Prince of Fools

“Probably for the best.” Tuttugu offered a hand to help me up. “Good clean death.”

I almost took his hand, then snatched mine back. “Oh no. Not falling for that one.” It wouldn’t be long before I couldn’t beat a leper out of my way without curing the bastard. “You don’t look injured.”

Tuttugu buried his fingers in the ginger bush of his beard and scratched furiously, muttering something.

“What?” I asked.

“Brothel rash,” he said.

“Whore pox?” That at least made me smile. “Ha!”

“Snorri said—”

“I ain’t laying on hands down there! I’m a prince of Red March, for God’s sake! Not some travelling apothecary-cum-faith-healer!”

The fat man’s face fell.

“Look,” I said, knowing I’d need all the friends I could make once we hit dry land. “I might not know much about wounds, but whore pox I know far more about than any man ever should. Do you have mustard seed aboard?”

“We might.” Tuttugu furrowed his brow.

“Rock salt? Some black treacle, tanners’ acid, turpentine, string, two needles, very sharp ones, and some ginger . . . well, that’s optional, but it helps.”

A slow shake of the head.

“Ah, well, we’ll pick it up in port. I can cook it up to an old family recipe. Apply as a topical paste to the affected regions and you’ll be a new man within six days. Seven tops.”

Tuttugu grinned, which was good, and gave me the Norse punch of friendship, which hurt a lot more than the traditional manly shoulder punch down south, and that was that. At least until he frowned and asked, “And the needles?”

“Well, when I said ‘apply’ what I really meant was ‘smear on a needle and jab in.’ You’ll need more than one as the mixture corrodes them.”

“Oh.” Little remained of Tuttugu’s grin. “And the string’s to hang myself with?”

“To tie the bag on . . . Look, I’ll explain the gory details when you’ve got the stuff.”

“Land ho!” One of the quins from the prow, providing a welcome distraction.

My nightmare at sea was all but done.

TWENTY-FIVE

Mist shrouded Norsheim, offering me only glimpses of wet black cliffs and menacing reefs of rock as we closed the last mile or so to reach the shore. We came in past other Norse vessels plying their trade. Fatter-bodied boats in the main, trailing nets or laden with cargo, but all with northern lines to their construction. We saw other longships too, most of the dozen or so at anchor, one heading out to open sea, red sails already too small to make out the device set upon them.

Coming in closer still, we saw the port of Trond rising from a shoreline of black stone to crowd the lower slopes of mountains that stepped wet-footed from the sea. I had thought Den Hagen looked dour and uninviting, but compared to Trond the port of Den Hagen was a paradise, practically open-legged with welcome. The northmen built their homes of slate and heavy timber, turf-roofed, windows mere slits to defy the slim fingers of the wind that already had filched most of my warmth. Rain started to fall, lacing the wind and stinging like ice where it hit my cheeks.

“And this is summer? How can you tell?”

“Glorious summer!” Snorri spread his arms beside me.

“You can tell because in the winter there are no midges,” said Arne behind me. “Also, the snow is six foot deep.”

“And you could walk to the port from here,” Snorri said.

“I didn’t even know the sea could freeze . . .” I went to the side to consider the matter and leaned out between two of the shields the men had fixed there in preparation for our arrival. “At least it would stop it bobbing about all the time.”

We rowed in the last quarter mile, sail down. I say “we.” I provided moral support.

“How is it the Broke-Oar got his name?” I asked, seeing them all bending to their task.

“The first time he went to row a longship.” Quin Ein.

“He must have been fourteen, or fifteen.” Quin Tveir, probably.

“Hauled on the oar so hard he broke it.” Quin Thrir, possibly.

“Didn’t know his own strength, even then.” Fjórir, his arm still scarred.

“Never seen anyone pull an oar that hard.” Fimm, by process of elimination.

“Is he stronger than you, Snorri?” I found the thought unsettling.

Snorri pulled back on his oar, keeping rhythm with the others. “Who can say?” Another stroke. “The Broke-Oar doesn’t know his own strength.” Another stroke. “But I know mine.” And the look he gave me, all ice and fire, made me very glad not to be his enemy.