Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (12 page)

“People actually pay good coin for
that?”
Alinor turned her nose up with disdain.

Many people addressed Tykir by name as they passed, and a few came up and clapped him heartily on the shoulder in welcome. They gave almost no attention to the fact that she was bound to him with rope, but they did stare at her backside. Rurik, or Bolthor, or the seamen from Tykir’s ships must have already spread witchly tales of her tail. No doubt the passersby deemed her a personal thrall, or a slave about to be sold in Hedeby.

In fact, on one street, Alinor saw a group of chained men and one woman being led toward a large structure with a wide yard. The men were of dark complexion, possibly of Moorish background, but the woman’s skin was pale. Her wails of anguish rose above the din of the crowds as she told her beads and sang psalms aloud in the Frankish tongue.

“Oh, blessed Lord!” Alinor cried. “That woman could very well be a nun.” She attempted to rush forward to offer aid but was pulled back short by her restraint.

“You will not interfere,” Tykir said firmly. “’Tis none of your affair.”

“But…but she is clearly a woman of religious conviction…a Christian.”

He arched a brow at that. “Ah, so you are saying that it is acceptable for only non-Christians to be slaves?”

“That is not what I am saying.”
Is it?

“Nay?” he inquired mockingly. “Then you must be implying that your fellow Christians do not keep slaves.”

“Well, yea, they do, but—”

“Slavery is a fact of life in every land. Accept what cannot be changed,” he advised.

Alinor would have argued that point with Tykir, except that an even more outrageous event was taking place before the eyes of one and all. In the courtyard of the slave mart, where dozens of slaves were restrained in chains or tied to vertical posts in the ground, a young woman was being offered for sale. But worse than that, her clothing had been stripped from her body and the prospective buyer, a seamen—mayhap even from one of Tykir’s ships—was examining her intimately. All the while, he was being encouraged by the guffawing crowd of men.

Tykir dragged her away from the scene, cursing under his breath at her kicks to his shins and her attempts to scratch him with her free hand. When they were far enough away from the slave mart, Tykir slammed her up against the side of a building and used their bound hands as a brace against her neck. “I’m going to release my hand from your mouth now, and if you so much as let a whisper escape your lips before I am done talking to you, you will be next in line at the slave mart. This I swear on my father’s grave. Furthermore, whilst my men may have avoided you and your witchly aura like the bloody flux, there are many men who would pay highly for the unique privilege of tumbling a sorceress. Do not doubt my word on that. Are you listening to me, you stubborn witch?”

She nodded her head, fighting back tears of pain at the constricting press of his forearm against her neck.

“You are not in your own land, foolish lady. Nor in mine. What you see and hear may not be to your taste, but no one—least of all me—bloody well cares. I can protect you whilst here…to a limit. If you step over that line, you are on your own.” He inhaled sharply, as if to
control his roiling temper. His smoldering eyes met hers. “Have I made myself clear?”

She nodded again, and he released his arm. Her knees felt soft as butter, and she almost sank to the ground. Tykir caught her with a hand on each side of her waist.

In the distance, she could hear the continued sound of male laughter and a woman’s scream.

“Come,” he said, more gently now. “There is an ale house over there, which I recall to be reasonably clean. We will have a cup of mead and a plateful of
gammelost.”

She refused to laugh at his rough attempt at jest. Never would she forget that scene at the slave mart, but she couldn’t really blame Tykir for failing to intervene. Slaves were sold in Britain, as well, though she’d never witnessed it firsthand. At the back of her mind was the thought,
It could be me.

Alinor thought she wouldn’t be able to drink or eat, but she had been wrong. Despite her horror at what she’d witnessed, the mead tasted cool and honey-rich. And she ate three thick slices of warm manchet bread, their centers hollowed out halfway and swimming with chunks of rabbit and leeks in a thick broth.

Afterwards, Tykir led her through the craftsmen’s quarters.

A woodworker, maneuvering a foot-treadled pole lathe, was making cups from solid pieces of wood. As the wood spun around, the woodworker held a chisel that gouged and shaped the bowl of the cup.

“This is Sone the Woodworker,” Tykir told her. Then he addressed the craftsman. “Have you completed the items I commissioned last spring?”

“Yea,” Sone said, nodding enthusiastically. He led them to the back of his shop, where two armchairs and a matching side table sat, all intricately carved in the Viking
style with gripping dragon beasts interwoven with the more traditional motif of vining acanthus leaves.

Tykir paid the woodworker with coins from a pouch he carried at his belt and gave directions for the furniture to be delivered to one of his ships.

At another stall, a leatherworker was making boots, shoes, belts and sheaths for knives. The stench of the tanned hides being stretched and processed behind his property took any pleasure out of inspecting his products, to Alinor’s mind.

Tykir laughed at her when she crinkled her nose with distaste. “Living as you do amongst animals on your estate, I would have thought you’d be accustomed to such earthy smells.”

“In Coppergate, ’tis a common sight to see skins cured with chicken dung. That does not mean I have to relish the odor.”

He laughed again, and it was with much alacrity that they moved on to the comb maker, where a skilled artisan carved his product out of the antlers of a red deer. Once he had the comb itself cut out, he used a fine saw to form the teeth. Finally he decorated his wares. There were also craftsmen working in other types of bone, making ice skates, knife handles, spindle whorls, dice and playing pieces. “I have a herdsman at Dragonstead with an even finer talent for carving,” Tykir told her in an undertone, and bought nothing.

Dragonstead,
Alinor thought. Tykir had previously mentioned to her the name of his estate in Norway. Now that she knew him better, she deemed the title fitting. Big lumbering beast who blows hot air.

Next, they stopped to watch a jewelry maker melting gold and silver and other less precious metals in small crucibles. He poured the molten metal into stone molds,
and it was like magic watching the liquid cool into shiny brooches or coins, with the patterns already on them. Especially interesting to Alinor were the fine filigree pendants he was working into delicate designs, like gold or silver spiderwebs. Some jewelry makers, whose booths they visited next, displayed samples of beautiful ornaments made of amber, ivory, jet and silver. And many of the jewelers carried the colored beads that were so prized by the Viking women…not to be worn as neckrings, but as signs of affluence, strung between the utilitarian brooches that rested on either shoulder, holding needle, thread, miniature scissors and keys. The more beads, the wealthier the woman.

“Oooh!” Alinor sighed again and again when they came upon the gossamer-thin silks from the Orient, patterned fabrics called brocades from Byzantium, soapstone products from the Norse lands, rich furs of sable, fox and the rare white bear from the Baltic, Frankish glass of jewel-like colors and swords with ornate hilts, millstones of basalt from the Rhineland, quern stones from Koblenz and fanciful harness mounts and jingly spurs from the dark-eyed Saracen craftsmen.

Tykir smiled at her unrestrained appreciation for such frivolous objects. “You should see my treasure room at Dragonstead,” he boasted.

“Will I see your treasure room at Dragonstead?” she asked.

“Nay, but you
should
see my treasure room at Dragonstead,” he corrected. “These baubles that impress you so here,” he said, fingering a length of gold-threaded silk, “are naught compared to my collection.”

What an arrogant, overbearing, prideful man! I will see his home, and then he will return me to my home,
she decided with an emphatic uplifting of her chin.
He is my
guardian Viking angel, no matter what he says.

In the back of Alinor’s mind, however, lingered the image of the naked slave girl, and Tykir doing naught to help.
He will not stand back and let Anlaf harm my person. He surely will not.

In many stalls could be seen the strong ropes made of walrus or seal skin that were popular with seamen. “Look at that,” Tykir said, picking up a huge length of strangely twisted rope. He explained how it was made, by cutting the beast’s hide in a single continuous strip, in a spiral, from the shoulder to the tail. Tykir bought three of the ropes—all that the craftsman had on hand—and ordered three more to be picked up next fall.

But there were even more wondrous sights to behold, including live birds in gilt cages and collections of bird feathers, which fascinated Alinor to no end, till finally Tykir pulled her away with a laugh.

“Someday you may meet Abdul, the talksome parrot I gave to Eadyth as a wedding gift.” The secretive smile on his face bespoke some mischief, but all Alinor could think of was his implication once again of life for her beyond Anlaf’s court.

“Better yet, I should show you the collection of bird feathers I purchased from a Baghdad sultan who was disbanding his harem. There are at least fifty different feathers, of all sizes and textures, in their own satin-lined chest of gold.” The mischievous smile grew more mischievous.

“I never could see the sense of collecting useless objects. My brother Egbert collected rocks as a youthling. Rocks, I tell you. And Hebert collected birds’ eggs. One of them was rotten and it took three sennights to get the stink from his bedchamber.”

Tykir smiled at her sudden sharing of tidbits from her personal life.

Her curiosity got the better of her then. “What use would there be for feathers in a harem?”

Tykir laughed aloud and nudged her playfully in the side with his elbow. “Alinor, Alinor. For a thrice-widowed, worldly woman, your innocence astounds me.”

“I never claimed to be worldly,” she blustered, and elbow-jabbed him back.

They moved on, comfortable with the silence between them.

Many different accents and languages could be heard as the customers and merchants argued over price and quality. Instead of coin or barter, most of the buyers used hack silver for their purchases—pieces of silver that could be cut and weighed on collapsible bronze scales. The merchants were often seen scratching the pieces to make sure they were pure silver before putting them on the scale.

She could see that Tykir was amused by her amazement at the scene. He smiled as he said, “Most Viking wealth comes from trading, as you see here. Not pillaging and war.”

In truth, the Norse traders
were
well-dressed and well-behaved and prosperous. Just like their Saxon counterparts in Jorvik. Oh, some of the seamen looked as if they might engage in a bit of plundering and pillaging on occasion, like the rapist back at the slave mart, but in this more peaceful setting, she could find no fault.

Tykir stopped abruptly, and Alinor realized that they’d arrived at his residence and place of business. He put a finger to his lips, cautioning silence, as he perused the workings of his enterprise from a short distance away. His long house was one of the larger designs in Hedeby, framed with wattle and daub and roofed with thatch. Its roof extended forward in the front about two ells to form a permanent canopy for the trading wares.

Beast, realizing that they were not moving on, dropped to the ground under the table near Alinor’s feet, with his muzzle propped on his front paws, and immediately fell asleep. She and Tykir watched the goings-on at his booth, which held a tantalizing array of amber in all its forms…from the raw stone to finely crafted jewelry.

A huge dark-haired Viking man wearing a full-length cloak of wolfskin pelts, drawn back off one shoulder with a silver pennanular brooch, was examining some jewelry set out on the table before him. Waiting on him, behind the table, was a young man of no more than fifteen. To the side of the building, with her back to them, sat a woman using fine cutting and abrasion tools and polishing cloths to fashion lumps of raw amber into workable sizes and shapes. A guard, arms crossed over his wide chest, stood beside the open doorway of the house, watching over the youth and the woman and the expensive wares.

“This would suit Drifa, my first wife,” the customer said, taking a string of amber beads in his big pawlike hands.

“A good choice,” the boy exclaimed. “See how the beads are of uniform size and color. And they are strung on the finest silk thread, with knots betwixt each bead to prevent chipping.”

The Viking nodded. “I will take that. And Grima, my second wife, should favor the pendant over there…yea, that’s the one…seeing as how she already has enough glass beads to prove my wealth.” As an afterthought, he added, “But the beads and the pendant must be of equal value, lest I have to listen to their jealous bickerings all winter long.” The pendant he chose was an oval filigree frame containing a pale yellow stone, hanging from a dainty silver chain.

“Your two wives will be well pleased, I assure you,”
the boy said, his eyes twinkling with delight at the two sales.

“Hah! Think you that I only have two wives? You do not know much about a Norseman’s virility if you think one woman would satisfy. Three more wives have I besides Drifa and Grima, not to mention five wives long buried.” He winked at the boy. “Hard swiving wears down some weak-sapped women.”

The boy clearly restrained himself from smiling widely with anticipation at the prospect of additional sales.

“My helpers get a commission on each sale,” Tykir whispered in her ear. To Alinor’s dismay, she felt the rippling effect of his breath all the way to her toes…and some disconcerting place in between. “’Tis an incentive for them to work harder.”