On the fifteenth day of May, Bjorn's longship came gliding up the Tyne, its black sail slackening as the oars dipped and drew the vessel toward the wharf at Tynemouth. The smell of salt and pitch hung in the air, mingling with the sweeter scents of cut timber and brewing malt that drifted from the riverside workshops.
No sooner had the ship's prow kissed the dock than a patrol of armed townsmen approached — rough-featured fellows in mail shirts, each bearing a round shield and a short axe. They moved with the officious precision of men long accustomed to enforcing order.
"Inspection," their captain declared curtly. "No contraband. No weapons for trade."
