I backed away further, felt the edge of a stool against my knee, and – not taking my eyes off the knife man – picked it up to use as a shield. Pudding Head took a half-pace forward, his expression cold and calculating.
I bellowed for help, shouting at the top of my lungs. With sudden desperation I knew there was little hope of being heard over the crash of thunder and the drumming of the rain and, even if I was, my cries might well be mistaken for a noisy brawl in the nearby drinking den.
Nevertheless, I kept yelling and yelling, thrusting the stool at Pudding Head’s head making him step back.
He waited his moment, then suddenly reached out with his free hand and grabbed the stool, and used it to propel himself forward. I tried to dodge his knife, but he was too quick. I felt a sharp burning sensation as the blade cut me, on my right side, sliding off a rib.
I yelped from fear and pain. He had not let go of the stool, and for a moment we wrestled together, each trying to tug the stool from the other. My initial surge of energy was ebbing rapidly. I would either drop the stool or be forced backward within range of Stupid Face guarding the door.
I shouted again for help, and the cry had scarcely left my throat when there was a great splintering and smashing of wood. The man with his back against the door was propelled head first into the room as someone shoulder-charged the door from the passageway outside, carrying away its hinges.
Ohthere. He burst in, carrying the same heavy stick that he had used to fend off the dogs from the bear cage. He wielded it as a cudgel. Before Stupid Face could recover his balance, Ohthere drove the blunt end of the stick hard into his stomach. The man doubled up with a grunt. Ohthere then stepped across to where I was fending off Pudding Head and brought his stick down with a resounding crack on the hand that held the knife. I made the mistake of letting go the stool, and Pudding Face had the wit to swing it at Ohthere, who failed to duck in time. The edge of the stool caught him on the side of his head and he staggered back. Taking advantage of the moment, both attackers turned and bolted for the door.
I was too exhausted to do more than take jagged gasps of breath and press my hand against my wounded side, feeling blood.
‘How badly are you hurt?’ asked Ohthere.
‘Nothing fatal,’ I managed to answer. Then, dizzy and in shock, I staggered to the stool that lay on the floor, righted it, and sat down. ‘Who were they? They were trying to kill me . . .’
Ohthere was rubbing the side of his head. ‘I’ve no idea. But they’ll have made themselves scarce by now.’
‘Should we report the incident?’
‘There’s no one to report to. The only law in Kaupang is the one you take into your own hands. If you can track them down, you could take revenge. But if they are the jarl’s men, it’s a waste of time. They’ll have his protection.’
I noticed that Ohthere’s clothes were soaking wet. ‘It was lucky you came by, despite the rain. Otherwise I’d have been done for.’
He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘A little damp won’t stop me from calling on Redwald to arrange the final payment for the bears. I heard shouts and recognized your voice.’
‘I got a good look at the two men. Perhaps Redwald knows where to track them down,’ I said.
I got up from the stool and hobbled out of the building, leaning on Ohthere’s arm. The rainstorm had eased as rapidly as it had started. The last few raindrops were flicking down, and the ground outside was muddy slop. Just before we reached the door to Redwald’s office, I turned to Ohthere. ‘Could you find Osric for me? He’s good at dealing with wounds.’
‘Of course. I left him at my place, with Walo.’
While Ohthere squelched off, I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts: Northmen rarely killed those whom they believed to have magical powers. They feared retribution from the Otherworld. If there was a different motive for the attack, someone must have known that I was by myself, sheltering from the rainstorm. Immediately Redwald sprang to mind. The shipmaster, I recalled, had identified to me the same two brutes when they were on guard outside the jeweller’s shop. Redwald’s office was just a few steps away. He could have spoken with the two would-be assassins in the adjacent drinking den to tell them that the moment was right. Redwald already had his hands on what remained of our silver hoard aboard his ship. If he killed me, all that would remain would be to dispose of Osric, perhaps on the voyage back to Dorestad. With us out of the way Redwald could also claim his commission from Carolus’s mews master for bringing back the gyrfalcons, and probably get a reward for obtaining the ice bears as well.
I limped into the shipmaster’s office, alert to his reaction when he saw that I was alive.
Redwald was seated alone at his changing table, leaning forward and concentrating, and he ignored my arrival. He was placing matching weights into the two pans of his moneyer’s weighing scales to check the balance. When he looked up and saw blood on my shirt, he made a sucking sound through his teeth.
‘What happened to you?’ he asked as I sank down on a bench facing him.
I told him of the unprovoked assault and described the two men. ‘I think they were previously guards for the dealer in precious stones, the man who had his premises a little way along the street.’
I watched him closely for signs of guilt but he only tugged at an earlobe as he considered his reply. ‘You could well be right.’
‘Do you know anything about the dealer?’
He sat back with a sour smile. ‘I make it a policy to stay clear of him. His line is in gems and fine ornaments. If he thought I was infringing on his trade by doing more than changing money and handling broken silver, he would try to put me out of business.’
‘Would he set his men on me because I’m with you?’
He shook his head. ‘Only a madman would carry a commercial rivalry that far.’
‘Surely you don’t believe they tried to kill me because they thought I practise black magic!’
‘No, though it’s common knowledge that Ingvar caught two gyrfalcons in the same trap when you were with him. Everyone says that’s not natural.’ He paused and gave me a look of shrewd calculation. ‘What about King Offa? You told me that he had a grudge against you.’
‘How would he have found out that I’m in Kaupang?’ I said.
‘Of course he has his agents here, though I wouldn’t know who they are, or want to,’ Redwald answered. ‘I don’t pry into King Offa’s affairs. My trade with Mercia is too valuable . . .’ His voice tailed away, and a heavy silence hung in the air between us. ‘There’s a coincidence, though. If your identification is correct, one of the attackers came to see me last week. He wanted money changed.’
Redwald reached inside his tunic and pulled out a small soft leather pouch. ‘Northmen trust gold coins even less than silver ones. They get rid of them as quickly as possible.’
He untied the little pouch and shook the contents on the table, a mix of half a dozen gold coins of varying thickness, shape and size.
He picked up one of the coins and handed it to me. ‘Take a look.’
The coin was the size of my thumbnail. It was recently minted so the markings were clear. I recognized the wavy lines of Saracen writing.
‘That was one of the coins that your mysterious attacker – if we have the right man – wanted me to change into silver,’ Redwald said.
I turned the coin slowly in my fingers. ‘Advance payment for a murder?’
‘Possibly. Equally, it might have been his gambling winnings or part of his legitimate wages from the jeweller, though the latter would have been very generous.’
Unwisely I took a deep breath and winced as I felt the stab of pain from my wound. ‘I’ll get Osric to translate the writing after he’s bandaged the gash in my side. If we know where the coin comes from, that might tell us who was behind the attack.’
‘You don’t have to ask Osric. Turn the coin over and read what it says,’ said Redwald.