Chapters (76)
- Cover
- Praise forMATTHEW HARFFY
- BY MATTHEW HARFFY
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Maps
- Epigraph
- Contents
- Place Names
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- An Invitation from the Publisher
“Runolf said they would work until the steerboard was fixed, so they must have finished the work.” Bealdwulf hawked and spat again. “And I am hungry.”
“Hungry?”
“Yes,” he said, and despite his bruised and bleeding face, he grinned. “Tannskári promised a feast when the work was done, and believe it or not, Hunlaf, I’d rather be eating, than getting punched in the face.”
Twenty-Seven
True to Tannskári’s word, that night we feasted. There was fresh bread, fish stew, a rich mutton pottage, soft cheese, dark smoky ham and freshly brewed ale that carried a hint of the sea air and red clover in its gruit. There was also strong, sweet mead in copious supply. Tannskári was a generous host and there was more than enough to go round, despite the vast number of mouths to feed.
Runolf was happy with the repairs and seemed confident that we could sail on the first tide in the morning. Lord Mancas was less pleased with the amount of silver Tannskári had demanded for his aid, but he had grudgingly paid the price, agreeing that we would also take on some extra provisions for no further charge. I did not know how much silver Mancas had been forced to pay, but judging from the boards that creaked beneath the weight of platters and jugs, I judged that Tannskári had come out the better for the deal.
With Brymsteda’s steerboard fixed and the ship’s stores and water barrels replenished, there was a building excitement about the crew that we would soon put to sea once more. After the storm we had endured, there was some disquiet too, but the men were enjoying the food and drink, and the bustle of the hall before setting out again on our mission.
My legs ached from the race with Varin, and Bealdwulf’s face was swollen and already darkening with bruises. But the trials and contests of the day had been a welcome diversion for most of the crew and, apart from some banter and light-hearted arguing over wagers, there had been no real conflict between the people of Orkneyjar and Brymsteda’s crew.
Glancing along the benches, to the far end, nearest the door, I saw Drosten, almost concealed in the shadows. There could be no better indication of the warming of relations between the crew and the Norsemen of the hall, than to see the Pict here, enjoying Tannskári’s hospitality. When I had noticed the tattooed man entering the hall just before the feast had begun, I’d asked Runolf what had happened to change his mind.
Runolf had shrugged. Even though it had been early, he had already drained several mugs of ale. He looked tired, the hard work of the day and the stress of the previous day’s sailing showing in the dark smudges beneath his eyes.
“It was Mancas’ doing really,” he said.
“How so?”