Wayland seized Raul’s arm. ‘I won’t forget this.’
Raul fought for breath. ‘Nor will I!’
Wayland crawled over to Syth. Hero and Richard had covered her with blankets and were chafing her limbs.
‘Is she dead?’
Hero threw him a shocked glance ‘No. I think she’ll be all right if we can keep her warm.’
Wayland uncovered her face. It was mottled and waxy and the sight of it brought back old horrors. He shook her. ‘Syth, don’t die.’
Her eyelids fluttered, her lips moved.
‘I’ll get a sleeping bag,’ Hero said.
Wayland pressed his cold body against her. Shivers convulsed him. The dog flopped down beside them. He noticed crossbow bolts sticking out of the ship’s timbers and became aware of the motion of the ship pecking in the small waves. There was a voice in his head that wouldn’t go away – a familiar voice intoning what sounded like a curse or malediction.
He raised his head. On the ship, nobody moved and apart from the voice in his head, everything was smothered in an eerie silence. Vallon stood in the bow, staring out to sea. Hero had doubled over like a stringless puppet. Richard looked stunned. Raul met Wayland’s eye and spat with eloquence.
Wayland groped for the gunwale and pulled himself upright at the second attempt. The Normans moved like shadows on the fading shore. He shook his head and screwed a finger into his ear.
It was Drogo’s disembodied voice that wouldn’t go away.
‘
You’re all bound for hell. Your leader isn’t called Vallon. His name is Guy de Crion. He killed his own wife and murdered the Duke of Aquitaine’s nephew. Do you hear me? You’re all bound for hell
.’
Shearwater
drifted fog-bound on the tidal swill. Someone was screeching. It was Snorri. He was capering around the edge of the hold, stamping his feet and shaking his fist. ‘Christ,’ Vallon groaned. He made his way aft, stumbling as if the ship were rolling in a swell.
‘What the devil’s wrong with you?’
‘’Tis the girl, cap’n. We have to get her off.’
‘Calm down. We’ll put her ashore at the first opportunity.’
‘No, no. She’s jinxed. There’ll be no getting away while she’s on board.’
Vallon glanced into the hold. The girl sat cocooned in a sleeping sack with Wayland on one side, the dog on the other. It would be a brave man who tried to come between them.
‘What do you expect me to do? Throw her overboard?’
Snorri grasped Vallon’s sleeve. ‘She can paddle back on me punt.’
‘Send her back to the Normans? Are you mad?’
‘Cap’n, I swear we’re doomed if we don’t get rid of her.’
‘We’re doomed if you don’t get this ship under way.’ With great effort, Vallon made his tone conciliatory. ‘You’re the sailing master. We’re relying on you.’ He gave Snorri’s shoulder a squeeze and lowered his voice. ‘Have no fear. I’ll deal with the girl.’
Snorri regarded him with watery hope. ‘Ye promise? She’s a cunning little mother.’
Vallon turned his head. ‘Wayland, on deck.’
Wayland climbed up and made to walk past. Vallon checked him. ‘The rest of you, over here. We’re going to get the ship under sail.’
Raul looked up dully. ‘There ain’t no wind.’
‘I know that, you blockhead. We need to be ready when it comes.’
Raul manhandled himself upright. Hero and Richard clambered to their feet like wounded insects.
‘You think you have no strength left,’ Vallon told them. ‘But I guarantee you won’t feel weary when the Normans grapple with us.’ He stepped back. ‘Master Snorri, set the mast if you please.’
Snorri gave a high-pitched giggle. ‘There ain’t enough hands.’
‘What! How many do you need?’
‘Six to pull her upright, four to hold her steady, two to lever her into the old woman. Never saw it done with less than eight and that was in harbour with the hands pulling on shore.’
Vallon stared at the mast – a pine trunk forty feet long with a base as thick as a man’s waist. It had taken a dozen men to lift it aboard and slide its lower end into the hold. Now they had to raise it through seventy degrees with half that number – including a man with only one arm and two youths as feeble as noviciates after a week’s fast.
‘Raul has the strength of three. We’ll lift it somehow.’
‘Cap’n, if she slips, she’ll smash my ship and then where will we be?’
Hero stepped forward. ‘We could keep the mast centred by lashing two rails lengthways across the hold.’ He pointed at the yard and its spare stowed along the port side. ‘Those look long enough.’
‘At last, someone who uses his head.’ Vallon turned to the rest of the crew. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
Raul twiddled his hat in his hands. ‘Captain, not being funny, but none of us have sat down to food since yesterday.’
‘All right. Change into dry clothes and snatch a meal.’
Vallon was as stupefied by toil as the rest of them. He plopped down onto a thwart, palping the torn muscles in his side. His palms were blistered and split, his fingers swollen and the tips corpse-white. When he kicked off his wet breeches, he saw that the skin on his inner thighs had been rubbed raw. He sponged himself with clean water. Clothed afresh, he felt a little better.
‘Sir, take this,’ Richard said, offering him bread and mutton and a cup of ale.
He ate only a few mouthfuls before impatience got the better of him. ‘Drogo will be halfway to Lynn by now. Let’s get to work.’
‘See the old woman,’ Snorri said, pointing at a coffin-size block of oak spanning the four centre frames. ‘The socket in the middle takes the mast foot. The block on top of her, we call that ’un the mast fish. She closes round the mast front and sides. Takes the strain when the ship’s under sail. Knock a wedge into the groove at the back and that mast ain’t goin’ nowheres.’
‘Got that?’ said Vallon.
First they inched the mast forward to align its foot with the socket in the keelson. Even that dull task showed Vallon what weight and forces they were dealing with. Snorri adjusted the mast fish and greased the foot to ease entry. ‘Need a man down here to guide her in.’
Vallon glanced around. ‘Wayland, that’ll be your job.’
Raul nudged the falconer. ‘I saw a man lose his mitts doing that.’
‘Damn your flapping tongue.’
Snorri placed a silver coin in the socket.
‘What’s that for?’ asked Wayland.
‘To pay the ferryman if I’m drownded.’
Raul sneaked a glance at Vallon and flipped down a coin of his own.
They lashed the yards each side of the mast, using thwarts at each end of the hold as anchor points. At Hero’s suggestion, they tied a crosspiece between the yards to prevent the mast from being pulled too far forward.
Snorri uncoiled the anchor line one-handed. ‘Need a man with knotcraft to tie this to the mast head.’
Raul shinned up the sloping mast and tied the line about five feet below the top. ‘You sure that’s fast?’ Snorri called.
‘Make a noose for your head and we’ll see.’
Snorri walked forward paying out the line. ‘Now we rig the gin.’
This was a stout pole fifteen feet long with a forked top. Snorri passed the free end of the line over the fork, then Wayland and Raul lifted it vertical and dropped its base into a socket forward of the hold. The line from the mast now slanted up over the fork, then down to the hands mustered on the foredeck. Snorri stood to one side and coordinated their efforts. ‘Take up slack.’
Vallon pulled in line.
‘Tighter. The line’s sappy. Brace.’
Vallon pulled until he could feel the inertia of the mast.
‘All together now – heave!’
Vallon threw himself back on his heels. The hemp thrummed and water flew off it, but the mast didn’t budge.
Snorri, half a-squat, exhorted them. ‘Pull will ye. Pull can’t ye. Make it a long pull. Make it a strong pull. What d’ye call that? I’ve seen kiddies haul harder. Pull for your lives, damn ye. Break yer backs. Pop yer lungs!’
This time they raised the mast a few inches, but the weight was too much to bear and it sagged back.
They stood blowing like horses, shaking their hands.
‘We need more leverage,’ Vallon gasped. His eye fell on one of the oars. He stumbled forward.
‘Don’t ye go breaking that,’ Snorri cried. ‘There’s timber in the hold.’
Vallon found an eight-foot balk of oak and took up position behind the mast, holding the beam like a harpoon. Once more the crew wrapped their hands around the line and hauled away. The mast rose a few inches – enough for him to slip the beam into the gap. Reaching as high as he could, he hung all his weight from the lever. The veins in his neck stood out. A string of snot dangled from his nose.
‘Now she comes,’ Snorri cried.
With a resentful creaking, the mast shifted a few degrees towards the upright. The beam slipped and Vallon tripped, but when he looked up, the mast was still suspended. ‘Keep it there,’ he panted, and staggered back to join the rest of the crew.
The lever had made the critical difference. Slowly the mast swung upright, the work becoming easier with every degree gained. Snorri regulated progress. ‘Just a little ways more. Titty bit further. Whoa!’
At close to plumb, the mast felt almost weightless. Snorri gathered the free end of the line from each man in turn and lashed it around the stem. ‘Now we fit the foot.’
With some barging and levering from Raul and Wayland, the mast seemed to find its own way into the keelson, sinking home with a judder.
Snorri and Raul lashed the mast fish tight around the base. When they’d driven in the wedge, Snorri straightened, examined the mast from all angles, and then looked at Vallon. ‘Job’s a good ’un.’
The crew sank down groaning.
‘Time for sitting about later,’ said Vallon. ‘We still have to rig her.’
In fact only Snorri and Raul had the know-how. After helping to hoist the yard and watching the skein of shrouds and stays begin to take shape, Vallon went into the bow to check the tide. The fog still held them in stale suspension. Dew dropped like rain from the
cordage. The clothes he’d put on dry a short time ago bristled with moisture.
He sensed someone behind him. Hero, with eyes cast down, offered him a cup of ale. Vallon drained it and wiped his mouth. ‘What time do you make it?’
‘I’ve lost track. I don’t even know which way we’re facing. Thank God Drogo’s as blind as us.’
‘I’m not so sure. Listen to the racket the birds are making out to sea. I suspect the fog’s only lying along the coast and the Normans are waiting for us to stick our noses out.’
‘Then let’s pray that the fog lasts till nightfall.’
Vallon was struck by a memory. ‘Do animals have the power of thought?’
Hero blinked at such an odd question. ‘Aristotle states that man is the only rational animal. Why do you ask?’
Vallon stared into the fog. ‘I shared quarters once with a rat that showed human cunning. Every evening, after I’d put my platter down, that rat would come for the crumbs. Always at the same time, from the same hole, following the same path. To hide itself, the rat crept along with a scrap of cloth on its back. Wouldn’t you say that showed it had the power of reasoning?’
Hero pondered. ‘Because the rat couldn’t see you, it assumed that you couldn’t see it. In fact, its cleverness was a form of stupidity, because you could have killed it any time.’ He shifted his stance. ‘Sir, the quarters you refer to – was that the prison you mentioned?’
Vallon nodded. ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’
Snorri gave a shout. Vallon swung round and clapped a hand to his face. The breeze had died almost immediately, but its caress lingered on his cheek. ‘Was that a favourable wind?’
‘Aye, south-westerly.’
‘Are we ready to sail?’
Snorri glowered at Raul. ‘There’s a heap of fettling to do, but we’ll limp along.’
Everyone waited with faces uplifted. Vallon opened and closed his hands on his thighs. He caught Raul looking at him and forced himself to stay still.
Another breath puckered the sea. The sail gave a flaccid flap before sagging.
‘I wish it was dark,’ said Hero.
‘Psst!’
Wayland was jabbing ahead at a point off larboard.
Vallon crossed towards him as softly as foot could fall and craned forward. All he could hear was the distant lamentation of gulls, but he didn’t doubt Wayland’s warning. The youth had ears like a fox. At last the faint rhythm of men rowing was borne on to his senses. One moment the boat sounded so close that he could hear voices, the next it had faded away.
He glanced round. Raul was spanning his crossbow. Vallon put his head close to Wayland’s. ‘Where are they?’
Wayland pointed.
Vallon squinted in concentration. He heard the splash of a fluffed oar and saw a flicker of foam. A ship floated into smudged focus not more than a hundred yards away. It was heading shoreward with its sail furled and its crew bent over their oars. There was a moment when they passed so close that any of them glancing to their right would have spotted
Shearwater.
But no one looked and a few moments later the ship ghosted away.
‘Get your bow,’ he told Wayland. ‘There’ll be more of them.’
‘Here comes the wind,’ Raul said, facing astern.
Shearwater
dipped. The sail filled and the mast groaned. Wayland was fitting a bowstring. The old one must have slackened in the sodden atmosphere. S
hearwater
got under way, trailing a gurgling wake. The fog drifted past like slow rain. Gaps opened in the murk and Vallon’s eyes darted in expectation of more Norman ships. Ahead of them the fog thinned and brightened to a rosy pink. A slant of late evening sunlight threw
Shearwater
’s shadow on to the screen, and then, as though a door had swung open, they were in the clear.
It was sunset, the sea molten between gleaming black mudflats.
‘Hell fire!’
In the channel dead ahead, not more than quarter of a mile off, a fishing boat freighted to the gunwales with Normans lay idle in the small waves. Some of the soldiers lounged at their oars. Others were raising the sail. A soldier spotted
Shearwater
and shouted.