The Conquest

'Wait!' shouted their leader gruffly. 'Ulf does speak for himself.'

Rolf stopped and looked over his shoulder, but he did not turn his horse lest he appear too eager. 'Then where is he?'

The warrior lowered his axe. 'I will take you to him,' he said. 'He is my father. Come.' He gestured with the haft of the weapon.

Rolf exchanged glances with his men. He knew that they might well be riding into a trap from which they would never emerge save as butchered corpses. What had the rapid conversation been about? Nothing gambled, nothing gained. He dismounted.

The palisade guarded some fifteen dwellings. The stakes would not have kept a serious attacker at bay, being more of a territory marker than anything else. The paths between the houses were thick with winter mud. Straw had been thrown down to make rough walkways through the morass. The houses were made of timber, the spaces between the spars filled in with crude daub plaster. Their roofs were thatched; some in good repair, some in a state of mossy dilapidation. The axe warrior led Rolf to one of the larger and sturdier buildings. Its walls were constructed of stout timber logs and there were even carvings on the gable ends.

'You can rest your horses in yonder barn,' said red-beard.

Not without some misgivings, Rolf delivered his reins to his groom.

The warrior stooped under the lintel, and drawing aside a heavy curtain, entered the house, ushering Rolf and his men within. Then, without another word, he left. Rolf was not reassured. He knew full well that they had been invited into the village because their leader had decided that it was unsafe to let them leave. He also knew with the sharpness of instinct that in one of the other huts their fate was about to be discussed by the rest of the villagers. All this crossed his mind in the time it took to strike spark from steel, and then his attention was occupied by the man who sat warming himself before the hearth, his splinted and bandaged leg resting upon a stool.

His long grey hair was bound back from his brow by a woven band of scarlet and gold wool and his eyes were bright and shrewd as he inspected Rolf and his men.

'Are you Ulf the Horse-trader?' Rolf asked, approaching him. As he advanced into the room, a movement caught his eye and he saw a young woman sitting at a table skinning a hare, two copper-haired children at her side.

'Who seeks me?' The voice was a hoarse growl, which owed more to a winter ague than permanent nature, Rolf thought.

'Rolf the Horse-trader from southern parts,' he replied. 'I desire to buy sumpter ponies of the highest quality to breed on my own lands.'

'Hah, the south is soft!' The older man rubbed his leg. Now that he was closer to him, Rolf could discern dingy streaks of red among the grey locks. 'Your accent is not that of a south Saxon,' Ulf added suspiciously. 'I've met enough of them in my time.'

'It is Norman,' Rolf said, taking a gamble. He had no doubt that a charade was being played out here, that he was being tested. It was inconceivable that Ulf had not been told of their visitors when the village had been roused to arms. 'I trade in war stallions, but there is a need too for sturdy pack animals. I was told in York that I could obtain them from you.'

'Norman, eh?' Ulf said, more than half to himself. 'A breeder of warhorses.' He looked Rolf up and down. 'Why don't you stay on your own lands instead of meddling with what is ours?'

Rolf could have mouthed the standard reply that the crown of England belonged to William of Normandy as of right, but it had not been his own reason for crossing the narrow sea. And having seen Ulf's son and the manner of Ulf's dress, he knew the right answer to give. 'I am a Viking at heart.'

The small eyes narrowed and Ulf rubbed his broken leg faster. Again his gaze probed at Rolf, and fastened upon the various objects he wore around his neck – the cross, the red toadstone, and the hammer of Thor. Then he came to a decision, and shouted over to the woman. 'Inga, bring bread and ale for our guests, and fetch the bacon flitch from the store.'

The woman wiped her hands on her apron and rose from the trestle. Two plaits of shining, wheat-silver hair rippled from beneath her kerchief. Rolf watched her, reminded of Ailith. Without being aware, he touched the horse clasp pinning his cloak.

'My daughter-in-law,' Ulf said sharply as he saw Rolf's scrutiny. 'And my son is a proud and jealous man.'

'If I was staring, it was because she reminded me of someone close to my heart,' Rolf said and immediately dropped his gaze.

Ulf grunted. 'I said that your accent was not south Saxon, but still, you speak the language well for a foreigner.'

'Sometimes words will unlock a door where a sword will only snap off in the keyhole,' Rolf said, and thought of the times that he and Ailith had sat before the hearth, each learning the other's language, exasperated and delighted by turns.

'Aye, I suppose it is more diplomatic to oil a lock with a long tongue than it is to thrust a sword in it, but I have no trust in empty words. Rather the truth of the sword than a larding of falsehood.'

'Amen to that. I bring good silver with which to trade.'

Ulf sucked his teeth and nodded slowly. 'You are either a very brave or a very foolish man. We are not dullards or cowards to be duped or frightened into giving you what you desire. It may be that you will not leave here alive.'

'I have felt so much in my gut,' Rolf agreed. 'But you have given me the protection of this house by offering me food and drink. The laws of hospitality are sacred. And I judge to look at this place that you are not only Ulf the Horse-trader, but Ulf the Thegn, the leader of this village. Your people will do as you bid them.'

Amusement glinted in the deep-set eyes. 'You are wily, Norman,' Ulf conceded. 'It will be a pleasure to bargain with you over the animals you desire to buy, but you should temper your confidence. My leg is broken, and for the moment my son Beorn wears the mantle of leadership.'

The woman returned with a woven basket containing flat loaves and a shallow wooden bowl holding fatty slices carved from a bacon flitch. Her daughter bore a pitcher of ale with laborious care, and the boy carried yet another container that held a collection of drinking cups, their wood still dark and damp from having been recently washed. With lowered eyes, the woman set about serving the men. Rolf studiously avoided looking at her, but he was aware of her presence nevertheless. Ulf eyed him. 'My son fought the Norwegians at Stamford Bridge, and he fought the Normans far to the south,' he said.

'He was one of the fortunate ones, he managed to escape in the confusion at dusk when King Harold fell. I am told that we have a Norman overlord now, but we have never seen him. As far as we are concerned, the north is still free.'

Rolf made the sign of the Cross over the bread in an absent-minded fashion born of automatic habit, accepted a sprinkle of coarse salt as he broke the crust, and returned Ulf's piercing glance. 'Your son Beorn, he greeted our party in full battle-kit?'

Ulf's expression was suddenly cautious. 'What of it?'

'He must have been dressed that way before we came. There was no time for him to arm up between the swineherd crying the alarm and our arrival. Surely he does not keep order in the village by wearing a mail coat and brandishing a battle axe?'

'My son thinks you are a spy from the Norman army. We hear that one has crossed the Humber.'

'Indeed it has. I travelled with it for protection along the way.' Rolf tried to sound nonchalant as he helped himself to a chunk of the greasy bacon. It tasted much better than it looked.

'You need have no fear,' he added with a brief glance at the woman, who had stiffened and drawn her children into her arms. 'They will not approach this village. Indeed, their commander told me that I was mad to leave the beaten track and seek you out.'