‘Sick?’

‘Fever.’

‘Most of the lads are sweating like pigs,’ Finan added to my story, ‘and the slaves too. A couple of them are already dead.’

The man took another backwards step, as did the two soldiers. Both of the mailed men looked strong and confident, but even the most confident warrior who had experienced the hell of shield walls feared the plague. Finan feared it too and, doubtless remembering the rumours of sickness in the north, made the sign of the cross.

‘Did Lord Varin send you?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ the under-steward said. ‘We couldn’t send any in the last two weeks because the pretty boy’s men were in charge, but things are normal again now.’

‘For Christ’s sake, hurry,’ one of the soldiers growled.

‘So Gunnald hired you?’ the under-steward asked me.

I gestured towards the warehouse. ‘Go and ask him.’

‘He’s sweating too,’ Finan said, ‘God preserve him.’

‘Four shillings,’ the man said, evidently tired of the conversation. He beckoned at the handcart. ‘Just pay and take the barrels.’

‘I thought it was just two?’ Finan had the wit to bargain. ‘Gunnald said two shillings.’

One of the soldiers stepped towards us. ‘Four shillings,’ he snarled. ‘They hired the two of us to keep your damned food safe, so the price has gone up. Four shillings.’

I felt into my rapidly diminishing pouch, gave the under-steward four shillings, and helped Finan and Vidarr carry the two barrels into the yard. They stank.

‘Next week!’ the under-steward said. He gave a shilling each to the two soldiers, kept two for himself, then all four walked away.

I closed and barred the gates. ‘What was that about?’ I asked.

Finan made a noise of disgust. He had levered the lid from one barrel that was two thirds full of cloudy ale. He dipped a finger and tasted. ‘Sour,’ he said, ‘tastes worse than badger piss.’

‘You’d know?’ Vidarr asked.

Finan ignored that, opening the second barrel and recoiling as the stench in the yard worsened. ‘Sweet Jesus! We paid silver for this?’

I crossed to the two barrels and saw that the second one was half full of meat, which I thought was pork, though this pork was riddled with rancid fat and crawling with maggots. ‘Gunnald did say he fed them meat,’ I muttered.

‘Is that tree bark?’ Finan was bending over the barrel and poking the rotten meat with a finger. ‘The bastards mixed this with bark!’

I rammed the lid back into place. ‘Where do they get this filth?’

The answer was given by one of the captured guards who told us that Gunnald had an arrangement with the palace steward who sold unused ale and food to feed the slaves. ‘The women cook it in the kitchen,’ he said.

‘They won’t cook that,’ I said and ordered the barrel’s contents to be pitched into the river. The captured guard told us more, that Gunnald’s son had taken slaves to Frankia and that the ship had been gone now for three days. ‘Did he go to buy slaves too?’ I asked.