With the three mills at last in operation, Rurik enjoyed a spell of long-missed quiet. His days passed in leisurely rides, loosing a few arrows to bring down game and vary the fare at table.
Whoosh!
A feathered shaft hissed into the brush, and a furious bellow split the air. Out burst a boar, dark brown and massive. As it wheeled in confusion, Rurik loosed another arrow at its neck—but the shot went awry, burying itself instead in the beast's haunch.
Realizing that its assailant was near, the boar charged headlong. Rurik shot once more; the arrow struck its brow, but the iron tip failed to pierce the skull, breaking only the skin.
"A savage brute," he muttered.
His six shield-men rushed forward, casting their axes and closing in with spears to guard their lord. Struck by iron more than once, the boar staggered, its charge slowing. Scenting danger from the forest of spearpoints, it circled warily—only to take yet another arrow.
This time Rurik's aim was true: the shaft drove deep into the neck. Blood spurted foul and hot along the arrow's fluted groove, the feathers quivering with the beast's last convulsions.
At length the heavy carcass collapsed. Two guards prodded its belly with spears, then drew knives to dress the kill.
By rough reckoning the boar weighed near two hundred kilograms, its tusks sharp as short spears, its bulk greater than most of its kind. Rurik ordered the head preserved and mounted as a trophy for the hall.
The men quartered it and slung the parts across four horses for the ride back to Tynnborg.
The catch promised days free of fish on the table. In high spirits, Rurik whistled a jaunty tune—until he spied, waiting at his gate, several finely dressed men and women.
Gentry?
If they've come of their own accord, trouble cannot be far behind.
He swung down, strode straight to the hall, and scarcely had he taken his seat when a woman burst into tears, crying for justice.
"Speak, then. What grievance?" Rurik asked, stifling a yawn and leaning upon the carved arms of his chair, his gaze cool upon the visitors.
The woman was past forty, gaunt and hollow-cheeked, her words broken by coughs. Behind her stood a boy and a girl. To the other side waited two men, likely father and son; the elder clutched a document scrawled in Anglo-Saxon script.
As the quarrel unfolded, Rurik gleaned the heart of it. The men claimed the woman's late husband had owed them three pounds of silver, and since she could not repay, they demanded land instead.
The widow protested she knew nothing of such a debt and would not pay.
"Three pounds is no trifle," Rurik remarked. "There must have been witnesses. Where are they?"
"Southward with the levy last year," she answered bitterly. "He fell in battle."
Debtor and witnesses both dead—the matter was vexing. Rurik tapped the arm of his chair with his forefinger and bade Mitcham examine the bond.
"Date, place, witness, sum—check them all."
After half a minute, Mitcham sighed. "Nothing amiss, my lord."
Rurik's brows drew tight. "If the husband truly owed three pounds of silver, what was his purpose?"
The two men replied in unison: "To buy books of the Romans. Some heterodox treatises, we were told."
Books? Rurik sat straighter. "Of what sort?"
They glanced at each other, sheepish. "We know no Latin."
The widow too looked bewildered, swearing she had never laid eyes on such worthless things. But from behind her, someone murmured a phrase in Latin—then fell silent.
"Who spoke?" Rurik's eyes swept the room, coming to rest on the girl. "What did you just say?"
At his forward-leaning posture, the gleam in his eyes, and his hand tightening upon his sword-hilt like a beast about to spring, the girl blanched and shook her head.
Mitcham coughed. "My lord, if I heard aright, she said Commentarii de Bello Gallico—that is, in our tongue, The Gallic Wars."
At once the two men brightened. "Yes, yes, he mentioned Gaul! There—his daughter admits it."
The widow realized the ruse was pierced. In fury she seized her daughter by the hair. "Damn you, Herjigif! I warned you before we came—one slip of the tongue, and I should have sold you to the slavers!"
The girl shrieked as her mother dragged her about the hall, until the din tried even Rurik's patience.
Mitcham leaned close and whispered: "My lord, most books in the market are sermons and theology. Works like The Gallic Wars are rare indeed. Why not buy them cheaply?"
"There is sense in that," Rurik mused. "They might serve as primers in Latin."
Knowledge was treasure beyond price. He straightened. "Well then, girl—Herjigif, was it? Tell me what volumes your father left. Name them, and I may pay."
"My lord, my name is Herjigif," she blurted, but her mother twisted her ear until she cried out the list.
One by one the Latin titles spilled forth. Mitcham translated:
Fragments of the Gallic Wars
On the Orator
On the Republic
On the Constellations and Fate
A Journey through al-Andalus
The Natural Rites of the Caledonians
Mitcham could hardly contain himself. "My lord, their worth far exceeds three pounds of silver. Buy them at once! If nothing else, they could be resold to southern merchants for a fine profit."
Profit as well? Rurik's eyes glinted. Caesar and Cicero—their names alone would fetch a price.
He cleared his throat. "Very well. Since you cannot repay, I will take these 'scraps of parchment' for three pounds of silver. Deliver the books. If they prove genuine, I shall remit the sum to your creditor."
"No! Too little!" Herjigif cried. "Those were my father's life's labor. Decades in the wool trade he saved to buy them—"
But her mother, fearful the lord might repent, clapped a hand over her mouth and hastened to accept.
That night, after a supper of boar's flesh, Rurik lay in his chamber reflecting on the price of knowledge.
Three pounds of silver—the worth of twenty-four oxen, or of a manor of two hundred acres—and even so it was a bargain. With books so dear, small wonder learning had ever been the Church's hoarded treasure.