‘The other two will come from my company. Garrick.’
The Englishman flinched.
‘If you go as hostage, you might find a way of saving the women prisoners.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The rest of the company stared in dismay. Vallon’s gaze travelled over each in turn. ‘I need someone to spy on the Vikings. Discover their strengths and weaknesses, learn their habits. After suffering so many setbacks, their morale won’t be high. We might be able to bring a few of them over to our side.’ His gaze passed over Raul and dwelt on Wayland before switching.
‘Hero. I’m sending you.’
Squalls blew in on a cutting north-westerly.
Shearwater
lay under the lee of the estuary.
‘Why me?’ Hero said for the umpteenth time. ‘Why any of us? It wasn’t one of Thorfinn’s conditions. Vallon threw me in like I was a token in a game.’
‘It’s not for long,’ Richard said.
‘Ten days with a gang of murdering savages!’
Someone cried out and the ship listed as the Icelanders ran to the side.
‘Here they come,’ Vallon called. ‘Hoist sail. Get well to windward.’
The piebald hull of the longship bore down out of the rain.
‘I’d go in your place if I could,’ Richard said.
‘I know you would.’ Hero summoned a wan smile. ‘The funny thing is that I’d do the same for you.’ He stood, his blanket slipping to
the deck, and kissed Richard on both cheeks. ‘If you don’t see me again, know that a piece of my heart will always be with you.’
Garrick retrieved the blanket and placed it around Hero’s shoulders. ‘I’ll take good care of him.’
Shearwater
heeled as she ran towards the eastern headland. Half a mile downwind of the longship, Vallon ordered Raul to strike the sail. The Vikings stopped rowing. Vallon watched them for a long time without speaking, and Hero thought that even at this last moment he might change his mind.
‘The Vikings are readying their boat,’ Raul said. ‘Looks like they mean to go through with it.’
‘Into the boat,’ said Vallon.
Two rowers boarded, then the four Icelandic hostages climbed down. Father Hilbert told them they were suffering God’s wrath for their sins, but that if they showed true repentance they might yet enter the glorious realm of heaven.
Vallon rounded on him. ‘If you don’t change your tune, you’ll find yourself singing it to the Vikings.’
He spoke in private to Garrick before he descended and the Englishman grinned as he shook hands. Then Vallon turned to Hero.
‘Don’t hate me too much. I chose you because you have a quick mind and a persuasive tongue. You’ll soon be back among your comrades.’ He held Hero and laid his face to his cheek. ‘You’re as dear to me as my own son. There, it’s said. Not a moment too soon.’
Dizzy from this declaration, Hero stepped into the boat. The half sail and rigging were passed down. Someone untied the boat’s rope and then, to cries of pity and encouragement, the hostages were cast loose.
With the wind behind it, the Viking boat moved faster than the Icelanders could row. Hero’s party had only travelled one-third of the way to the longship when the two sets of hostages crossed paths. Neither side could forbear to look at their counterparts. Two of the Vikings affected indifference. One hawked and spat. The fourth, a youth, looked as frightened as Hero felt. His face was pale, his jaw tight. Their eyes met and stayed locked until the boats had passed.
Hero wrenched his gaze to the front. A sharp chop flung spray into his face. In the troughs, he could see nothing of the longship except its
mast. The gap closed and he began to shape out features on the men lining the ship’s side. There were only eight left on board, Thorfinn towering above them all.
The boat came alongside. Hero noticed that the longship’s new strakes were secured by crude wooden trenails, its hull braced by a framework of poles, the replaced thwarts of the crudest manufacture. The Vikings pulled the four Icelanders aboard and pushed them aft towards the prisoners. When Garrick made to follow, Thorfinn blocked his way.
‘English?’
Garrick nodded.
‘Did you burn my ship?’
‘I’m a peasant. The Frank seized me as I was tilling my fields. I’ve never held a sword in my life.’
Thorfinn shoved him aside. Hero climbed into the longship and lost his footing on the sloping hull. Thorfinn caught him by the jaw and pulled him close.
‘Frankish?’
‘Greek,’ Hero mumbled.
Thorfinn’s teeth were scaled with plaque and his breath stank. ‘Did you burn my ship?’
‘No,’ Hero croaked.
‘One of the men who burned my ship had black hair. You have black hair.’
‘Do I look like a warrior? I’m a scholar, a student of medicine.’
Thorfinn nudged his chin towards the Icelandic hostages. ‘They know who burned my ship. They’ll tell me.’
The Viking chieftain let him go. He staggered toward an empty thwart. One of the Vikings lashed him with a knout.
‘Over by the English slave.’
Hero sat beside Garrick. Oars were thrust into their hands. Thorfinn began to beat on the stempost with his axe. ‘Take your time from him,’ Garrick said.
Hero studied the Icelandic prisoners as he rowed. The men looked furtive and ashamed, and the two women wouldn’t meet his eye at all. They were mother and daughter, the girl no older than fifteen. Her father had tried to protect them with his bare hands and the Vikings had tossed him overboard.
He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw
Shearwater
drawing away.
Their course took them between a large tabletop island and a granite coast patched with perpetual snow. Not long after noon the Vikings finished rigging the sail, bringing a blessed respite from rowing. Even under half a sail, the drakkar fairly flew, her weakened hull twisting through the waves like a snake, the wind whipping spindrift off the crests and driving showers of hail that collected in drifts against the gunwale.
Shearwater
tore along ahead under reefed sail, sometimes vanishing into the squalls and then appearing again under a rainbow sky.
The two ships stayed in contact and that evening Thorfinn directed both vessels into a rivermouth where they dropped anchor off different shores half a mile apart. The Vikings ate elk meat provided by Vallon and gave the hostages stockfish so rank that Hero gagged at the first bite. One of the pirates studied him across the spitting driftwood fire. ‘Is it true, Greek, that you voyaged from England?’
‘Further than that. Vallon’s journey began in Anatolia. Mine in Italy.’
The Viking grinned at his comrades and hunched forward. ‘Tell us. Your tale doesn’t have to be true, only entertaining.’
So Hero chronicled their journey, suitably amended, explaining that Vallon had set out to deliver a ransom for a brother-in-arms captured by the Turks at Manzikert.
Questions came tumbling. Who were the Seljuks? Where had Vallon campaigned? Had Hero visited Miklagard? Was it true that the pope ruled from a golden throne fifty feet high?
With darkness fallen and his voice grown hoarse, Hero said that he’d told enough of the story for one day. ‘I’ll go on with it tomorrow. Our journey’s been so long and we’ve had so many adventures that it will keep you entertained until we reach the forest.’
He settled himself next to Garrick and closed his eyes. He hadn’t been asleep for long when he heard men stirring and saw some of the Vikings walking away from the fire. He rolled over.
‘Where are they going?’
‘To the women. Stop your ears.’
From the darkness beyond the fire came a rhythmic panting and
grunting. It stopped and one of the Vikings strolled back into the light and sank yawning onto his bedroll. The rutting sounds started again, broken by whimpers and the casual asides of the Vikings waiting their turn.
Hero stared into the fire as if the flames might burn away the pictures in his head. He sat like that until all the men had finished and had returned to their sleeping places. When he looked up, Thorfinn was regarding him with a homicidal stare. Every so often he blinked one eye and his tongue probed wincingly inside his right cheek.
Most days, wind and tide permitting, both ships set sail soon after sunrise and anchored around mid-afternoon. For the rest of the day, parties from both vessels went ashore to forage for berries and driftwood, striking out in different directions over the coastal barrens. The hostages’ basic diet was unvarying – rock-hard bread and stinking wind-dried cod that retained the texture of boiled shoe leather no matter how long it was cooked. The atmosphere on board was saturated with the smell of the stuff. It was all the Vikings carried by way of rations, and after the burning of their ship, they’d had no leisure to hunt. One of them told Hero that when they had gone into the forest, they’d found sinister totems hung from trees, some of them left only yards from where their pickets had stood watch.
‘That must have been Wayland,’ said Hero. ‘He was abandoned in the forest at birth and reared by his giant dog.’
The Vikings looked uneasily into the semi-darkness. They seemed much affected by nature’s auguries.
Thorfinn slammed the flat of his axe down. ‘Sow fright and you’ll reap terror.’ He glared at his company. ‘The dog couldn’t have raised the English youth. He’s seventeen at least and a dog rarely lives half that long.’
No one spoke. If anything, the dog’s agelessness made it more menacing.
On the third afternoon they put in at a stretch of coast sheltered by a chain of islands. The foraging party spread out and Hero found himself alone with Arne, a Viking whose mature years and easy-going manner sat at odds with his violent profession. They found patches of
bilberries and crowberries and Hero fed his sugar craving until his lips were stained purple.
Arne crouched a few yards away, examining a flat rock. Hero went over. Etched into the surface were dozens of stick-figures of men hunting deer.
‘Skraelings made it,’ said Arne. ‘They follow the reindeer to the coast in spring and return to the forests each autumn. We’ll cross paths with them before our journey’s over.’
The two men sat with their backs against the stone. ‘Here,’ Arne said, handing Hero a piece of smoked elk. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’
Both men chewed away. Arne gave up on his bread. ‘What I’d give for a freshly baked loaf.’
‘Or a dish of pancakes drenched in butter,’ said Hero.
‘And honey,’ Arne added dreamily.
Hero laughed. ‘Since fantasies come free, why not a syllabub? Tart cream poured over layers of fruit and almonds. All on a base of cake sweetened with the wine of Marsala.’
Arne threw his head back. ‘Stop torturing me!’ He sighed and looked at the toy ships, the dove-grey polar sea stretching away beyond men’s reckoning. ‘Your stories. They’re not all true are they?’
‘Every word.’
‘The Frank is lucky, yes?’
‘Crafty rather than lucky.’
Arne nodded. ‘A warrior needs a strong body, but a body is no good without a head.’
Hero sensed an opening. ‘Are you saying that Thorfinn is unlucky?’
‘Be careful. The more Thorfinn is thwarted by fate, the harder he’ll fight it. He’d pull the world down over our ears before admitting defeat.’ Arne stripped a piece of heather. ‘No, it’s not luck that frowns on Thorfinn’s ventures. The age of the sea-raiders is over. The heroes have gone to their funeral fires and the gates of Valhalla are closed. Perhaps Thorfinn will be the last warrior to enter.’ Arne threw the stem away. ‘Everywhere we go, the people live in citadels. When they see our dragon-head from their watchtowers, they bar their gates and stand on the battlements, jeering and baring their arses at us.’
‘So why do you keep raiding?’
‘Famine would make a pirate of any man. I have a wife and four
children and a farm that supports only two cows and twenty sheep. My meadows are so steep that I have to tie myself to a rope to cut the hay. If this expedition doesn’t show a profit, I’ll be forced to sell my two eldest children into bondage.’
Across the tundra raced a puff of grey smoke. Arne drew his sword.
‘It’s Wayland’s dog,’ said Hero.
‘I know. I’ve seen the brute watching us from the ridge above our camp.’
The dog stopped a hundred yards off and sat back on its haunches. Arne’s mouth framed some kind of invocation. ‘What does it want? Why does it sit there?’
‘It might be carrying a message. Let me go to it. I won’t try to escape.’
Arne looked round to see if any of his companions were in sight. ‘Make it quick.’
Hero approached cautiously. ‘Good dog,’ he murmured. It looked straight ahead, its chest pumping. Tied to its spiked collar was a small roll of parchment. Hero removed it.
My dear friend.
I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. Vallon pampers our Viking guests to such an extent that I fear they will be reluctant to quit our company when the time comes. Until then, you and friend Garrick are ever in our thoughts and prayers. If the chance presents itself, let us know how you are faring.
Praying for your safe return, Richard
Hero had no means to respond. He gave the dog a tentative pat and it rose and galloped back the way it had come. Hero returned smiling with the letter.
‘Show me,’ Arne demanded.
‘It’s only a message from my friend Richard. He hopes that I’m in good heart and assures me that your companions are being well treated.’
Arne peered at the script, then crumpled the letter and pushed it into the peat. ‘Thorfinn mustn’t know about this. He believes that Christian rune-makers cast malicious spells.’
‘Have you had any dealings with Christian missionaries?’
‘Three years ago a priest came to Thorfinn’s hall and showed him runes that he swore were the words of your god.’
‘The Bible.’
‘He said that this god … I forget his name.’
‘Jesus.’
‘He said that this god sacrificed himself to redeem the wicked and sinful.’
‘That’s true. Jesus was sent by his father—’