Hawk Quest (23 page)
Wayland closed his eyes. He thrust the money at her. ‘Go away.’
‘Go where?’
‘Away. It’s dangerous here.’
‘Why? What have you done?’
‘We’ve killed Normans. You mustn’t tell anyone you’ve seen us.’
She got to her feet. Her mouth trembled. ‘Let me stay. I’ll cook and sew for you. I’ll be worth my keep.’
‘Go away,’ he cried, making shooing motions. ‘Don’t come here again.’
She backed away, clutching the torn tunic. He raised his hand in a parody of threat. She turned and ran down the shore, elbows out, heels flying, getting smaller and smaller until her outline was lost in the grain of the distance.
When Wayland moved off, the dog didn’t follow. It lay stretched out with its head on its elbows, ears drooping.
‘Don’t say another word,’ Wayland told it.
Days of toil and waiting. On the third evening, Raul stayed on the coast until dark, but Snorri didn’t appear. Nor did he show up the next day. That night, passed in a limbo of uncertainty, was the low point of their time on the island. Wayland was glad when next day’s lookout duty took him away to the coast. The wind had swung west and strengthened, pouring through the reeds and blowing rainclouds across the Wash. The clouds thickened and the shining band marking the horizon dwindled until sea and sky merged into drab grey.
The dog twitched awake and sat staring across the river. Wayland called it into cover and fitted an arrow. After a little while Snorri emerged on the opposite bank and peered about. He wore new clothes and he’d trimmed his hair and beard. When he thought the coast was clear, he went back into the reeds and came out leading two heavily laden mules.
Wayland stepped forward. ‘We thought you’d given us up.’
‘Mercy!’ cried Snorri, clapping his hand to his chest. ‘You put the heart across me jumping out like that.’
Wayland poled across. ‘What took you so long?’
‘I been on the go from dawn to dark, ordering this, checking that. Four days it took for the timber to be milled and the ironwork forged. There wasn’t enough wool in all Norwich for the sail. I had to send to Yarmouth for extra ells.’ Snorri slapped a bulging pannier. ‘This here ain’t even a tenth of the load. Had to hire two carts to carry it all.’ He gestured towards the hinterland. ‘They’re back yonder.’
‘Are the Normans still looking for us?’
Snorri cackled. ‘Put it this way. I’d be ten pounds to the good if I’d given ye in.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Don’t ye be looking at me like that, Master Wayland. Snorri’s word is as good as a bond.’
Using all the men, mules and boats, it took the rest of the day to transport everything to the camp. Vallon and Snorri went over the goods item by item – timber, sailcloth, cordage, rivets, plates, nails, rawhide, skins, pitch, tallow, charcoal, linseed oil, turpentine, lard, horsehair,
glue, adzes, awls, augers, an anvil, bellows, tongs, hammers, planes, saws, kettles, cauldrons, kegs, needles, thread, sacks …
Vallon discussed the programme of works with Snorri. ‘Who’s going to fit the new timbers?’
‘’Tis fixed. There’ll be a carpenter here tomorrow.’
‘That still leaves us short-handed. It’s a shame to waste Raul and Wayland on lookout duty.’
Snorri glanced at the fenmen. ‘I’ll have a word.’
Next morning the four dredgers arrived accompanied by two more fenmen. The carpenter was a tall, loose-limbed fellow with a face as placid as a saint’s. The lookout was small, bow-legged, with quick, deep-set eyes. ‘He’s a fowler,’ said Snorri. ‘Knows the marshes as well as what I do. Ain’t nobody can sneak past that ’un.’
Snorri and the carpenter set to work with adzes, trimming the planks to match the existing strakes. They were of graduated thickness, two inches at the waterline, slimming to half that at the gunwale. Raul looked on, wincing, until Snorri thrust his adze at him. ‘Ye have a go iffen ye think ye can do better.’
Raul hefted the adze. ‘Out of my way, you ugly heathen.’ He placed his feet each side of a plank, made a few practise swings, and then began paring off shavings almost as cleanly as if he were using a smoothing plane.
‘Ye’ve done that afore.’
Raul spat. ‘I’ve done most things before. And some of them twice. And three times a night with your sister.’
To bend the planks to fit the curve of the crossbeams, each one had to be steamed in a wooden chamber until it was pliant. Hero’s job was to keep a fire glowing under the kettle that supplied the steam. When the planks had been sawn to fit between the existing strakes, the carpenters bevelled the ends to form scarf joints. Once they fitted flush, they clinched the joints with rivets and plates heated over charcoal to cherry red and proofed in a mixture of smoking tar, linseed oil and turpentine. Richard tended the cauldron used to simmer the mixture and was also given the job of slathering the waterproofing over the timbers.
Wayland stitched together the homespun panels for the sail. Each panel measured about six feet by five, and thirty of them went into a complete sail. It wasn’t long before his fingertips were blistered from pulling the needle through the fabric.
At twilight Vallon took stock of the day’s progress. Only one strake had been repaired. Hero had let the fire he was tending go out, while Richard had ignited the proofing compound not once, but twice. Wayland had stitched four panels together and his fingers were on fire.
‘Ye can’t expect everything to go sweet the first day,’ said Snorri. ‘The marsh folk will bring some seamstresses tomorrow.’
Three of them turned up – two middle-aged dames and a wall-eyed girl with the figure of a fertility goddess. As she worked, the girl kept glancing at Wayland and stretching provocatively.
Raul came by and noticed the girl’s brazen gestures. He grinned. ‘You want me to cover while you two get acquainted?’
Wayland reddened.
‘You ain’t never bedded a girl, have you?’
Wayland kept his head down and went on stitching.
‘Ain’t seen you drunk, neither. Or heard you curse. Proper monk you are.’
‘There’s worse things to be.’
Raul crouched down. ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with monks. All their days on earth they shun the tavern and the whorehouse, and then, never having lived, they die for an eternity of the same. Where’s the attraction in that?’
‘Raul,’ Vallon shouted. ‘Get back to work.’
Raul winked. ‘Live for today – that’s my motto. Because tomorrow Death may tweak you by the ear and say, “Come on, laddie. Time to be going.”’
That day they fitted two more strakes and stitched ten panels together. Another three days and they’d repaired the hull. The rudder was ready to be lashed in place, the sail was nearly complete and the fenmen had dredged the channel.
After work they ate around a driftwood fire that spat flames the colours of the rainbow. Raul spun dubious yarns about scrapes in foreign parts. Snorri recounted the saga of his late commander, Harald Hardrada, the ‘thunderbolt of the north’ who, exiled from Norway, had fought first for the Russians then for the Byzantines before returning to Norway and seizing the crown, and who had died with an arrow in his gizzard on the field at Stamford Bridge.
When Snorri had finished, there was a mellow silence. The fire crackled and the mottled moon rode high.
‘Hero,’ Vallon said, ‘why don’t you tell us the story of Prester John and his fabulous realm?’
Everyone looked up expectantly.
‘You’re mocking me,’ Hero muttered.
‘Go on,’ Richard urged. ‘Please tell us.’
Hero shrugged and spoke in a throwaway voice. ‘Prester John is the ruler and high priest of an empire that lies next to the garden where Adam was born. More than seventy kings pay tribute to him. When he goes to war he rides an elephant and carries a gold cross twenty feet high. Among his subjects is a queen who commands a hundred thousand women who fight as bravely as men. These warriors are called Amazons, from their custom of cutting off their left breasts to make it easier to draw the bow. Once a year they permit men of a neighbouring country to visit them and satisfy their lascivious desires. If any man outstays the allotted time, he’s put to death.’
Hero looked up to see everyone open-mouthed.
‘The treasures,’ Vallon said. ‘Don’t forget the treasures.’
Hero smiled. ‘Prester John lives in a palace with an ebony roof and crystal windows. Above the gables are golden apples inset with carbuncles, so that the gold shines by day and the carbuncles by night. He dines on a table made of emeralds set on ivory columns, and he sleeps on a bed of sapphire. The precious stones come from the bed of a river that flows for only three days in seven. The jewels are so large and abundant that even the common people eat off platters carved from topaz and chrysolite. Prester John welcomes all strangers and pilgrims and loads them with treasure before they leave.’
Raul lay back and drummed his heels.
‘There’s only one problem,’ said Vallon. ‘No one knows the way to this potentate’s kingdom.’
Raul rolled upright and punched Wayland’s knee. ‘What say you and me go looking for it?’
Wayland shook his head and smiled into the fire. Though he kept in the background and rarely spoke, he didn’t feel left out. With the passing of the days, a new feeling had developed inside him – a sense of fellowship.
*
Next morning he was rubbing tallow into the sailcloth to make it wind-tight when the dog cocked its ears and made for the water’s edge. Wayland followed, turning his head to pick up any unusual sound. In a little while the fowler poled into sight.
Wayland knew they’d been found. ‘Soldiers?’
‘Aye. Eight of them. They come by boat from Lynn.’
The others hurried up and Wayland explained the situation.
‘We’d better take a look,’ said Vallon. ‘Wayland, go with the fowler. Raul, bring your crossbow.’
The fowler led them close to the coast and lifted his hand. Wayland heard faint voices. He signalled to Vallon and Raul. The three of them climbed out and waded through the reeds, working around the voices until they were near the edge of the marsh. Vallon and Raul moved too clumsily. Wayland made them stay back while he crept forward.
He parted the reeds. The ship lay anchored off the mouth of the creek. Three soldiers remained aboard with the crew. Four clustered by Snorri’s shack. The fifth stood facing the marsh, taking bearings while a stocky, bearded man pointed with the air of someone giving directions.
Wayland made his way back. ‘They know we’re here. Their guide’s the man who brought Hero and Richard.’
Vallon pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘The ship’s only a rumour. Wayland found it – what? – nine, ten days ago. Nobody’s seen us here since then. They can’t be certain that we’re in the marsh.’
Raul sniffed and spat. ‘With respect, Captain, your arse is sucking wind. There’ll be an army up here tomorrow.’
Vallon dipped a hand into the water. ‘When’s high tide?’
‘Not long before midnight,’ said Wayland.
‘We won’t make the ship ready by then. We’ll have to try for the following rise. Wayland, stay and keep watch. Report back at dusk.’
‘They might send a messenger back by land and wait overnight,’ Raul said. ‘If they do that, we’ll have to fight our way out.’
Vallon raked a hand through his hair. He glanced at the ring, then showed the gem to Wayland and Raul. The future was shadowy.
Well before nightfall the soldiers returned to the ship and rowed away from the shore. When the oars were just a dark pulse, the crew hoisted sail and the ship nosed south. Wayland hurried back to the island.
A scene of frantic activity greeted him. They’d floated
Shearwater
. Without ballast, she sat on the water rather than in it, listing at an alarming angle. Snorri and the carpenter were fitting the rudder. They’d hoisted the mast on board and lashed it down ready for raising, its top leaning up from the rear of the hold. Raul and one of the fenmen were hitching mules to ropes attached to the stempost. The rest were lugging cargo aboard.
‘They’ve gone,’ Wayland shouted.
Vallon gave a wild laugh. ‘A full moon and a spring tide. Tonight’s the night.’
‘Do you need me here?’
‘No. Warn us if they come.’
Wayland returned to the coast. The sky faded to black. The night was very still and a long time passing. He sat listening to the sea breathing in and out. His eyes closed and his sister appeared before him in a dream. When he opened his eyes she was still there, pale as death in the darkness on the other side of the river.
‘Syth?’
The vision faded. Wayland crossed himself. No mortal being, but a marsh sprite or will o’ the wisp.
Fog rolled in during the small hours. When daylight came he could see no further than an arrow’s flight across the stagnant sea. Occasionally the murk thinned and a mournful gleam indicated the direction of the sun, then another veil drifted over and everything sank back into dismal half light. Sounds carried a long way. Wayland heard cries of frustration upriver. He checked the state of the tide. A knot began to tighten in his guts.
He jumped up when he heard a boat approaching. Raul appeared out of the clammy overcast, his beard and hair matted with mud. He gave Wayland a rancid grin.
‘Ain’t you the lucky one? While you’ve been twiddling your dick, we’ve been slaving up to our arses in mud.’
‘Can’t you get the ship out?’
Raul spat. ‘Floated her clear by midnight, rowed fifty yards downriver and grounded. Managed to work her free and then got stuck again. Snorri said we were drawing too much water, so Vallon had all of us get out and haul her off.’
‘Have the marshmen gone?’
‘All but the carpenter and the fowler, and they only volunteered at the point of the captain’s sword.’
‘How far have you got?’
‘I’d say we ain’t even halfway.’ Raul wiped a dewdrop from his nose. ‘What’s the tide doing?’
‘Coming up to full.’
Raul peered down the coast. ‘They won’t come by ship in this fog. And they can’t cross the marsh at high water. I reckon we still got time.’
Someone upriver gave a drawn-out cry.
