anger. ‘All I want is to be left alone. We trade now with the Danes, you know. Better for us than fighting them ever was. And this is where Mercia ends. Right here. Me.’ He banged himself on the chest.
His mother, clearing more dirty dishes, coughed and spat on the grass.
‘You, indeed,’ she said.
‘Now, mother …’ Heremod’s voice had a warning note.
She shook her head.
‘Mercia ends with me, boy,’ she told him.
Heremod turned back to Wulfgar, rolling his eyes, inviting sympathy.
Wulfgar noted he didn’t correct her, though.
‘I could show you a Dane called Thorleikr,’ Heremod said in a low voice, ‘straight off the boat, who’s bought land not five miles east from here, hard by Dunchurch. Oh yes,’ in response to Wulfgar’s curious look, ‘
bought it
. From a Mercian. No land-grab there. Well over on the English side of Watling Street. But Thorleikr looks across the line to Leicester for lordship. Leicester’s a damn sight closer than you might think, and it’s getting closer all the time.’
Heremod’s eyes flickered along the length of the hall and Wulfgar shifted to follow his gaze. While his host’s thatch was new enough still to be yellow, the massive earth-fast timbers, the mainstays of the wall, were singed black, even charred in places. ‘You see what I mean?’ his host asked.
Wulfgar nodded soberly.
‘We’ve built it up again,’ Heremod said. ‘Once the carrion crows find your flock they’ll never quite give up.’ He sighed. ‘But I must admit there’s law in Leicester now. Good law.’
Wulfgar found himself sitting up.
‘You mean, you go to Leicester? Often?’ He could hear the echo of the Atheling’s voice:
Find Hakon Grimsson in Leicester
…
His host offered him a sideways glance.
‘How much do I admit to a servant of the Lady’s?’
‘I’ve eaten your bread,’ Wulfgar protested.
‘And, clarnet that I am, I already told you we trade across Watling Street. With what’s left to us after we’ve paid our taxes south. In good English coin that gets harder to find every year.’ His eyes flared with anger then. ‘I’m as loyal as the next man, mind on. But you tell them south that squeezing us dry here on the border and never letting us have sight of them is no way to wield men’s loyalties. What do they expect me to do next time raiders come? Run to
Gloucester
, with mother on my back?’ His tone had curdled. ‘How much longer do I keep faith with a Lord I never see? You tell him that.’ He pushed the mead jug across the table to his guest and sat back, arms folded.
‘I’ll tell him,’ Wulfgar said, sorry for the way the talk had gone, his head hurting more than ever now. He wondered if he would ever have the chance to speak with the Lord of the Mercians again. ‘Taxes are even higher in Wessex, you know.’ Oh, this headache. He reached unthinking for the mead-jug and his elbow jogged his cup off the table to smash on the cobbles. ‘Oh, no!’
It lay under the bench in half a dozen pieces.
‘Heremod, I’m so sorry.’ He bent to pick up the larger fragments. Far beyond mending. ‘I’d just been thinking how lovely it was, and what an honour that you should bring these out for us.’ He held the biggest shard up to the last long rays of sunlight, looking at the way the light penetrated the glaze. ‘We’ve nothing so fine at court. The Lady has a fondness for Frankish glass, but—’
However, to Wulfgar’s astonishment, Heremod dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand.
‘We trade for them in Leicester. We’ve enough and to spare.’ As though to prove the truth of his words, a slave-girl had already come forward with a replacement, just as prettily glazed, and Heremod’s mother then filled it with mead that Wulfgar didn’t really want, not now. Heremod leaned forward, a light in his eyes. ‘Do you think folk in Worcester, or Gloucester, would take a fancy to them?’ he asked. ‘I can get you plenty. I’ll show
His mother, clearing more dirty dishes, coughed and spat on the grass.
‘You, indeed,’ she said.
‘Now, mother …’ Heremod’s voice had a warning note.
She shook her head.
‘Mercia ends with me, boy,’ she told him.
Heremod turned back to Wulfgar, rolling his eyes, inviting sympathy.
Wulfgar noted he didn’t correct her, though.
‘I could show you a Dane called Thorleikr,’ Heremod said in a low voice, ‘straight off the boat, who’s bought land not five miles east from here, hard by Dunchurch. Oh yes,’ in response to Wulfgar’s curious look, ‘
bought it
. From a Mercian. No land-grab there. Well over on the English side of Watling Street. But Thorleikr looks across the line to Leicester for lordship. Leicester’s a damn sight closer than you might think, and it’s getting closer all the time.’
Heremod’s eyes flickered along the length of the hall and Wulfgar shifted to follow his gaze. While his host’s thatch was new enough still to be yellow, the massive earth-fast timbers, the mainstays of the wall, were singed black, even charred in places. ‘You see what I mean?’ his host asked.
Wulfgar nodded soberly.
‘We’ve built it up again,’ Heremod said. ‘Once the carrion crows find your flock they’ll never quite give up.’ He sighed. ‘But I must admit there’s law in Leicester now. Good law.’
Wulfgar found himself sitting up.
‘You mean, you go to Leicester? Often?’ He could hear the echo of the Atheling’s voice:
Find Hakon Grimsson in Leicester
…
His host offered him a sideways glance.
‘How much do I admit to a servant of the Lady’s?’
‘I’ve eaten your bread,’ Wulfgar protested.
‘And, clarnet that I am, I already told you we trade across Watling Street. With what’s left to us after we’ve paid our taxes south. In good English coin that gets harder to find every year.’ His eyes flared with anger then. ‘I’m as loyal as the next man, mind on. But you tell them south that squeezing us dry here on the border and never letting us have sight of them is no way to wield men’s loyalties. What do they expect me to do next time raiders come? Run to
Gloucester
, with mother on my back?’ His tone had curdled. ‘How much longer do I keep faith with a Lord I never see? You tell him that.’ He pushed the mead jug across the table to his guest and sat back, arms folded.
‘I’ll tell him,’ Wulfgar said, sorry for the way the talk had gone, his head hurting more than ever now. He wondered if he would ever have the chance to speak with the Lord of the Mercians again. ‘Taxes are even higher in Wessex, you know.’ Oh, this headache. He reached unthinking for the mead-jug and his elbow jogged his cup off the table to smash on the cobbles. ‘Oh, no!’
It lay under the bench in half a dozen pieces.
‘Heremod, I’m so sorry.’ He bent to pick up the larger fragments. Far beyond mending. ‘I’d just been thinking how lovely it was, and what an honour that you should bring these out for us.’ He held the biggest shard up to the last long rays of sunlight, looking at the way the light penetrated the glaze. ‘We’ve nothing so fine at court. The Lady has a fondness for Frankish glass, but—’
However, to Wulfgar’s astonishment, Heremod dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand.
‘We trade for them in Leicester. We’ve enough and to spare.’ As though to prove the truth of his words, a slave-girl had already come forward with a replacement, just as prettily glazed, and Heremod’s mother then filled it with mead that Wulfgar didn’t really want, not now. Heremod leaned forward, a light in his eyes. ‘Do you think folk in Worcester, or Gloucester, would take a fancy to them?’ he asked. ‘I can get you plenty. I’ll show
Similar Books
