Free The Saga of Colm the Slave by Mike Culpepper Page B

sweetened. Now Ketil said, “Of course, my ram is a
proven breeder.”
    Colm nodded. “Yes. How are his lambs
anyway?” He knew very well that several were deformed and hadn’t
survived long past their birth. Ketil chewed on an answer and Colm
added, “Just how old is he?”
    “Only four. Well, this will be his fifth
breeding.”
    Colm nodded thoughtfully as though
calculating how many years the ram had left. “Hmm…” He already knew
how old Ketil’s ram was, and its complete pedigree, too. Edgar was
a fount of knowledge.
    “Ah, well, this ram seems well enough,”
said Ketil. He sighed a great sigh. “I’ll take a chance and swap
mine for yours.”
    “Well…” Colm acted reluctant. “He does
have five more years of breeding in him than yours.” He glanced
sideways at Ketil, watching for a sign that there was an advantage
here that he could work.
    “Four,” said Ketil firmly, “And my ram
is proven.”
    Colm sighed, paused, nodded. “I suppose
this is a trade then.”
    They slapped palms and agreed to meet
the next day, halfway between their farms, and exchange rams. Both
men were secretly pleased though neither let any sign of it
show.
    The new ram proved energetic and
responsive, going straight to his work on being introduced to the
ewes. Colm and Gwyneth watched him perform for a time, then felt a
pressing need to go back inside the house. Old Edgar had already
determined that this was a time for privacy and gone off on some
errand or other.
     
    Soon it was time for the Autumn
Sacrifice. Colm was a bit nervous – this would be his first
attendance as a free man and he was uncertain how to act. Also,
this was his second harvest at the Trollfarm and his rent was due.
The first harvest was not of much account – some hay, that was all
– and the second wasn’t much better since Colm had been raiding and
unable to work the place. Still, the flock increased from one to
three sheep and there was a little wool, all spun into thread now
by Gwyneth, and hay enough for the winter. Oh, and Gwyneth’s
chickens, more every time he looked, and eggs, though Gwyneth
traded most of the excess for cow’s milk and the tools she required
to handle the wool. She had card and comb, distaff and spindle, and
lacked only a loom to begin weaving. Colm kept an eye out for
proper sized wood to make one. Anyway Colm was apprehensive when he
approached Bjorn and Thorolf about the rent.
    “Not much of an increase this season,”
said Thorolf.
    “No.” Colm agreed.
    “My fault,” said Bjorn, “For taking the
man away from his farm.”
    Thorolf shrugged, “Fault is easy to find
and one can’t spend blame. Well, there are some chickens, I
believe?”
    “Yes,” said Colm, “A little wool, some
hay, two lambs… Oh! And these.” He pulled the three pennies, his
raiding loot, from his purse and held them out. “I think this one’s
bad metal.” He pointed to the thick Frankish coin. “But the other
two seem good silver.”
    “Ah.” Thorolf took the Arab dirham and
bent it between his thumb and forefinger. He examined the crease.
“Looks good,” he said. “Suppose this penny and two chickens for the
year?”
    Colm nodded, relieved at not having to
pay more and embarrassed at paying so little. A good farm should
pay six pence or more in rent and more to buy it over time.
    Bjorn cleared his throat. “That sounds
right.” He was also owed a tenth. He would take the same amount
named by Thorolf so as not to put his chieftain in the wrong. He
reached for the Frankish coin.
    “No,” said Colm, “Take the good penny.
I’ll keep this one as a souvenir.” And to remind me of truth and
counterfeit, he thought. So the three men slapped hands and,
business done, set to drink and talk.
    Colm was only a freedman but he had a
certain status in the community. Magnus honoured him for avenging
his son and others were interested in hearing about his raiding
adventure. He spoke with Ketil for a time and, though neither