“You’re a man of the Way, right? So you don’t have much time for Christians. None at all, from what I hear of your victory over the Franks, and I dare say they have even less for you. But down here I have to keep a very close eye on them. There’s only the Dane-dyke between me and Othin knows how many German lancers. It’s true they fight among themselves all the time, and it’s truer that they’re even more frightened of us than I am of them. But I really don’t like to go stirring up trouble, especially in matters of religion.
“So I’ve always let the Christians send their priests up here and appeal for converts, and never said a word when they started baptizing the slaves and the women. Of course, if the poor souls wander off into the countryside and end up sold, or thrown into the bog for good luck, I can’t do anything about that. I keep order in Hedeby and along the trade-road, and I judge disputes at the Thing. Telling my subjects what to believe or who to leave alone…” The fat man laughed. “You know how risky that would be.
“But this is something new. This spring, when the priests came north from Hamburg, three or four of them, each one had an escort with him. Not big enough to call an army, not even big enough to be a serious menace, and plenty of cash to pay their way. So I let them in. But I tell you something,” the face leaned forward, “as one king to another. Very dangerous men. Very valuable men. I wish I could hire half-a-dozen of them. That one you saw, the blond one with the hair like stiff wire, my guard captain says he’s the fastest man he’s ever seen. Very tricky too.”
“Faster than Ivar Ragnarsson?” asked Shef.
“The Boneless One? I was forgetting that you had bested him.” Shef’s vision seemed to clear as the wine did its work, and he looked more sharply at the big man leaning back in his wooden chair till the stout back of it creaked. Gold circlet on his head, heavy gold chain round his neck and thick bracelets on his arms. An air of simple good-nature, like the host of a peaceful town tavern. But sharp eyes under heavy brows, and a network of scars along the muscled right forearm, the places where a dueller picked up cuts. A successful dueller, for failed ones did not live long enough for the scars to heal.
“Well. I certainly owe you one for that. He used to worry me badly, and his brothers still do.” A heavy sigh. “It’s a hard life for a king down here, with the Empire and the Christians growling the other side of the Dane-dyke, and fifty sea-kings to the north forever disputing which shall be king over all. The Christians say they need an emperor now. Sometimes I think we do too. But there. If we thought that we’d have to decide who it was. Maybe me. Maybe you. Maybe Sigurth Ragnarsson. If it was him neither you nor I would live to see the day, nor want to.
“But I’m forgetting myself. You’ve had a hard time, I can see that, and you look as if you could use a good dinner too. Why don’t you sit in the sun somewhere this afternoon, till it’s time for the night-meal? I’ll see it’s all safe.”
“I owe some money,” said Shef. “That man I hit in the slave-ring—he did bring me here, and feed me for a week. I ought to pay him. And then I need money to buy passage home. If there are English traders in the port, I can borrow from them, on my own credit and that of my co-king Alfred.”
Hrorik held up a ringed hand. “All dealt with, all paid for. I sent the Ditmarshers off very happy, I always try to keep in with them too, they can be a nuisance when they’re angry. The one young one insisted on staying behind, though. Don’t thank me, you can always pay me back.
“But as for the passage home. Well, not just yet.”