Hawk Quest (30 page)

Raul slapped his knee. ‘Fools that we are! It’s Sunday. Every one’s in church.’ He gave a wicked chuckle. ‘So much the better.’

They marched up a lane lined by cruck houses with garden plots in front and enclosures at the back. Milch cows eyed them dreamily, hanks of lush spring grass clamped in their jaws. Blossom-time had arrived and the apple trees and quinces were smothered in white and pink sprays. Children fetching water or fodder fled squealing from the raiders, stopping at a safe distance to watch them through splayed fingers. They fell in behind, the bolder youngsters throwing out their chests and swinging their limbs in parody of Raul’s gait. By the time Wayland and Raul reached the church, they had a sizeable following.

Through a screen of dark yews, Wayland saw a stone nave and a square tower with triangular arcades and pointed windows. Sheep grazed in the graveyard. The raiders leaned their weapons outside the heavy oak door.

‘Don’t you think we should wait until mass is over?’ Wayland said.

‘Leave it to me. Remember, we’re dealing with shit-shovellers who’ve never travelled further than the local market. No point puzzling their pates with talk of Iceland and the Road to the Greeks.’

Clawing off his cap, Raul stepped through the door. Wayland ducked in after him, sketching the sign of the cross. Sunbeams splaying through the windows lit a congregation divided each side of the aisle, some lounging against the pillars, a few standing upright, most squatting on the rush-covered floor. Many appeared to be asleep. Two rustics at the back observed the strangers’ entrance and nudged their neighbours, the warning rippling out until the whole congregation stood upright and staring. Raul put a finger to his lips. Only the priest at the altar remained unaware of their presence. Eyes closed, head tilted back, he continued reciting the mass in a barely audible murmur. Wayland’s gaze lifted towards the shadowed vault. His eyes drifted to a wall painting of the Last Judgement showing Christ on his throne, the righteous winged as angels to his right, the sinners naked and
fearful on his left, below them the damned being pitched into the cauldron and everlasting fire. He thought of his family in their unmarked graves.

The droning stopped. The priest advanced to the door of the rood screen and contemplated his flock with irritation. ‘On his last visit,’ he said, ‘your temporal lord summoned me with a complaint about this parish. He’s sorely vexed by the sin of sloth into which many of you have fallen.’

Raul nudged Wayland. ‘Damned if he ain’t going to start preachify -ing. Keep an eye out.’ The German stomped up the aisle.

The priest started back in alarm. ‘Who are you?’

‘Step aside. I’ll deliver your sermon and save time as well as souls.’ Raul turned.

‘Sloth,’ he said, letting the word fill the nave. ‘Sloth is the enemy of enterprise and the leech of profit. Me and my comrade are delegated by our captain to recruit two or three fellows to join us on a voyage of enterprise. We’re looking for men of strength and resolution, preferably stalwarts who’ve seen battle and have crewed on a ship. We chose this parish because we heard it bred right brave men.’

Watching from the door, Wayland shook his head. With his outlandish sidelock, matted beard and rancid jerkin, Raul looked like the flotsam of some defeated barbarian horde. Close to, he smelled like a polecat.

Raul jingled coins. ‘A halfpenny for each day you serve, including rest days and holy days. Plus,’ he said, holding up a finger as if in benediction, ‘full keep. You won’t have to spend a penny of your wages on bed and board.’ He did his disappearing trick with a coin. ‘And even that ain’t all. Any gain we make by trade is divvied up. Fair shares for all. Ain’t that right, Wayland?’

The congregation turned and gawped.

‘You’ll be well paid and well treated.’

‘Hear that? The word of an Englishman.’ Raul gave a toothy smile. ‘Obviously, we ain’t taking just anyone. We’re picky. But for two or three who ain’t afraid of honest toil, here’s the chance to raise yourselves up.’

The congregation exchanged nods and conjectures. Wayland began to think that Raul might pull it off.

‘How far are you sailing?’ someone asked.

‘Like as not you’ll be home to help with the harvest. Not that you’ll have to toil in the fields again – not with your swags of silver.’

‘How far?’

‘North.’

‘Where north?’

Raul glared at the questioner. ‘Orkney.’

The worshippers stuck out their bottom lips and shrugged. ‘Is that on the other side of the river?’ one asked.

‘’Course it is, ye numpty,’ someone snorted. ‘There ain’t no Orkney this side of Humber.’

‘It’s north of the Humber,’ Raul conceded. ‘Not far.’

A swallow dived through the door, just missing Wayland’s head, and swooped up to its nest in the roof beams.

Raul trickled silver from palm to palm. ‘A halfpenny a day and all found.’

They thought about it like a convocation of philosophers. Not a man came forward.

‘Are you so content with your lives?’ Raul demanded. ‘Does your landlord treat you that well?’

‘He treats us like willows,’ came a cry from the back. ‘He thinks the more he crops us, the better we’ll sprout.’

Laughter was followed by other complaints. ‘He fines us when we marry. He fines us when we die.’

‘He forbids us to grind our corn at home and charges us to use his own mill.’

‘Where we have to wait three days for flour made from last year’s mouldy gleanings.’

Raul spread his arms in evangelical fervour. ‘Brethren, here’s the chance to throw off your yokes. Here’s the cure to your earthly miseries.’ He stepped up to one of the dissenters, a well-set man of about thirty. ‘You have a bold tongue. I like the cut of you. You’ve seen action if I ain’t mistook.’

‘I fought with the English king’s fyrd at Stamford.’

‘I knew it. You’re just the sort of stout-limbed fellow we’re looking for.’

The man shook his head. ‘I’m married with three bairns and an ailing mother.’

‘Ah, but think how richly you’ll be able to provide for them when you return.’

‘I can’t. I’m tied to my fields.’

‘No man’s tied. Come on, shake the mud off your feet.’

‘Leave him be,’ Wayland said.

Raul scowled at him and confronted another serf. ‘How about you?’

The man rubbed his knees and spoke inaudibly. Raul cocked a hand to his ear. ‘What’s that?’

Wayland turned. ‘He says, “Who’ll look after his bees?”’

Raul yanked his sidelock. ‘Sweet Jesus. It’s like plucking feathers off a toad.’

He went from man to man, receiving the same mumbled negatives. He craned back in amazement. ‘What! None of you. Your Viking forefathers must be kicking in the cold earth. All right. Dream your dreams of mangels. Count your haystacks. Spend the rest of your days staring up an ox’s arse while you squelch through the mud with your toes sticking out of your shoes and the clothes raggedy on your back and your kids perishing at home from hunger.’

‘I’ll come.’

Raul swung round. ‘Show yourself.’

Out of the congregation limped a tall and bony labourer with knees and elbows staring from threadbare homespun, big hands dangling from knobbly wrists.

Raul eyed him dubiously. ‘Who might you be?’

‘Garrick, a widower and poor freeman. Death has separated me from my kin and I’ll soon join them if I stay here, for my fields are too few to furnish a living.’

Raul stalked around the peasant, sizing him up. ‘You’re lame. Was that done on the battlefield?’

Someone laughed. ‘He fell out of a tree when he was a boy. Bad luck and trouble have followed Garrick all his days.’

Raul shoved him aside. ‘Sorry, we want able-bodied men.’

‘Let me see him,’ Wayland called.

‘Vallon won’t thank us for signing up a scarecrow.’

‘Bring him here.’

Raul marched Garrick to the door. Hunger and toil were stamped on every feature, but a wry light gleamed in his hollow grey eyes. Something in Wayland warmed to him.

‘Are you ill?’

‘If hunger’s a sickness, then I’m mortally ill.’

Wayland smiled. ‘Show me your hands.’

Garrick spread blackened and calloused mitts as big as shovels.

‘The journey will be hard.’

‘Staying here will be harder. I ate the last of my harvest before Lent.’

‘He’ll do,’ said Wayland. ‘Find one more and then we’ll be off.’

Raul glared into the body of the church. ‘The angel Gabriel couldn’t sweet talk that lot through the pearly gates. I’ll just take whoever I fancy.’

‘I don’t want to separate men from their families,’ Wayland said.

‘You heard Vallon. Grab them, he said. We can’t dicker about waiting for these clodhoppers to make up their minds.’

The boys in the churchyard yelled and began jumping up and down, pointing at a rider and two men on foot hastening across the fields.

Wayland took a few steps down the path. ‘Who are they?’ he asked Garrick.

‘Daegmund the bailiff and his bullies, Aiken and Brant. The bane of our lives and the goad of our days.’

Wayland shaded his eyes. The bailiff was lashing his mule roughshod over the peasants’ crops. He jounced in the saddle, his pudding bowl haircut flopping up and down. Two footsoldiers in shabby leather armour trotted behind him.

‘We’d better not wait on their coming,’ Garrick said.

Wayland took up his bow and reached for an arrow. ‘Will they fight?’

‘Not Daegmund. The boldest thing about him is his collar, for it grips the throat of a thief daily. He uses his bullies for the rough stuff.’

‘Local men?’

‘No. Daegmund doesn’t trust men of the manor. He has too many sly dealings to hide. He hired those ruffians in Grimsby.’

The worshippers had left the church to spectate. The bailiff hauled up his mule beyond the graveyard. Pudgy and glandular, he cut an unvalorous figure for all that he wielded a sword and staff. His guards came panting up and stationed themselves on each side, scraping clods off their shoes and trying to disguise how winded they were. They carried old and abused single-edged Saxon swords. Their quilted
leather gambesons leaked stuffing. Daegmund passed a hand across his eyes.

‘What’s this I spy? What’s this? Trespassers on my lord’s manor. Armed nuisances. Disturbers of the King’s peace. State your business.’

Raul spat carefully. ‘We’re recruiting men for a trading expedition.’

The bailiff’s eyes bulged. ‘These serfs are my lord’s possessions. Every man and his chattels exist at his will and disposition.’

‘He won’t miss a brace.’

The bailiff brandished his staff. ‘Arrest those rogues. Bind them. Each man who assists will have their week-work remitted for a month.’

Raul pushed out his cheek with his tongue. ‘Generous soul, ain’t he?’

The bailiff pointed a quivering finger. ‘I’ve raised the hue. Soldiers are on their way. You’ll hang.’

‘If they catch us, they’ll do a lot worse than hang us.’

One of the guards felt for the bailiff’s knee. Daegmund leaned down with a hand cocked over his ear and what he heard made him straighten with a start, his face as red as a cockscomb.

‘Those men are felons and murderers. They’re members of a gang that broke out of Norwich after slaughtering their guards. That’s the measure of their wickedness.’

‘That’s right,’ Raul shouted, silencing the buzz. ‘I stopped counting how many Normans we killed after the first twenty.’

The bailiff’s eyes shimmied. ‘There’s ten shillings on each of their heads.’

Raul advanced a step. ‘You’re a lying sack of shit. The price was more than a pound a fortnight ago, and that was before we sank a Norman ship. We must be worth at least double now.’

‘A share of the reward to every man who helps turn them in.’ Daegmund kicked out at one of his bodyguards. ‘Lead the way. Seize them.’

As Brant and Aiken advanced into the graveyard, Raul levelled his crossbow at the bailiff. ‘Keep them coming. You’ll be the first to die.’

Daegmund waved his men back as if he were trying to put out flames. Wayland studied his minders. Both of middling height, red-cheeked, built like small dray horses.

‘What about taking those two?’

Raul sniffed. ‘Could do worse, I suppose.’

Wayland checked the mood of the congregation. It wasn’t wise to underestimate peasants. He began to walk forward.

‘Help!’ yelped the bailiff, yanking his mule around.

One of the guards waggled his sword. Wayland stopped.

‘Which one of you is Brant?’

‘Don’t ye tell him,’ said the one on the right.

Wayland smiled at the one on the left. ‘You’re Brant.’

Brant gave a sly nod. He looked a bit simple.

‘We’re bound for the north on a merchant venture. Hiring crew who’ll work hard for a good wage. You and your partner look like likely lads.’

‘What’s he saying?’ cried the bailiff from a safe distance.

‘How much does that tub of guts pay you?’

‘Don’t answer,’ Aiken said. ‘You’ll only get us into trouble.’

‘You’re already in trouble.’

‘Four shillings each quarter day,’ said Brant. ‘And we’re still waiting for last quarter’s wages.’

‘Take service with us and we’ll pay you double and all found, plus a share of the profits. Show them, Raul.’

At sight of the silver, Brant slid his tongue along his teeth and looked sidelong at his partner.

‘Words are cheap,’ Aiken told him. ‘Once they’ve got you on their ship, fancy promises don’t mean shit. They’ll work you like a mule and kick you like a cur.’

‘How do you think your master will treat you when we leave with Garrick?’

The bailiff had spurred closer. ‘Stand firm. Do your duty and I’ll forgive any trespasses you’ve done me this day.’

Wayland nudged his chin. ‘Who do you believe? Him or me?’

‘He’s right,’ Brant told Aiken. ‘Unless we stop them, we’re finished here.’

Aiken looked away, jaw jutting.

‘Our ship’s waiting,’ Wayland said.

Brant reached for Aiken’s arm. Excitement lit his face. ‘Let’s join them and make our fortunes.’

Aiken glowered at the ground and swung his head from side to side.

Brant laughed. ‘Then I’ll go alone.’ He scanned the scenery around
as though committing it to memory, took two quick breaths and stepped to Wayland’s side. Turning, he looked back across an invisible line. ‘I’ll come back rich,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’