“It looks like we’ve found the Danes,” commented Alan.
Sven snorted derisively and replied, “Lad, if there are 3,000 Danes, that means probably 100 ships, maybe more. We’ve found some of them, but I expect most are at up at Hartlepool at the mouth of the Tees River, where there’s a good natural harbour. It’s close to the English earl’s base at Durham and the river gives them access by ship deep into Yorkshire. I think we’ve another sixty miles or so to sail yet, laddie.”
And so it proved. As they sailed further north they saw more and more of the Danish warships and transport ships, so many and on such constant courses that Alan was sure that they were wearing a track in the sea between Hartlepool and Jutland. At Hartlepool the large natural harbour, one of the best on the north-east coast, was crowded with probably close on 100 ships.
At Sven’s shouted command the men lowered the sail, unshipped the oars and rowed for the last few minutes of careful manoeuvring amongst the ships crowded into the harbour. Alan ordered the ship to anchor offshore and was rowed to the wharf in a small sunnmorsf?ring four-oared rowing boat by Sven and three other Norwegians.
Once ashore he approached a fisherman who was sitting next to a small fishing boat. The old man, face weathered by years at sea and hands scarred by hauling on ropes, was mending his nets, dextrously weaving thick cord to repair the gaps torn in the net. He was happy to pass onto Alan the information as to where he may find ‘The Bull and Bear’ tavern, along with several recommendations as to which may the best tavern depending on whether you wished female company at a greater or lesser price, good food or a quiet place to drink good ale. None of these was ‘The Bull and Bear’, whose sole claim to fame appeared to be that it was the most expensive establishment in the town. Before entering under the sign of ‘The Bull and Bear’ Alan placed a red woollen cap on his head and a blue scarf about his neck before selecting a quiet small table in the corner, where he sat by himself.
He’d drained his first quart of ale and was part way through the second, needed to ‘rent’ the table, when he was approached by a very comely and buxom young lass with her long blond tresses flowing freely. “May I join you?” she asked in an arch manner and husky voice. Alan would have politely declined, but she had pulled from her sleeve a red handkerchief, the recognition signal he’d been alerted to by Herfast.
“By all means,” replied Alan, signalling to the barmaid for a pint jug of wine and two cups. When it arrived he poured, took a sip and shuddered, closing his eyes for a moment before saying, “I can’t recommend the wine, but the ale is reasonable. Would you like to eat? The serving-wench told me that they have roast pork and beef pies. Fine, we’ll have both. I’ll stay with the ale. You may wish to see what quality is the mead? No?” Turning to the aged serving-wench, who was wiping dirty hands on her apron as she stood waiting for an order, he instructed, “A quart of ale and a pint. Serves of pork and beef pie. Fresh bread and butter and cheese. Fruit.” He tossed her two silver pennies.
“I’m Gundred. Skald Thorkell Skalleson’s woman,” she said placing her hand on Alan’s and stroking it with an apparent fondness that was totally absent from the business-like expression in her eyes.
“My name is Alan. I’ve heard of the skills of your man as a bard, with his story of the exploits of Earl Waltheof.”
Gundred gave a laugh of genuine amusement. “Thorkell is good. He could make a shepherd look like a hero, if you paid him enough. I know not why Waltheof paid so much to have himself immortalised in poetry for his blood-thirsty deeds. He’s young, good-looking and is in fact an excellent warrior and leader.”
“Vanity, I suppose. It gets the best of many people. Now what can you tell me?”
Gundred looked about and paused as the drinks were delivered together with the pork pies and braised vegetables on wooden platters. Satisfied that the table chosen was sufficiently private and that the buzz of conversation around them would hide anything said from unwanted ears, she replied with candour. “Nothing that you couldn’t find out for the price of a few quarts of ale in any tavern. Edgar the Aetheling is with Cospatric, Waltheof, Maerle-Sveinn and Arknell at Durham, together with the Danish King Swein’s brother Osbjorn and his sons Harald and Christian, the bishop of Aarhus. His son Cnut is here with most of the men at Hartlepool.”
“How many men?”
“Danes, about 3,500- it varies as the men come and go as they wish. English, about 3,000 at Durham- mainly local huscarles and thegns and men from the south, about 1,000 of those. About another 4,000 from local levies that are at home at the moment. There are 2,000 Scots camped on the Tyne River.”
“And where’s Thorkell?”
“Where you’d want him to be. Sitting at Edgar’s table in Durham, eating his fancy food and drinking his fine French wine- and listening to everything the earls and the Danes say to each other. There’s no charge for what I’ve told you so far. You could’ve got that information in a few days yourself. But when he sends word that the Aetheling’s men are moving and where, he expects to be paid 200 gold marks. You are to have somebody here every Monday, Wednesday and Friday evening at dusk. Same recognition signals. When there’s something to report I’ll make myself known. Just make sure somebody is here for me to report to and that you can get the message to the Norman king in time for him to act.”
Alan shook his head in disagreement. “I’m sorry, but it’s not like we’re running a carting business from the next village. Firstly, this isn’t a game. I’ve brought twenty armed men into a town controlled by the enemy. You and Thorkell are planning on selling whatever information he obtains so that King William can defeat the Aetheling’s forces- which means thousands will die. If any of us are caught, we die- probably begging for the release of a cut throat after they’ve finished torturing us, and raping and then torturing you. Your end would not be pretty,” he said gently patting her on the cheek. He paused while the beef pies and another round of drinks were brought to the table by the serving-wench.
“This is no game,” he repeated. “I can’t just bring a snekke longship into the harbour whenever I feel like it. Yes, it’s a Danish ship and some of our crew are Norwegians, but if we hang around like a fart in a church somebody is going to notice and start asking questions. We can’t let our men go ashore and spend the night drinking and whoring like any proper sailor does, because some idiot will get drunk and say something that puts us all into deep shit. If they stay on board that’ll also be noticed, and the men will mutiny. Have you ever spent days, and more particularly nights, crammed together with twenty others in a ship so small and so encumbered that you can’t all lie down at once, and if you did lie down you’d be lying in two or three inches of stinking bilge-water that slops around in the bottom of the ship, eating cold stale rations, cold and probably soaked in rain, when within a stone’s throw are warm taverns and welcoming bordellos? And that assumes we can get here on time. We aren’t trundling a cart two miles. We’re sailing a hundred miles through unprotected and often violent seas- in autumn when the gales start. There’s every chance that we won’t be able to get here for a week or more at a time.
“Next, no we won’t meet in this same cosy tavern each time. If we come back again we’ll be recognised and after the third time the local gossips will be watching both of us. And they’d see me, who they’d think of as an Englishman, go back to a ‘Danish’ longship and you ride back to Durham to the arms of a man who spends his time at the Aetheling’s table. It wouldn’t take them long to start asking difficult questions.”