Hawk Quest (56 page)

Vallon shook his head. ‘I can’t ask my company to make any more sacrifices. The season’s growing late and we have a great distance to travel. We must press on.’

He’d risen to his feet. Garrick remained seated with an expression of gentle melancholy. Vallon touched his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do.’

XXXII

Wayland padded through the forest with Syth and the dog in ghostly attendance. To their right the horned moon laid a silver trackway across the river. From the Vikings’ camp on the opposite bank came a ceaseless chopping and hammering. Day and night they laboured to repair their longship. When Wayland had spied on them the day after the battle, he would have sworn that the hulk was unsalvageable, its
mid-section burned to the waterline. Returning the next day, he’d found that they’d already started replacing the strakes and yesterday they’d made good the starboard timbers.

He crept into a grove of willows and peered up through the tracery. Two plump silhouettes sprouted from a branch twenty feet above the ground. He turned to Syth, laid a finger to his lips and worked his way round until both roosting grouse were outlined against the moon. He dropped to one knee and raised the miniature crossbow Raul had made for him. The bow was drawn, an untipped arrow slotted in the track. He aimed low to compensate for the spring of the bolt at such close range. He loosed. A solid thump and one of the grouse fell flapping in its death spasms on the forest floor. Its mate uttered a cluck of alarm and shifted along the branch. Wayland reloaded and took fresh aim.

Missed. The bolt clattered away through the boughs. The grouse shuffled almost to the tip. Wayland loaded another bolt. The branch bobbed under the weight of the grouse. Wayland tried to adjust to the rhythm. No good. He shut his eyes, took a breath, raised the bow and loosed as soon as the grouse came into his sights.

Phut.

Wayland blinked. The branch was bare. The dog ran in to retrieve. He massaged the back of his neck. ‘That’s enough for tonight.’

‘How many have we got?’

Wayland counted the bodies looped around his belt. ‘That makes seven.’

Syth clapped her hands. ‘Six for the falcons. One for us. I’ll cook it right now.’

While she roasted the game, Wayland stared vacantly into the flames. He was worn out by his never-ending duties – tending the falcons, finding food for them, spying on the Vikings …

He ate his share of the grouse in silence. Across the fire, Syth watched him with eyes full of questions. He knew she was troubled by his moody silences, the fact that he hadn’t taken her in his arms since leaving Iceland.

‘This is half raw,’ he said, tossing the remains to the dog.

‘I know you’re tired, so I cooked it as fast as I could.’

Wayland lay down and pulled up a blanket. Syth settled beside him, not quite touching. He could sense her unhappiness. He remembered
the rows between his parents and his relief when they made up. He rolled over. ‘It’s not you that puts me out of heart. It’s thinking of what we have to go through.’

‘It’s not only that,’ she said. ‘You’re worried that you’re stuck with me for ever and ever.’ She snuggled close, her breath warm on his cheek. ‘I might get sick of you first.’

Wayland bolted awake. Syth and the dog came tearing out of the sallows.

‘Old Horny’s in the river!’

Wayland grabbed his bow. ‘Old Horny?’

‘Black with horns and cloven feet, big as a house.’

Her eyes were huge and the dog seemed to have been seized by a fit, jaws gnashing, flanks trembling. Excitement not terror. He peered towards the river. Grey trees were beginning to gather out of the dawn. He heard water purling through a shoal.

‘Stay here.’

He strung an arrow and worked towards the bank. Glancing back, he saw Syth creeping behind him with one hand clenched between her teeth. He gestured at her to go back.

She shook her head emphatically.

Wayland reached the edge of the thicket. Twenty yards from the bank stood a diabolical misshape backlit by the paling sky. He’d never seen such a monster. Several different creatures seemed to have gone into its making. Its dewlapped head had a trunk-like snout, jackass ears and a crown of antlers six feet across. A bull’s humped shoulders sloped down to a puny crupper tipped with an apology of a tail. All supported on knobbly legs that looked too spindly to bear its weight. It looked up, masticating slowly. Water dribbled from its muzzle. It breathed a soft snort and lowered its head again. Wayland wormed back to Syth.

‘It’s not the devil,’ he whispered.

‘What is it then?’

‘Some kind of deer.’

‘Old Horny can take any form he chooses. Once when I was in the fen, I saw a flittermouse that—’

Wayland pressed a hand over her mouth and opened his eyes wide in warning.

She nodded and he took his hand away. He raised his bow. Syth clutched at him.

‘You’re not going to kill it.’

‘We’ve nearly finished the horsemeat. A beast that big will feed us for a week. Stay here and don’t make a sound.’

The beast hadn’t moved. There was no wind to carry their scent and the current jostling down the shoal must have smothered their voices. The beast was standing almost head-on to him. Wayland waited for it to present its flank. He could make out the gleam of its eyes. It shifted its position and sighed. A melancholy misfit oppressed by its solitude. Wayland sighted behind the withers. Only a shot to the heart would bring down an animal that size.

He knew he’d hit his mark from the hollow sound the arrow made as it struck. The beast grunted and plunged forward, its hooves throwing up spray. The dog hurled itself into the water.

‘Leave it, fool!’

Wayland drew another arrow and set off along the bank in pursuit. The beast was galloping towards a spit choked with willows and birches. It had almost reached it when it stumbled and sank down on its front knees. The dog whimpered and paddled faster. The beast groaned and regained its feet. It staggered forward and then stopped again, legs splayed, head drooping. Deaf to Wayland’s commands, the dog surged up and sank its jaws into a hind leg, aiming for the hamstring. Spray exploded and the dog went sailing through the air to land fifteen feet away.

‘I told you!’

The beast swung its head towards him. Gouts of blood poured from its mouth. It gave a sorrowing grunt and then it settled on its hindquarters and flopped over.

There was a ringing in Wayland’s ears. The dog swam up to the carcass, apparently uninjured. He puffed out his cheeks and turned. Syth was standing a few feet away, staring in awe. He drew his knife.

‘I’d better check that it’s dead.’

It lay on its side, blood darkening the water around it. He looked into its eye and saw his reflection, growing duller with each passing moment.

The dog was watching him with a sheepish expression. He kicked out at it. ‘You’re lucky it didn’t break your back.’

He dragged the beast into the shallows and tethered it by a line to a tree. Syth walked around it, studying it from all angles, but she wouldn’t come within touching distance.

‘Run back to camp and tell Raul to bring the boat.’

She turned and bounded away, her limbs whirling in the way that always made him smile.

‘Better make that two boats.’

She ran on the spot and then darted off, the dog racing after her. Wayland looked again at the beast and his smile died. He ran a hand through his hair.

The new-risen sun lay like a chalice in a hollow on the horizon. He lay down with his hands behind his head. Above him, birch leaves winked like gold coins. He felt like a murderer.

The sun was shining in his eyes when he woke. He rose yawning and peered towards the Viking camp. The sounds of labour had stopped. The Vikings had dragged the longship out of the water to continue their repairs, and from here it was hidden by the curve of the bay.

He was about to turn away when a jerky movement caught his attention. Up over the trees fringing the bay rose a pale spar. Wayland grimaced. A mast swinging upright.

A creature in the forest gave a pained scream. The cry came again, from further off. He scanned the trees behind him. There were bears and wolves in the forest. He’d seen their spoor.

When he looked across the river again, the dragon ship was gliding out into the bay, its new timbers in bald contrast to the rest of the hull. Oars stroked and then rested. Even if it wasn’t fit to take to the open sea, the Vikings could use it to block the company’s escape. The oars dipped again and the longship reversed back into its lair. After a while the hammering and tapping started up again.

Wayland looked upriver and saw the two boats approaching. When Raul saw the beast he pushed his hat high up his scalded brow.

‘How many arrows did it take?’

‘One. Do you know what it is?’

‘Elk. I’ve seen them on the Baltic coast. Good eating. Smoked, it will keep us fed until we reach Norway.’ He noticed the grouse at the base of the tree. ‘And you’ve got grub for the falcons.’

‘It isn’t enough.’

‘Kill some more tonight.’

Wayland shook his head. ‘The Vikings have repaired the longship. They’ve even made a new mast.’

Raul scanned the enemy shore. ‘A mast ain’t no use without a sail.’

‘It doesn’t matter. They still control the river.’

The company slept on
Shearwater
out in mid-river – a precaution against its capture by Drogo and Helgi’s men. Come sunrise next morning, her crew brought her in close to the Icelanders’ camp, dropping anchor in five feet of water. The refugees jostled on the bank with their provisions and the few trade goods they’d saved. Vallon lifted a hand.

‘Before you board, some rules. First, all food goes into a common store.’

Voices rose in dissent and a few individuals clutched their bundles to their chests.

‘It’s up to you. Keep your own food, go your own way. Richard’s in charge of the stores and will make sure everybody receives fair shares. You can appoint one of your own people to help him.’

The grumbles subsided.

‘No Icelander is allowed to carry arms on the ship without my permission. Hand over your weapons as you board. They’ll be kept ready for immediate use, but if any man takes up a sword without my say-so, I’ll treat it as mutiny.’ Ignoring the fresh wave of protests, Vallon turned to Garrick. ‘Bring her in. Load the horses first.’

When they’d been lowered into the hold, the Icelanders began filing onto the ship. Raul and Garrick collected their weapons. Hero and Richard gathered in the provisions. As one man jumped to the deck, Raul seized him by the arm, reached into the man’s tunic and pulled out a small sack. He opened it and sniffed the contents. ‘Barley,’ he said, and cuffed the smuggler across the deck.

The stern deck filled. Caitlin stood arguing at the foot of the gangplank with Tostig and Olaf, Helgi’s men.

‘We haven’t got all day,’ said Vallon.

Tostig looked up. ‘We won’t lay down our swords.’

‘Then stay here. You’ll be doing me a favour.’

Caitlin said something Vallon didn’t catch. Tostig and Olaf climbed
the plank in a fury, hurling down their swords so violently that Raul had to use both hands to wrench them from the deck.

Dressed in a plain wool shift, Caitlin mounted the plank with her maids. Hands helped her down and the Icelanders parted before her.

Only the two Normans remained on the bank. ‘Fulk will hand over his sword,’ said Drogo. ‘You know I can’t surrender mine.’

‘I understand,’ said Vallon. ‘Garrick, raise the plank and leave Drogo with his honour unblemished.’

‘You were glad enough of my sword the night we fought the Vikings. You’ll probably need it again before this journey is over. I give you my word that I won’t raise it against you until we reach a place of safety.’

Vallon glanced at his company, saw Raul shrug. He turned back to Drogo. ‘I accept your promise. Now get aboard. We’re wasting the tide.’

The Icelanders crammed the stern deck. Raul stood on a thwart to count them. ‘Twenty-three. Captain, even if we could rescue the prisoners, there ain’t no room for them.’

Vallon nodded, then called for silence. ‘Most of you were sailing for Nidaros, but we don’t have enough food and water for such a long voyage. We’ll take you to the nearest haven. From there you’ll have to make your own arrangements. In the meantime, here are some more rules. Some of you know that I campaigned against the Moors in Spain. I noticed that our Muslim enemies enjoyed better health than the Christian armies did. The Moors avoid fevers by washing their hands before handling food and after attending to the wants of nature.’

Raul was translating. ‘Not sure they follow you, Captain.’

‘Tell them to shit in the buckets provided at the stern and rinse their hands afterwards. No personal cooking fires. Meals to be taken in shifts.’ Vallon lifted a hand. ‘One last thing. The foredeck is reserved for my company. Nobody steps on it without my permission. That’s it.’

Father Hilbert called for attention. ‘Before we commit ourselves to the perils that await us, let us fall to our knees in earnest supplication of God’s mercy and forgiveness for all the grievous wrongs—’

‘Say your prayers on the move,’ said Vallon. He nodded at Garrick. ‘Hoist anchor.’

*

Shearwater
rowed to within a mile of the Vikings’ camp before their lookouts blew a warning.

‘Keep to the left bank,’ Vallon ordered. ‘Raul, prepare to hand out the weapons.’

‘They won’t be able to launch their ship in time,’ Wayland said. He’d returned from last night’s prowling to report that the pirates had beached the longship for further repairs.

The tide bore them downstream at strolling pace. The bay came in sight.

‘There they are!’

The Vikings streamed down to the shore, yelling and shaking their weapons. One group dragged behind them the roped and wretched prisoners. Their captors herded them to the water’s edge, where they fell to their knees, raising arms in supplication, beating their chests, tearing their hair.

‘We must save them!’ one of the passengers shouted, and other Icelanders took up his cry. Many were relatives or neighbours of the captives.