all the while Martin chattered about the storms and the news of Stord and how unfortunate it was that Hakon could not be gathered into the bosom of Christ as was proper, but no doubt God would overlook the heathen propensities of his followers and gather him anyway.
Which prompted a sharp response from Illugi Godi and then they were off into argument, leaving Einar and me behind. I listened with half an ear as Illugi tried to explain that the Vanir were not the same as the Aesir, were older gods and some, like Ull, were not much worshipped.
Einar. I caught him looking at me as I looked at him, and saw that his expensive silver cup was scarcely touched. Then I saw myself as he saw me, cheeks bulging with lamb, gravy on my chin, wild with the sheer, unbelievable sensuality of the whole affair.
I swallowed, sobered. Einar grinned and I followed his gaze to the arguing pair.
Illugi was in heated debate about the tale of Bishop Poppo and the wearing of the red-hot glove and Martin was smiling and answering him blandly.
Suddenly, as if a veil was whipped away, I saw, as I knew Einar did – had done since we arrived – that Martin was stalling. The wine, the food – even the argument – were all a feint, as when a man looks for an opening under a shield.
‘Where, then,’ Einar demanded, ‘is Brondolf?’
If he had hurled the silver cup to the polished wood of the floor he couldn’t have created more of a silence. Martin looked round, blinked and sighed.
‘I had hoped he would be here to tell you himself, but it seems that he has been caught up in events,’ the monk said in his gentle, accented voice. ‘Things are happening in the wider world – Bluetooth, for one – which have to be dealt with.’
‘What was in the saint’s box?’ asked Einar quietly.
Martin shrugged. He paused, then answered, ‘Bones. Some writings, but not what I had hoped.’ He rose and crossed to a small chest, opened it and took out a cloth bag, which chinked softly. ‘Brondolf is disappointed in me, I fear,’ he went on with a wry, deprecating smile, which twisted his face into a gargoyle mask for a moment. ‘He is now looking for more … practical … ways of restoring Birka’s fortunes, since my poor efforts have failed.’
‘And what were these poor efforts?’ asked Einar, leaning forward so that the black pillars of his hair framed his face, making it even more pale than usual, his eyes deep-sunk pools. I was reminded of Eyvind, who had seen Thought, Odin’s raven.
Martin spread his arms dismissively and smiled. ‘I thought I had found a great ikon of Christ, one which would have made a church in Birka a pilgrimage for Christians everywhere. It seems I was wrong.’
‘What was this ikon?’ asked Illugi. Einar’s dark-pool eyes never left Martin’s face and made it hard for the priest to broaden the smile. I knew, at that moment, he was lying and the vision of a great mountain of silver, Atil’s hoard, made my heart lurch. It could be real after all.
Martin spread his thin-fingered hands – stained with what seemed to be burn marks – and shrugged. ‘It scarcely matters, Illugi,’ he said smoothly. ‘You know how many there are. Like so many others, this turned out to be a fake. If you took all the knuckle-bones of St Otmund and assembled them you would find a miracle. He had four hands, at least.’
Smiling, he stepped forward and placed the cloth bag in front of Einar with a soft, chiming chink. ‘Brondolf thanks you for your efforts. You are free to go where you please.’
The air grew still and no one moved. It was as if we were all frozen and the longer the moment went on, the more painful the attempt to move became.
Then Einar, with a swiftness that startled us up like swallows, scooped up the bag and stood. In a second, there was nothing but movement, as if that had released us from some spell. Einar strode off without a word. Illugi Godi, I saw, sensed that something had happened but wasn’t sure what. Politeness stayed him long enough to thank Martin and offer all the usual platitudes and get them in return.
For my part, I saw the monk’s eyes flick, just once, to the door. On the back of it, on a hook, hung a hooded cloak.
Einar waited for us in the courtyard, where a fresh, clean, cold wind drove out the cobwebs, streamed out our hair, hissed over the flagstones and rattled the little gate as we were quietly ushered out and handed a lantern. No guide back to the Guest Hall, then.
‘You might have had more regard for hospitality,’ chided Illugi Godi and Einar, only half listening, grunted a reply.
‘He paid in silver, in a town where silver is scarce as hen’s teeth. He wanted no argument and he wanted no bartering for goods on tally sticks. He wants us gone, does Brondolf Lambisson – but had to leave it to the monk, such a delicate thing. So what could have been more pressing to him that he could not come himself?’ He turned to me suddenly. ‘What did you see?’ he asked.
I knew at once what he meant, felt strange, as if perched on a cliff like some fledgling gull, waiting for a suitable wind, working to that moment of hurling off and trusting to new wings.
‘He was lying,’ I said, sure of it as I was of my own palm. ‘Brondolf is somewhere else, as you say. Since he is so important, it must be someone more important than him. Since, I am thinking, there is no one more important than him in this place, then it must be a foreigner and a chief at least …
‘And the monk was waiting for us to go, for he has business abroad.’
I told him of the cloak on the back of the door. Illugi’s eyes widened and Einar halted, so that we all nearly ran into him. He turned to me, a grim smile on that pale face. I wished he wouldn’t do that, since it was worse than no smile at all.
‘Most men think in a straight line,’ he said, barely audible over the town’s noise and the wind. ‘They see only their own actions, like a single thread in the Norns’ loom, knotted only when they thrust their life on others. They see through one set of eyes, hear through one set of ears, all their life.’ He stared at me. ‘To look at things through someone else’s eyes is a rare thing, which cannot be learned. To those with the gift, it is not hard, nor complicated. But, to survive and be more than any others, it is essential. You have that gift, I am thinking.’
I was stunned and swelled with it. In that moment, I almost loved the great, glorious being that was Einar the Black, yet, even then, the very gift he praised me for slipped a memory, the blade-bright thought: this man had snicked off the head of Gudleif, for almost no reason other than he could.
We tramped back to the North Gate and were almost out when a figure loomed from the dark, with others behind. I saw Gunnar Raudi, Ketil Crow, Bagnose, Pinleg and others, wild-eyed, wild-haired – and sober.
Gunnar Raudi’s grim face, grimmer still in the play of lamplight loomed up to Einar and said, ‘Ulf-Agar is missing. Steinthor says men took him.’
‘They were armed,’ Steinthor growled. ‘Armed and in the town, Einar.’ He held out his forearm, showing a rough strip of bloodstained cloth, the ends whipping in the wind. Around him, Einar, I, Illugi and others gathered, stone-grim.
‘Who were they?’ demanded Einar.
Steinthor shrugged. His eye was closing to a fat-puffed slit. ‘Six, maybe seven,’ he said. ‘We left the ale house at the harbour and they came after us. Danes, it seemed to Ulf-Agar and me, and looking for trouble, for we had offended no one.’
‘Let’s get there,’ snarled Skapti Halftroll. ‘Weapons or no weapons, I’ll grind them.’
There were savage chuckles at that and a few began to push past Einar on the wooden walkway, but he thrust out an arm and stopped them. ‘Wait. Let’s find out more. Steinthor, why did they take Ulf-Agar? And where did they take him?’
Steinthor