Berclea, Gloucestershire, 1034 ADThe bending birches, catkins trailing to the ground, the bark of the trunks splitting to peel like parchment, I surveyed with a fond eye from the sanctuary of the orchard. A gentle breeze off the nearby River Severn freshened the air and ruffled the apple leaves above my head. The mellow surroundings pleased me nearly as much as my estates in Cumtun.
“Pray, a moment of your time, Lord Godwine.” The heavy Norse-Irish accent of Domnall, my trading manager, interrupted my reflections.
I am quick to note the mood of a person and the air of the Irishman struck me as troubled and petulant.
“What ails you, my friend?”
“Lord, it is that the supply of slaves has dwindled to a mere trickle in recent weeks. I swear my best efforts are not enough.”
“Why do you sup
