Finan chuckled. The Irishman was no seaman, but he recognised a clumsy display of ship handling when he saw it. The slaving ship drifted and struck, pinned against the wreck, and with no one on the wharf to take the lines. ‘Ælfrin!’ the steersman shouted towards us. ‘Ælfrin, you lazy bastard! Come here!’ Ælfrin, we had learned, had commanded the guards left at the yard and was the first man I had killed. By now his body was somewhere downriver, presumably stranded on a mudbank where the gulls would be feasting on his bloated corpse.

One man had to struggle across the half sunken wreck, taking the bitter end of a line, then walk around to the empty wharf where he hauled the ship’s bow into the western wharf. He tied off the line, then caught a second line hurled from the stern and so pulled the ship into its berth. The oarsmen were slumped on their benches. I could see blood on some backs. My own back still carried the scars.

‘Ælfrin!’ the steersman bellowed towards us, and again there was no answer. I heard a muttered curse, then the clattering sound of heavy oars being stowed amidships. One of the crewmen was unshackling the rowers on the two benches nearest the prow and I remembered my days on the Trader, the slave-driven ship where Finan and I had been chained to a bench, and how cautious the crew was when it came time to unshackle us. We were released two at a time and escorted by men with whips and swords to whatever hovel would be our home. It seemed Gunnald’s son was just as cautious. Another crewman made sure the two berthing lines were well secured, then added a third.

‘Let’s go,’ I said.

I had deliberately waited until the ship was firmly tied to the wharf so it could not back out into the current when the crew saw us. Now, with three lines lashed down, it was too late for them to escape. Nor did they even try. The fair-haired man who had made such a mess of docking the ship just stood at the stern and stared at us. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted.

‘Lord Varin’s men,’ I called back, strolling down the wharf.

‘Who in God’s name is Lord Varin?’

‘The man who captured the city,’ I said, ‘welcome to East Anglia.’

That confused him and he still just gazed at us as we came closer. Our swords were sheathed and we seemed to be in no hurry. ‘Where’s my father?’ he asked, finding his voice again.

‘Is he the fat fellow?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s somewhere,’ I said vaguely. ‘What are you carrying?’

‘Carrying?’

‘What cargo?’

‘Nothing.’

‘We were told you sold slaves in Frankia. Did you give them away?’

‘Of course not!’

‘So you got paid?’ I asked, standing by the ship’s stern.

Lyfing Gunnaldson saw where the questions were leading and looked uncomfortable. ‘We were paid,’ he muttered.

‘Then your cargo is money!’ I said cheerfully. ‘Bring it ashore.’