The old man gave my shaven forehead a last pat, opened his mouth in a toothless grin and said, "What is your name, Irish?"
Startled, I gaped at him. "I am-" I paused, trying to remember my name. "Aidan!" I said. "My name is Aidan."
The odd creature smirked and squirmed. He indicated Gunnar sitting at the board a pace away. "Caught you, boy, did he?"
"He did that," I answered.
The stranger laughed and shook himself all over as if this revelation were a singular pleasure to him. "Verity, verity," he said and, still laughing, began to sing: "The Sea Wolves go a-viking and fetch back Irish meat and bone. Gold and silver are more to their liking, but these wolves would devour stone!"
I stared at him in amazement, wondering how this vile being came to speak Latin. Sure, it was a lazy and much-eroded Latin, but the cleric's tongue nonetheless.
"Who are you, man?" I asked.
"Scop, I am," he replied, "and Scop ever more."
"Scop?" I wondered-an unusual name for a most unusual man.
"It means soothsayer, boy. Skald, the Northmen say; you would say bard." He laid a dirty finger beside his nose in a knowing way. "I am Truth Speaker to Ragnar Yellow Hair." At this he indicated the man on the throne with a reverential wave of his hand.
"His name is Yellow Hair? Truly?" I wondered aloud.
"It is that. Mind him, now. He is lord of the Geats and Oscingas." He raised both fists and clashed them together. "Two tribes, mark you. Many knives owe him blood. He is a most worthy gold-giver." Scop closed one eye and peered at me closely. "Be you slave or hostage, Irish?"
"Slave, I believe." I told him about the brief bargaining on the beach.
The old man nodded and placed a sooty finger on my leather collar. "Slave you are, indeed. But that is for the best. Slaves are often treated better than hostages. You might have done worse, Irish-might have done worse. There are places where the shaven men still bring a fair price."
Just then Ragnar saw the old man and called for him. Scop shambled away, laughing and smirking as he went. I stared after him, wondering what manner of man it was that I had just met. I had little time to think about this, however, for Gunnar summoned me.
"Aeddan!" he shouted, craning his neck.
I stepped nearer and he thrust his empty cup into my hands. "Ol!" he ordered, pointing at the vat.
Taking the cup, I made my way to the vat where the boys were busily filling the drinking vessels. I watched how they plunged the bowls and jars into the vat and did likewise. I returned to my place and delivered the jar into my master's hands. He nodded with a self-satisfied smile, well pleased to have his bargain producing such good return so quickly.
I took my place behind him once more to observe the revelry. The sight of so much food and drink, devoured with such vigour, made me weak with hunger. I gawked at the baskets of mounded bread, and the glistening meat slowly turning on the hearth; I gazed wistfully at the foam-rimmed cups and bowls continually raised and lowered the length of the board; I heard the rising cacophony of shouts and coarse laughter and hands slapped upon the board. The roister swirled throughout the hall and I stood forlorn, and contemplated a long dry day and hungry night stretching out before me.
When the meat was roasted, the carcasses were divided and the joints carried to the board where the barbarians fell upon them like the wolves they were. I watched them warm to their feast-hunch-shouldered at their meal, hands grasping, fingers tearing, heads down, teeth sunk in succulent flesh, rich hot juices running from hands and flowing down chins-eating and eating, stuffing themselves to repletion and beyond until, sated, they flopped forward onto the board to sleep. Sure, no wolf pack ever snored more loudly or slept more soundly.
And when they woke, they fell to eating and drinking again. Their first hunger appeased, they settled into a less frantic consumption. Now they desired amusement to heighten their pleasure, and they began calling upon their skald to provide them songs.
Up rose Ragnar Yellow Hair from his throne and cried aloud, "Scop! Siung Scop!"
At this the revellers began pounding the board with hands, cups, and jars. "Scop! Scop!" they called. "Siung! Siung!"
Out from his noisome corner the Truth Singer shuffled, head wagging slowly side to side as he limped towards the throne, where he stooped to embrace his lord's legs. Ragnar cuffed him and pushed him away, but there was no violence in the blow. Drawing himself upright, old Scop straightened, shaking back his rags-a dirty bird preparing to take flight.
The hall fell silent, anticipation grew keen; the revellers licked greasy fingers and leaned from their benches expectantly as the ragged man, his throat quivering with the effort, opened his mouth and began to sing.
