“I will give you four,” shouted Erkenbert, still playing to the crowd. “You have saved the other sixteen on food and clothes over the winter.”
Ami did not see the joke. Face purpling, he strode forward towards the much smaller man.
“Shaveling! Four ounces! You have no rights here. By the law of the Smaalanders any man who catches a Christ-priest has the right to enslave him. What is to hinder me from taking you and your four ounces.”
“You have the right to enslave a Christ-priest,” replied Erkenbert unmoved. “Do you have the strength?”
At the psychological moment the uncanny shape of Bruno made its way out of the crowd, from the point opposite the watching ranks of the Ritters. He pushed gently through the watching men, edging them aside with his ape-like shoulders. He carried no pike, but wore the same armor as his men. His left hand rested on the pommel of his trailing, over-length sword.
Arni glared round him, observing the sudden silence, realizing that in an instant he had become the one under test. He tried to rally the crowd round him.
“Are we going to take this? Are we going to let these men come in here and steal our slaves away?”
“They’re paying cash,” observed a voice from the crowd.
“And what will they do with the men they take? Such as these—” Beside himself with fury, Arni turned and cuffed his slave violently across the side of the head, sending him sprawling and weeping to the ground. “Such as these should go to the groves of Uppsala, as a sacrifice to the true gods, not go back to preach more lies about sons of virgins and the dead risi—”
Ami’s voice cut off in mid-syllable. Moving like the tufted lynx of the forests, Bruno had covered the four paces between them. His hand shot out faster than anyone could see. But they could all see now that his gauntleted fingers had closed on the throat-ball, the Adam’s apple of the Smaalander, held it in steel pincers. He lifted slightly, and the farmer rose on struggling tiptoe.
“Filth,” said Bruno. “You have laid hands on the servant of the living God. You have spoken blasphemy against our faith. I will not kill you in the doom-ring, where blood must not be shed, but do you care to meet me in the dueling-ground, with sword and buckler, or axe and spear, or any weapon you care to choose?”
Unable to move or speak, the farmer goggled helplessly.
“I thought not.” Bruno released him, turned on his heel, barked a command. In one drilled movement the front rank of his Ritters stamped forward, paces one-two-three, stood at attention once more. “Continue with the sale.”
“Four ounces,” Erkenbert repeated. We mustn’t rob them, Bruno had said, or they will fight. But we don’t have to pay over the odds either. Still, we must rescue Sirra Eilif the priest. Only he knows anything of the kings in the back country behind Birka. We need him to help us with our search. I am anxious to hear more of this King Kjallak they speak of, from up on the borders of Iron-bearing Land.
Massaging his throat, the farmer wondered whether he dared hold out for more, met Erkenbert’s black hostile eyes, decided he did not. He nodded.
Erkenbert threw a small purse at his feet, took Eilif the priest gently by one arm, withdrew with him to the ranks of the Ritter, now joined once more by Bruno. The priest and the deacon moved to the security of the central file, Bruno snapped commands, the armored men sloped their pikes and marched away, feet slamming down together like a single man.
The Swedes and Smaalanders watched them go, turned again to their business.
“What did you think of that?” said one tall Swede to another.
“Think of that? That’s the bastard who killed King Orm’s man at Hedeby. He must make a habit of this. I don’t know what he wants, but I’ll tell you this. We’re seeing some new kind of Christian.”
The other nodded thoughtfully, looked round to see if any might overhear. “If there’s a new kind of Christian around, maybe we all need a new kind of king to deal with them.”