Knights of the Hawk (38 page)

‘Perhaps.’ The Dane grinned in a manner that put me in mind of a wolf while the old man shuffled off, then, when we were alone, he said to me: ‘What makes you think I want any passengers? Maybe I do well enough from my trade that I have no need for your money. Have you considered that?’

On my belt was a purse containing a clutch of gold coins that bore a strange curly script I couldn’t decipher, which had been part of Galfrid’s gift to us. I untied the knot, tossed it on to the table so he could hear the clink of metal within, and gestured for him to open it, which he did, loosening the drawstring and allowing the tiny discs to spill out into his palm. He examined them closely, holding them to the light and testing each one with his teeth.

‘Five of you?’ he asked, his eyes flicking to each of us in turn before settling on Eithne. A smirk came to his lips. ‘The girl as well?’

‘That’s right.’

He looked her up and down, and I saw hunger of a sort in his expression. ‘She’d fetch a fine price, I reckon. Does she belong to you?’

‘She’s not for sale, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘What is she then? Your wife?’

‘A fellow traveller.’

If the Dane was at all insulted by my terse manner, he didn’t show it. He shook his head. ‘I don’t have space aboard for that many. Three of you, easily, possibly four. But not five.’

Tæfl wasn’t the only game he knew how to play. I supposed I should have expected as much. I removed the smaller and thinner of the two arm-rings that I wore, and placed it in front of him.

‘Do you have space now?’

He fingered it, his sweaty brow furrowing while he contemplated whether or not to accept, and I stood watching, waiting, thinking that this was already a steep price to pay, and wondering how much more I could afford. Thankfully that was a decision I didn’t have to make.

‘We sail in two days, on the morning flood tide,’ he said.

‘Two days?’ I repeated. The sooner we could leave these shores, the better, and I’d been hoping to find a ship that could take us almost straightaway.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘In a hurry to leave, are you?’

I knew that to protest would be pointless, and might only further arouse his suspicions, of which I was sure he already had a few, and so instead I kept my mouth shut.

‘It makes no difference to me who you are or what it is you’re running from. But I’ll tell you this: we won’t wait for you. If you’re not there by the time we’re ready to cast off, you can swim to Yrland for all I care. Do you understand?’

‘I understand.’

‘You can keep your gold until we’re out on the water,’ he said. ‘So that you don’t have to worry about me sailing away with it. I’ve been called many things in my life, but a thief isn’t one of them. I have a reputation to maintain, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’

I knew only too well the value of reputation, marred though mine was in those days. He passed the gold and the arm-ring back to me, we clasped hands, and it was agreed. We were going to Dyflin.

Nineteen

WE SPENT A
restless two nights at the Two Boars while the Dane, whose name we learnt was Snorri, concluded his business. Restless, because I was convinced that those men who had come looking for me at Earnford would not be far behind us, and because I was aware, too, that the longer we lingered in one place, the greater the chance of our being caught.

But they did not come, and so it was with some relief that at last we sailed,
Hrithdyr
’s hold having been filled with bolts of wool-cloth, barrels of salted porpoise-meat, Rhenish quernstones and casks of English wine that came from the vineyards further up the Saverna valley. The wind was on the turn, however, a sure sign of worse weather to come, and Snorri kept looking to the grey-darkening skies and muttering in his own tongue, all the while fingering a small chain that hung around his neck from which, I noticed, hung both the heathen hammer and the Christian cross. Perhaps he still held to some of the old ways but was fearful of our Lord’s wrath and so wore the cross as well to placate Him, or possibly he thought that by worshipping both our God and those of his pagan ancestors, his soul would be guaranteed a place in one heaven or the other. Whatever he believed, his prayers seemed to work, for the storm that we’d all predicted failed to come, at least on that day.

We entered the Saverna early that afternoon, hugging close to the Wessex shore while the grey waters grew ever choppier and the wind whipped the waves into white stallions. No storm came that evening either, though, and so the following day we crossed to the Welsh side, making port on an island where stood a small stone chapel dedicated to a certain St Barruc, of whom none of us had ever heard. We were just in time, too, for no sooner had we dragged the boat up the shingle on that island’s sheltered shore than we were pelted with hail, and a gale rose from the west and the sea foamed and crashed against the cliffs. There we were forced to wait until the wind turned again and the seas calmed.

Still England lay in sight to our larboard side, although it was no more than the faintest sliver of green and brown and grey on the horizon. Only then did I realise that in the five years since the invasion, not once had I left its shores. I had ventured on brief forays into Wales and marched into the far corners of the kingdom, close to the borderlands where King Guillaume’s realm ended and that of the Scots began, but never in all that time had I made the voyage back across the seas, as so many others had done. The Breton had become a Norman, had become bound to England. And now I would leave that land behind me. The land where I’d made my reputation, where I had lived and loved and lost. The kingdom I’d given everything short of my life to defend, and all, it seemed now, for nothing.

I stood by the stern, looking out across the white-tipped waters towards those vanishing cliffs as
Hrithdyr
rose and dipped in the swell and the wind filled its sails, until a sudden squall blew in and cloud veiled that land, and I could see it no longer.

It took more than a week for us to reach Dyflin. Even I, who knew little of the sea, knew that the autumn was ever a difficult time to set sail. The winds were changeable, storms could arrive with little warning, and pirates lurked, looking for easy plunder, knowing that shipmasters were eager to make it home in time for Christmas or Yule or whatever other name they gave to the winter feast, their holds filled and their coin-purses bursting with whatever they had earned from that year’s dealing. God must have been with us, for we saw no sign of them, despite all the warnings of the folk who lived on those shores, who said that their low-hulled, dragon-prowed longships had been spotted roving further along the coast. Nevertheless we proceeded with care.

The journey could probably have been made in better time, but Snorri was a cautious man, and one who clung to his superstitions, too. He refused to leave sight of land unless the signs were wholly favourable, and even then only after he had cast the runesticks to assure himself that a watery fate did not await us. Not that I blamed him. Far better to be cautious than dead. Besides, the open sea was already rough enough for my liking. As we left the Welsh coast behind us and, with a following breeze filling our sails, struck a course west towards Yrland, I remembered one of the reasons I’d never made the journey back across the Narrow Sea in the past five years. The horizon rose and fell and rolled and pitched from one side to another, and my belly churned, and I huddled down by the stern, my eyes closed, as I tried to hold back the sickness swelling within. To no avail.

‘I thought you Flemings were well used to the sea,’ Snorri said after what must have been the third time I’d spewed over the ship’s side. He slapped me on the back as I heaved up what I hoped were the last of my stomach’s contents, wiped away some that had seeped down my chin, and spat in an effort to rid my mouth of the taste.

‘Not this Fleming.’ Another swell of bile rose up my throat, and I readied myself to retch once again, but it subsided.

‘The last time I was in Saint-Omer, it was still being rebuilt after the great storm, the one that struck that midsummer’s night. Were you there then?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I wasn’t.’

He shook his head sadly. ‘I was there. I saw the winds bring down the monastery’s bell-tower, saw rain such as you have never seen turn the streets into rivers, wash whole houses away. Ships were torn from their moorings, cast downriver and out to sea, though not
Hrithdyr
. She alone weathered the tempest. That’s how she got her name.
Stormbeast
, I suppose you would call her in your tongue. A terrible night, that was.’

‘I heard the tales,’ I lied. This was the first I’d heard of any such storm. If only he would stop harassing me with these questions about a place I’d never so much as visited.

‘That tavern is almost the only part of the old town that still stands.’ He gave a laugh. ‘The Monk’s Pisspot, everyone called it, on account of that’s what the ale there used to taste like. You know the place I’m talking about, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘Who could forget it?’

But Snorri was not laughing any more, and that was when I realised my mistake. Saint-Omer was among the richest ports in Flanders. Had there been any such disaster, news of it would surely have reached our ears. There had been no midsummer’s storm, and neither, I realised now, was there any tavern by that name. He was testing me.

If he’d had his suspicious before, he knew for certain now that I was not who I claimed to be.

‘So what are you?’ he asked. ‘An outlaw? An oath-breaker, maybe?’

‘I’ve broken no oath.’

‘Then what? You’re obviously fleeing something. Old Snorri has wits as well as beauty, you know. He can tell these things.’

I returned his stare but did not speak.

‘You’re entitled to your secrets, I suppose, if that’s the way you want to keep it. Your gold’s good and that’s all that concerns me. I’m not one to pry into another man’s business. I knew you were no Fleming, though, from the moment we met.’

‘How?’

‘The way you speak, for a start. Did you think you could trick someone who’s travelled as widely as I have? Anyone who lives his life on the whale-road can easily tell a Fleming from a Norman from a Gascon from a Ponthievin by the sound of their voice.’ He sighed the heavy sigh of one who had seen his share of fools over the years, and had grown tired of their games. ‘If you want my advice—’

‘I don’t,’ I muttered, but he went on, unperturbed.

‘—it’s that you should tread carefully, Goscelin of Saint-Omer, or whatever you’re really called. Count yourself lucky that I’m not the sort who’s easily offended, but there are many that won’t take kindly to men who try to deceive them. If there’s one place you don’t want to start making enemies, it’s in Dyflin.’

‘I can take care of myself,’ I answered, though the conviction in my words was undermined somewhat as I felt another heave coming. Grabbing the gunwale to steady myself, I leant over the side, but by now I had nothing left to give and only the slightest dribble came out.

‘Onions,’ Snorri said.

‘What?’ I asked, after I’d wiped a sleeve across my mouth.

‘Onions. I always recommend them for anyone who suffers from ship-sickness. Raw is best, but if you can’t stomach that then boiled will do. Also rosemary and ginger, if you can acquire them. Grind them into a powder and mix them with water. Better still would be to add the juice of a quince, although you’ll be lucky if you find any this side of the Narrow Sea.’

I thanked him for his suggestion, though I’d tried many a remedy for various ailments in my years, few of which I could honestly say had ever seemed to do much good.

‘Why Dyflin?’ he asked. ‘Of all the places to choose exile, why there?’

‘I’m looking for someone.’

‘Who?’

I hesitated, wondering whether or not I should tell Snorri. But I supposed he had shown faith in me, despite the fact that I had lied to him, and that was worth something. The least I could do was return the favour.

‘A man called Haakon Thorolfsson,’ I said at last. ‘Have you heard of him?’

‘Haakon Thorolfsson?’ he asked, as if testing the name on his lips to see if it brought forth any memory. ‘I can’t say the name is familiar, but then there aren’t many of us Danes still living in Dyflin these days; it’s an Irish town now, mostly. What is he, a merchant?’

‘A warlord.’

‘A warlord?’ He nodded towards my scabbard. ‘Looking to sell your sword to him, are you?’

I glared at him in warning and he raised his palms to show that he meant no offence. ‘As I said, your business is your own. But I might be able to help you. I know a man who lives in the city, who hears many things and knows many people. Magnus, his name is. I’ll take you to him, if you want. He might have heard of this Haakon, and if he has, there’s a good chance he’ll know where you can find him, too.’

His generosity surprised me, considering that I was but a stranger to him, but I wasn’t about to refuse such an offer. Sometimes fate is harsh and at others it is kind, and all a man can do is take advantage of its kindness while it lasts.

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I’d like to meet your friend.’

‘I didn’t say he was my friend. Although that’s not to say he’s my enemy, either. Truth be told, he’s not the friendly sort. He keeps himself to himself. Around your age, he is, probably a few winters younger, fond of his secrets. A brooding kind of man, with a temper hotter than hell’s fires.’ He gave me a gap-toothed grin. ‘In many ways you remind me of him.’

I was about to protest, but at that moment a shout came from the lookout by the prow, who had spied land in the distance, ahead and a little to our steerboard side. At once Snorri left me and began barking orders to his crew in their own tongue. The lookout’s eyes were better than mine, and it was a while longer before I was able to see it: at first only a rocky headland rising high above the savage, white-foaming waves, then further along wide beaches of dark sand and shingle, with green meadows and gold-bronze woodlands beyond, and faint wisps of rising hearth-smoke marking out villages and farmsteads, though we were too far away to make out any houses. Cormorants and other seabirds soared in their hundreds, occasionally breaking away from the flock to dive beneath the waves, only to resurface moments later with glistening, writhing fish in their bills.