Captive Of The Viking. Juliet Landon

to know what I see and what I think I see, lady. I don’t know what it means, but we were travelling, and there was a strong wind...blowing...you needed your cloak, but you were wearing the one you made for your husband. So I packed...well...everything I thought you’d need...and...’

      ‘Wait a moment! You say I’m wearing Barda’s new cloak? But he’s taken it with him.’

      ‘Yes, lady. That’s what I don’t understand. Unless he allows you to wear it.’

      Fearn looked at her maid in silence. As a mere sixteen-year-old, she had served Fearn for the last four years when her family’s house caught fire. Her father had been a potter on Coppergate, but the kiln had exploded and Haesel had been the only one to survive, albeit with severe burns to one arm and the side of her throat. Her mass of fair curls had now grown back and the sweet prettiness of her features more than compensated for the wrinkled red skin that she usually managed to hide under the white veil swathed around her neck. Fearn had soon discovered that Haesel possessed a strange talent for seeing into the future, though it was often rather difficult to make out how the information related to events, as it did now when Barda’s cloak was not in Fearn’s possession. By now, however, Fearn had learnt to take the predictions seriously, although they were both enigmatic and quite rare. ‘So what have you packed, and where shall we be going?’ she said.

      ‘Your jewels, clothes, shoes, your recipe book of cures. I couldn’t get your harp in. I know nothing about where we’ll be going, lady. Just the wind blowing.’

      ‘Then we shall just have to see what happens. Was my husband there?’

      Haesel shook her head. ‘No, lady. He was not with you.’ It happened occasionally that she withheld information she thought either too unreliable or not in her mistress’s best interests to know in advance. There had been many men there in her sighting, but Barda had not been amongst them.

      * * *

      The Dane known as Aric the Ruthless had hardly expected that the four longships in his command would be able to slip into Jorvik unseen, even so early in the morning with the sun obscured by clouds of smoke rising up from the riverside villages. His men had needed to take provisions on board after rowing against the current all the way from the river estuary, and since it took too long to ask politely for foodstuffs, they had taken it without asking. Coming to the last navigable bend of the Ouse, Aric noticed that the trading wharves and jetties were devoid of merchant ships and the stacks of produce that usually littered the area. The only sign of life was a small group of armed men waiting, grim-faced, to meet them. So, the Earl of Northumbria had come with his elite corps to conduct him, personally, to the place known as Earlsbrough.

      Their greeting was civil, though hardly warm. One warrior drew his sword from his scabbard, catching the light on its menacing blade. But as Aric stepped off the gangplank, he called to him to put it away. ‘We have come here to talk,’ he called. ‘Which of you is the Earl?’

      ‘The Earl of Northumbria awaits you in his hall,’ the leader said. ‘He prefers not to trade with you for Jorvik’s safety here on the wharf like a merchant. Be pleased to come with us.’

      ‘What, and be surrounded by Englishmen?’ Aric said.

      ‘Bring as many men as you wish, Jarl.’

      * * *

      The walk took a little time, though they soon discovered that their Danish words so much resembled the Anglo-Danish spoken in Jorvik that there were very few misunderstandings. Adjusting the beaver-skin cloak on his broad shoulders, Aric walked with his hosts and a group of his own chosen men through the deserted dirty streets of Jorvik to the mournful cry of seagulls and the yapping of dogs chasing an escaped pig. The air was tense with uncertainty, for the rank odour of smoke still clung to the invaders’ clothes. None of them were under any illusions that the show of politeness would last, for at the nod of a head or the click of a finger, they could all slaughter one another without a qualm.

      Earl Thored stood waiting outside the stout wooden doors of the great hall, unmistakable to Jarl Aric by his imposing figure, tall, broad-shouldered, with a shock of thick white hair echoed in the luxurious drooping moustache, an exceptionally handsome man of some fifty years, and experienced. He greeted Aric with a brief nod, noting the Dane’s appreciative look at the fine carvings on the doors and crossed gables. ‘Not so different in Denmark, I don’t suppose,’ he said, leading them into the hall.

      ‘The same in most respects, my Lord Thored. Our requirements are the same as yours.’

      ‘Our requirements, Jarl, are for peace above anything.’

      ‘Then we have that in common,’ said Aric, determined not to be wrong-footed by the older statesman. ‘I see no reason why we cannot agree on that. Eventually.’

      Thored’s look held an element of scepticism for the Dane who had just led a series of raiding parties along the East Anglian coast. The ‘eventually’ was something that would demand hard bargaining, with no guarantee that the Danes would not return for more next year, as soon as the days lengthened. But his look was also laced with an unwilling admiration, not only for this man’s youth compared with his own, but for his undeniable good looks, which Thored was sure would have the women enthralled. More used to looking down upon his men, Thored found that their heads were level and that the Dane’s keen grey eyes had already swept the hall in one observant stare, as if to assess the wealth contained there.

      In the yellowish light from lamps and candles, Aric’s hair shone sleek and pale, pulled tightly back from his face and gathered at the back into a short plait. A narrow gold band was set over his forehead, his sun-bleached brows and short neat beard emphasising the square jaw and determined set of his mouth, which Thored took as an indication that he would be no pushover. A chill crept along Thored’s arms and neck. Thirty years ago, he, too, had had this man’s arrogant stance, legs like tree trunks encased in leather breeches and a slender waist belted low down on slim hips. He, too, had made women blush like girls.

      Aric’s thoughts on Earl Thored ran along similar lines with admiration for his elegant deep red tunic and the massive gold buckle at his belt, a sign of authority. Negotiations with this old fox, he thought, would have to proceed with care, for although the Danes’ demands would have to be met, one way or another, he had heard that Earl Thored was a man with more than one strategy up his sleeve. Other things he had heard about the Earl were less complimentary, things which would have to be addressed today while there was a chance. His king, Swein Forkbeard, had given him the task of taking four of the ninety-four longships up the coast to Jorvik to treat with Earl Thored on his behalf. Swein was also aware of Aric’s other mission which, although secondary to the business of Danegeld, was of great importance to his family’s honour. Aric himself might have only twenty-seven winters under his belt, but he was one of King Swein’s most trusted jarls, a military leader of numerous missions across the North Sea. He would make sure his name was remembered as a man who got what he came for.

      Tipping his head towards his hovering wife, Thored beckoned her forward to begin her duties, showing the guests to their seats in order of precedence with no more to go on than their clothing and the number and size of gold armbands, pendants and cloak pins. Standing further back down the hall, Fearn held a flagon of red wine, waiting for the signal to begin pouring it. But her attention was instantly kindled as the Danish leader moved into the direct light of a lamp hanging from a low beam, casting its glow over the smooth back of his flaxen hair with its stubby plait resting on the beaver fur of his cloak. Clutching the flagon close to her body, she strained her eyes to search for the darker streak on the fur she knew so well, then for the band of red and green tablet-weaving in a zigzag pattern that bordered the hem. As he turned in her direction, she saw how the bands continued up the two front edges, and she knew without a shadow of doubt that he was wearing the beaver-fur cloak she had gifted to her husband only weeks ago on his feast day. Casually, he threw one side of the cloak over his shoulder to reveal the brown woollen lining that she had spun from the native sheep and woven on her loom after weeks of work. Barda had worn it, to her dismay, to go on this latest scouting expedition for the Earl only because the nights could still be cold this early in the year and because the