‘That’s enough! Stop there!’ The taller of the two red-cloaked men called as we neared the tavern door. We stopped obediently. The two men were standing under a porch and seemed amused that we were forced to wait in the pelting rain. ‘And what’s your business here?’ the taller man demanded.

‘We need shelter, lord,’ Gerbruht said.

‘I’m no lord. And ships pay for shelter here,’ the man said. He was tall, broad-faced, with a thick beard cut short and square. He wore mail beneath his red cloak, had an enamelled cross on his chest and a long-sword at his side. He looked confident and capable.

‘Of course, master,’ Gerbruht said humbly. ‘Do we pay you, master?’

‘Of course you pay me, I’m the town reeve. It’s three shillings.’ He held out his hand.

Gerbruht was not my quickest thinker and he just gaped, which was the right response to the outrageous demand. ‘Three shillings!’ I said. ‘We only pay a shilling in Lundene!’

The man smiled unpleasantly. ‘Three shillings, grandpa. Or do you want my men to search your miserable boat and take what we want?’

‘Of course not, master,’ Gerbruht found his voice. ‘Pay him,’ he ordered me.

I took the coins from a pouch and held them towards the man. ‘Bring it to me, you old fool,’ the man demanded.

‘Yes, master,’ I said and limped through a puddle.

‘And who are you?’ he demanded, scooping the silver from my palm.

‘His father,’ I said, nodding back towards Gerbruht.

‘We’re pilgrims from Frisia, master,’ Gerbruht explained, ‘and my father seeks the blessing of Saint Gregory’s slippers at Contwaraburg.’

‘I do,’ I said. I had hidden my hammer amulet beneath my mail, but both my companions were Christians and wore crosses at their necks. The wind was tearing at the tavern’s thatch and swinging the barrel sign dangerously. The rain was unrelenting.

‘God damn Frisian foreigners,’ the tall man said suspiciously. ‘And pilgrims? Since when do pilgrims wear mail?’

‘The warmest clothes we have, master,’ Gerbruht said.

‘And there are Danish ships at sea,’ I added.

The man sneered. ‘You’re too old to fight anyone, grandpa, let alone take on some Danish raider!’ He looked back to Gerbruht. ‘You’re looking for holy slippers?’ he asked mockingly.

‘A touch of Saint Gregory’s slippers cures the sick, master,’ Gerbruht said, ‘and my father suffers ague in his feet.’

‘You’ve brought a lot of pilgrims to cure one old man’s feet!’ the man said suspiciously, nodding towards Spearhafoc.

‘They’re mostly slaves, master,’ Gerbruht said, ‘and some of them we’ll sell in Lundene.’

The man still stared at Spearhafoc, but my crew was either slumped on the benches or huddling under the steering platform, and in the day’s dull light and because of the sheeting rain he could not tell whether they were slaves or not. ‘You’re slave-traders?’

‘We are,’ I said.

‘Then there’s customs duty to pay! How many slaves?’

‘Thirty, master,’ I said.

He paused. I could see he was wondering how much he dared ask. ‘Fifteen shillings,’ he finally said, thrusting out a hand. This time I just gaped at him, and he put a hand on his sword hilt. ‘Fifteen shillings,’ he said slowly, as if he suspected a Frisian could not understand him, ‘or we confiscate your cargo.’