you.’ He dismissed the girl to fetch some more cups with a pat to her rump.
‘Winchester, even,’ Wulfgar said, nodding. ‘My mother would have loved these.’ An idea was beginning to glimmer through the fog of his headache. ‘Do you know a man in Leicester called Hakon Grimsson?’
Heremod whistled softly.
‘Hakon
Toad
? Our – their jarl, you mean? You don’t mess about, do you?’ His face was shuttered, cautious, now. ‘If you want a share of the pottery trade, or anything else in Leicester, you’ll have to deal with the Grimssons sooner rather than later. But a bit lower down the ladder might be a happier place to start.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Wulfgar said. ‘I’d heard the name, that’s all.’ He tried to settle his aching rump more comfortably but the bench was too hard.
Heremod looked down at his fingernails, and then up at Wulfgar.
‘The Grimssons are old Great Army men. Brothers. Hakon Toad – he’s the elder, the Jarl. Ketil Scar, he’s the little brother, and a much nastier piece of work. The last I heard from Leicester, a fortnight back, is that Hakon had taken sick. But he runs as tight a ship in Leicester as he ever did.’
Toad? Scar? Hardly reassuring eke-names.
‘Are they heathens?’
Heremod had the grace to turn his laugh into a cough.
‘Hakon’s been baptised. Rumour has it Ketil, too. And Hakon shows his ugly face at church from time to time. Or so I hear. But I wouldn’t count on them keeping those promises, or any others.’
Drops of mead were drying, sticky, sunlit, on the cobbles among the shattered fragments of the yellow cup, but the wind had sharp teeth.
Wulfgar had an unsettling vision of a little snarling animal, nipping at his nape. A stoat, maybe. A polecat … He pulled his cloak more snugly around his shoulders. It kept the chill wind at bay but not the fears which were racking him.
Why would an Atheling of Wessex call a man like Hakon Grimsson his friend? How
could
he? He can hardly have forgotten what the Great Army did to Wessex. I don’t remember, Wulfgar thought, as it was around the time I was born. But the Atheling was – what – seven when Wareham was sacked? And then Exeter, and Chippenham a couple of years later. Rochester, too, I think. And I know he fought in the battle of Farnham, everyone knows that.
Heremod leaned forward suddenly, elbows on the table, and looked him hard in the eye.
‘Wulfgar, you tell your Lady and her Lord this. I’m as loyal a Mercian as I can be. But I won’t look to Wessex for lordship. And I’m not alone.’
‘You mean …’
Heremod shook his head, but Wulfgar could hear his unspoken words.
If Wessex takes Mercia, men like me will turn to the Danes for protection
. He closed his eyes. And where is that going to leave the Lady? Unsupported. Defenceless. Unwanted. An embarrassment to her brother.
He knew the most likely outcome.
The nunnery in Winchester.
Or the knife in the dark.
It’s happened often enough before, Heaven knows. Men are ruthless to superfluous queens. He pressed the damp linen pad against his temple. St Oswald, dear St Oswald, come to her aid, he prayed silently. You’re in this with us. You need her alive and well and on your side. Pray for her. For me. For all of us.
The girl had brought out half a dozen more cups for him to look at – orange, and pale, creamy yellow, sage green and smoky blue – and was now engaged in sweeping up the broken shards.
‘I need to think about it,’ Heremod said, defensively. ‘Giving you a name in Leicester, I mean. I’ve got to look after my own interests, after all.’ His sweeping gesture took in the scorched timbers of his handsome hall, the raw wood of his fortifications, the outbuildings, the bustling slaves’ quarters, the stables and chicken house where a girl scattered grain, and the sheep-dotted fields beyond, noisy with the call and response of lambs and their mothers, all yellow where the long evening light was still
‘Winchester, even,’ Wulfgar said, nodding. ‘My mother would have loved these.’ An idea was beginning to glimmer through the fog of his headache. ‘Do you know a man in Leicester called Hakon Grimsson?’
Heremod whistled softly.
‘Hakon
Toad
? Our – their jarl, you mean? You don’t mess about, do you?’ His face was shuttered, cautious, now. ‘If you want a share of the pottery trade, or anything else in Leicester, you’ll have to deal with the Grimssons sooner rather than later. But a bit lower down the ladder might be a happier place to start.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Wulfgar said. ‘I’d heard the name, that’s all.’ He tried to settle his aching rump more comfortably but the bench was too hard.
Heremod looked down at his fingernails, and then up at Wulfgar.
‘The Grimssons are old Great Army men. Brothers. Hakon Toad – he’s the elder, the Jarl. Ketil Scar, he’s the little brother, and a much nastier piece of work. The last I heard from Leicester, a fortnight back, is that Hakon had taken sick. But he runs as tight a ship in Leicester as he ever did.’
Toad? Scar? Hardly reassuring eke-names.
‘Are they heathens?’
Heremod had the grace to turn his laugh into a cough.
‘Hakon’s been baptised. Rumour has it Ketil, too. And Hakon shows his ugly face at church from time to time. Or so I hear. But I wouldn’t count on them keeping those promises, or any others.’
Drops of mead were drying, sticky, sunlit, on the cobbles among the shattered fragments of the yellow cup, but the wind had sharp teeth.
Wulfgar had an unsettling vision of a little snarling animal, nipping at his nape. A stoat, maybe. A polecat … He pulled his cloak more snugly around his shoulders. It kept the chill wind at bay but not the fears which were racking him.
Why would an Atheling of Wessex call a man like Hakon Grimsson his friend? How
could
he? He can hardly have forgotten what the Great Army did to Wessex. I don’t remember, Wulfgar thought, as it was around the time I was born. But the Atheling was – what – seven when Wareham was sacked? And then Exeter, and Chippenham a couple of years later. Rochester, too, I think. And I know he fought in the battle of Farnham, everyone knows that.
Heremod leaned forward suddenly, elbows on the table, and looked him hard in the eye.
‘Wulfgar, you tell your Lady and her Lord this. I’m as loyal a Mercian as I can be. But I won’t look to Wessex for lordship. And I’m not alone.’
‘You mean …’
Heremod shook his head, but Wulfgar could hear his unspoken words.
If Wessex takes Mercia, men like me will turn to the Danes for protection
. He closed his eyes. And where is that going to leave the Lady? Unsupported. Defenceless. Unwanted. An embarrassment to her brother.
He knew the most likely outcome.
The nunnery in Winchester.
Or the knife in the dark.
It’s happened often enough before, Heaven knows. Men are ruthless to superfluous queens. He pressed the damp linen pad against his temple. St Oswald, dear St Oswald, come to her aid, he prayed silently. You’re in this with us. You need her alive and well and on your side. Pray for her. For me. For all of us.
The girl had brought out half a dozen more cups for him to look at – orange, and pale, creamy yellow, sage green and smoky blue – and was now engaged in sweeping up the broken shards.
‘I need to think about it,’ Heremod said, defensively. ‘Giving you a name in Leicester, I mean. I’ve got to look after my own interests, after all.’ His sweeping gesture took in the scorched timbers of his handsome hall, the raw wood of his fortifications, the outbuildings, the bustling slaves’ quarters, the stables and chicken house where a girl scattered grain, and the sheep-dotted fields beyond, noisy with the call and response of lambs and their mothers, all yellow where the long evening light was still
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