along the fire pits. Benches flanked the tables and they were already filled with many men and women. Two rows of pillars also flanked the fire pits for the length of the hall, rising from the floor to the roof they supported and each one was hand carved to look like the trunks of mighty trees or twisting serpents. At the far end of the hall, the one opposite to the entrance, was a raised dais on which sat the high seat of the king. Like Jarl Thorfinn’s high seat, two tall pillars rose on either side of it, their wood ancient, scarred and studded with iron God Nails. Before the high seat a third table had been set across the dais with chairs behind it facing down the hall. As in Einar’s uncle’s hall, this table was where the most important people would sit.

  Above the table and the high seat a long tapestry was hung from one pillar to the other. It was embroidered with scenes of ships, warriors and battles. Above the tapestry a huge pair of antlers were nailed to the gable wall. Einar started at the sight. They were truly enormous, bigger than the outstretched wings of a sea eagle. Whatever deer they had come from must have been huge, far bigger than any Einar had ever seen.

  ‘Do you think those are real?’ he said to Ivar, pointing at them and wondering if perhaps they were some sort of statue carved from wood. To his surprise Ivar nodded.

  ‘They find their bones now and again here in Ireland in the bogs,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen a whole skeleton of one. It’s a giant elk. They don’t live here any more but when they did they must have stood nearly twice the height of a man. There are some deer
that size still alive in the forests of the German realms.’

  The air was filled with the aroma of roasting meat and the tang of ale. To Einar, it seemed like all was familiar but somehow also slightly foreign. This was especially true of the people who filled the hall. Some had long braided hair and others wore their hair in the back-shaved Irish style. Some wore breeches while others went bare legged under the long, plaid skirts that men in Ireland and Scotland wore. The babble of conversation was in the Norse language, but the accents were strange.

  Thralls approached, heads obsequiously bowed, and handed horns of frothing ale to the Orkneymen, who broke out in broad grins. The king and his trusted companions rejoined them on the tessellated floor. As they did so, two more figures approached. It was Ulrich and Skar. Quite a transformation had occurred as both men now were dressed in their best clothes. Skar wore the most incredible pair of breeks Einar had ever seen. They were huge, like two enormous puffed-out bags of material. There was enough cloth in them to make a longship sail. Blue and red stripes ran down them from the waist to below the knees where they were tucked into a pair of high, black leather boots that were trimmed with white fur. His shirt and long grey cloak were more conventional but were of made of the finest of wool and, like King Guthfrith, a huge gold brooch glittered at his shoulder. Ulrich wore normal breeks but they were of supple deer leather and like Skar his cloak and shirt were very expensive. His thinning hair was swept back from his forehead, combed and oiled so it hung straight.

  Guthfrith raised his eyebrows as he saw them approach. Both walked with the grace and confidence of men in prime physical condition, clearly warriors.

  ‘And who have we here? A Varangian if I’m not mistaken,’ he said, looking down at Skar’s outlandish trousers.

  Skar simply nodded. Guthfrith’s eyebrows knitted. Einar could see the first clouds of anger at Skar’s clear insolence beginning to form.