She was still pale and anxious when, later that day, we clambered from Hrithdyr on to Dyflin’s muddy quayside, hauling our packs up after us. The local reeve, or whatever the word for such an official was in the tongues of that place, came to collect from Snorri the silver penny that was the daily price for keeping a vessel moored here, and after paying it the Dane led us up the city’s narrow, dung-reeking alleys to the place where this Magnus could be found.
Despite everything I’d heard about Dyflin and the folk who frequented it, it was nothing like I had imagined: not nearly as large, nor as impressive to look upon, compared with either Lundene or the great cities of Normandy, with their towering vaulted churches and encircling stone walls that stood the height of six men. Indeed it seemed to me a sorry place. While a few long halls that probably belonged to merchants or noblemen stood proud upon the higher ground to the south, much of the rest of the city looked as if it were being swallowed up by the mud. Crumbling, sunken-floored houses huddled close together on either side of streets ankle-deep in filth. In one place a stream had become clogged with straw and leaves and dung and the putrid remains of an animal that might once have been a hog, and had overspilled its banks, flooding the road and leaving wide pools through which we had no choice but to trudge. One part of the town was burnt to the ground, leaving only blackened timbers and piles of ash, whether as the result of some accident or a recent raid I could only guess. Traders called out in tongues I did not understand, grabbing at our sleeves to catch our attention, pointing to stalls laden with fresh-caught fish or else with bolts of brightly coloured silks from far-off lands. Bone-thin, toothless beggars leant upon sticks as they held out hands in hope of receiving a coin or two, while children played with wooden horses in the alleys between houses, eyeing us suspiciously before they resumed their games.
Snorri led us up the hill in the direction of a wide, flat, grassy mound that looked as though it should have formed part of a castle, except that no tower stood upon it, nor was it surrounded by any palisade.
‘That’s where they hold the thing,’ Snorri told me when I asked what it was.
‘The thing?’ I asked.
‘It’s our word for an assembly of elders and nobles, like the hundred courts you have in England.’ He pointed towards the mound. ‘That’s where they make the laws, pass judgments on disputes, of which there’s no shortage here. Men fighting over money, or women, or both—’
I was only half paying attention to him, for I was suddenly aware of a group of women who had stopped to fix us with stern glares. A few men even went so far as to spit on the ground as we passed, which I thought strange. Obviously they recognised myself, Serlo and Pons for foreigners, either by our manner of dress or, more probably, from the cut of our hair, for unlike the Danes and the English, who tended to let theirs grow long, ours was shaven short at the back and at the sides, in the style favoured in France. Still, I thought such attentions strange, given that they must be well used to seeing people from all parts.
‘It’s because they’re English,’ Snorri explained. ‘Many thegns came and settled here together with their families in the months and years after H?stinges, preferring exile over submission to a foreign king. They all know a Norman when they see one. I thought you knew.’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t.’
Hardly had I set foot in this city than it seemed I was already making enemies. I checked to make sure that my sword was belted upon my waist, which of course it was. Hopefully I wouldn’t have any need of it.
Thankfully they were content to stare and spit and nothing more, and we soon left them behind us, arriving shortly at a high-gabled hall with timbers that were half-rotten in places. A boy who might have been a servant or a slave met us at the door and regarded us sullenly.
‘Heill nu, Bj?rn,’ Snorri said by way of greeting, in what I presumed was the Danish tongue, since although it sounded a little like English, the words were not all familiar. ‘Er thin meistari her?’
‘Ma sva vera,’ said Bj?rn with a shrug, eyeing Snorri with suspicion, as if not quite sure whether he was to be trusted. ‘Hvi? Hverr vill veita?’
‘Seg honum at Snorri Broklauss vili hitta hann at mali.’
Bj?rn glowered and hesitated for a moment, before disappearing into the gloom of the hall.
‘This Magnus,’ I said to Snorri, ‘is he a Dane?’
‘You might think it to look at him. From what I gather, though, the blood in his veins is English. Truth is, I don’t know him well enough to say for sure.’
‘And you think this Englishman will be willing to help us?’
‘I’m telling you I don’t know where he’s from. I hear he’s from noble stock, but then again I hear many things. He speaks both tongues well, and he has many Danish friends. That’s all I know.’
Not to mention a Danish name, I thought, although perhaps that was not so unusual. Men often considered me a Breton, although it was some years since I’d last returned to the place of my birth, but my name was French, given to me by my Norman mother.