Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(22)
The crowds were thick, and there were countless nooks to hide in, but that cut both ways. As Aelfhild saw it, that meant there were plenty of vantage points from which Osric’s men might watch them.
The town sprawled up and down the south bank, docks and jetties jutting into the river filled with boats of every imaginable shape and size. Warehouses, market stalls, inns, and taverns crowded along the beaches, walls pressed closely together to keep out the wind, streets and alleys an unnavigable jumble. The city proper was a walled citadel not far from the dune line of the eastern sea, a high wooden palisade ringing the great hall of the lord and the halls of his warriors and nobles. Caelin, Hauld of Ealdorscir, held his court here when he was not away in Cynestead.
Bercthun returned with a gangly young man in a leather apron, wood shavings in his beard and a chisel in his belt. He turned out to be the shipwright’s apprentice.
The tradesman walked around their little craft, knocking on the boards and peering under the benches, then set to haggling. It was hard to hide their desperation; their clothes and faces betrayed them. Bercthun did what he could.
Two silver pieces and a handful of copper coins was the final price, and in Aelfhild’s estimation it was a paltry offering for the boat that had saved the life of the future queen. Bercthun kicked at the sand as the apprentice went to fetch his master’s purse, while Aelfhild wrapped their few possessions in a blanket. She slung it over her shoulder as they set off into town.
Haernmuth bustled with the sounds and smells of a thriving port. Traders shouted over one another, each one offering the best, the freshest, the rarest, the most exotic of goods while heaping scorn on competitors. From one booth they passed wafted the tang of cumin and honeyed dates from the southern coast; from another poured the dog-muck stench of freshly tanned leather. Flocks of chickens and geese squawked and flapped in pens lining the street, while merchants led donkeys and oxen through the narrow lanes.
From the doors of inns, flung open to entice passersby, came the smell of roasting meat and stale beer along with the clamor of men unwinding after days or weeks at sea. As they passed a particularly raucous tavern, a slender fellow of Oescan countenance came hurtling out the door, followed closely by a furious-looking Thrym with fists thick enough to hammer iron. Like a wolf set upon a hare, the Northman sprinted down an alleyway in close pursuit of his prey.
Aelfhild and Ceolwen stood stunned in their wake, staring after the pair; Bercthun shooed the two women onward. As they went, Aelfhild noticed that he kept a hand on the handle of his axe, ready for trouble.
No one can spot us in this mess, she thought as they flattened themselves against a wall to allow a mule team past.
The drovers hollered at anyone fool enough to stand in the way, brandishing their sticks as much at passersby as the braying animals.
Further up from the docks, the buildings began to spread out, a break from the press of wood and thatch near the shore. Sunlight strained over the eaves of the buildings, dappling the muddy lane. Near the walls of the inner city, they found an almost-respectable inn. Inside was smoky but free of fighting drunks, so they parted with two of their copper coins for food and lodging. It would be another night spent on beds of straw with a supper of thin porridge, but they could hardly even afford that level of comfort.
They sat around a table in the inn, warming their backs by the fire. Bercthun slurped at his bowl of mushy oats. The man seemed to eat anything put in front of him, regardless of smell or color.
There were weevils in the bread, and Aelfhild focused her attention on picking out the wriggling larvae and flicking them into the fire, where they ended with a satisfying pop.
Ceolwen stirred her gruel back and forth with a grimace.
Scraping at the bottom of his bowl, Bercthun broke the silence. “We will make the rounds of the taverns tonight…if we can find a captain who is a happy drunk, striking a good price should not be hard,” he said with what Aelfhild suspected was heavily forced cheer.
“And if that fails,” responded Ceolwen, pushing her bowl back, “We get him dead drunk and steal his ship, then sail it north ourselves.”
Her voice was serious, but a grin played at the corners of her mouth and her eyes were merry.
Nodding along, Bercthun said, “How hard could it be to sail to Thrymgard with a crew of three? Just point the boat north and…” He waved his hand in a vague thataway direction, shrugging his shoulders.
“I can row if you can steer,” Aelfhild added, turning her attention from the weevils. “And Ceolwen can be our cook.” Bercthun barked a short, sudden laugh, and Ceolwen’s grin broadened into a smile.
“It is settled, then,” Ceolwen said, “we have a crew.”
11
I will never get the stench of these places washed off,” said Ceolwen, pushing away a drunk in stained breeches who had sidled over to check on the welfare of the two lonely-looking young women. Her shove served more to adjust the course of his inebriated journey than halt it, and he went careening off to spread joy elsewhere.
“No decent woman would dare be seen in such a place.”
The Aethling was in a huff. Throughout the evening they had been groped, serenaded, pinched, and drooled on in a parade of indistinguishable taverns, each one filled with damp hay and the reek of spilled beer with all the effluent that followed.
“I think there is a woman over there,” Aelfhild ventured.