Hawk Quest

XIV

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.

‘That’s Vallon. You’d better get back.’

Raul climbed into his boat. ‘Wayland?’

‘What?’

Raul raised a clenched fist. ‘Fortune or a grave.’

Wayland watched the water level creeping up. A shoal of mullet drifted into the creek and marked time on slowly fanning fins. The water rose in jerks and shivers. It reached the high tide mark and went on rising. Wayland felt the lunar force dragging at his own blood.

The tide twitched and stopped. Flotsam circled in the slack current.

Wayland paced, slapping his thighs, willing the ship to appear. ‘Come on.’

The tide turned. The flotsam began drifting out to sea. Water sucked and gurgled as the marsh began to drain. Wayland breathed an ebbing sigh of his own. The Normans would have thrown a cordon around the marsh. The fugitives would have to go their separate ways. Wayland knew that he could escape, but after that … Disappointment pierced him.

He wandered down to the end of the sand bar. The saltings he’d crossed dry-shod on his first journey lay submerged, eelgrass waving under the surface like the scalps of a drowned multitude. Waterfowl babbled and squawked in the mist. The dog began to tremble. Wayland crouched beside it and laid a hand on its neck.

‘They’re on their way,’ he said, and stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew a piercing whistle.

Very faint and far away he heard a cry. He ran to the river and peered upstream. The fog lay so heavy on the water that he couldn’t even see the other side. He cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Ho!’

No answer. Perhaps the ship had grounded again and they needed his help. He plunged into the reeds, following the river bank. He must have struggled quarter of a mile before he heard an uncoordinated splashing. The sound came closer. A shape gathered and Shearwater loomed through the mist.

Vallon leaned out from the bow. ‘How close are they?’

‘Close.’

The ship glided level. Raul and the carpenter stood on the foredeck, fending off the bank with oars. Snorri manned the rudder, but the knarr was showing too much freeboard to be steered and spun in its own length as the tide carried it downriver. The ship’s boat tied to its stern drifted in its orbit like a wayward satellite.

‘You’ll have to jump,’ Raul called.

Wayland kept pace with the knarr, waiting for it to come within distance. Its sides were above the level of the bank and he had only a few feet of run-up. Grunting, he took his chance, got one foot on to the gunwale, and would have toppled back if Raul hadn’t seized his tunic. The dog sprang aboard unaided.

‘Take an oar,’ Vallon ordered. ‘Try to keep us in mid-channel.’

The ebb swept them downriver, Vallon calling out hazards. ‘That’s more like it. Hero, Richard, don’t just sit there. Lend a hand.’

The reed walls began to fall back as the river widened.

‘Nearly there.’

They passed Snorri’s shack and stared down the shore. It was empty.

The tide carried them out into the sea. ‘Ship oars,’ Vallon cried. He ran to the stern and put a hand to his ear.

‘What’s keeping them?’ Raul panted.

‘They might have lost their way,’ said Vallon. ‘The tide’s still high and some of the ditches are deep enough to drown a horse.’ He turned to Snorri. ‘Prepare to raise the mast.’

Snorri pointed back towards the river. ‘We can’t.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘It’s the ballast,’ said Raul. ‘Without ballast, the mast would capsize us.’

‘How much do we need?’

‘A ship this size … ten tons at least.’

‘Can we use sand? Dig it from one of the offshore bars?’

Snorri wailed. The shoals were more mud than sand. To carry it back to the ship would mean wading waist-deep. On the falling tide the ship might end up stranded.

‘Let’s sort out the ballast later,’ said Raul, casting nervous glances down the coast.

‘Later will be too late,’ Vallon said. ‘The Normans will come by sea as well as land. Drogo will commandeer every ship he can lay hands on.’ He turned to Snorri. ‘How many can he muster?’

‘A dozen at least.’

‘You hear that? The fog won’t hide us for long. We have to make the ship ready for sailing.’

The realisation that after all their labours Drogo still had the upper hand silenced everybody. Vallon clenched both hands on his head and walked to the stern. Everyone watched him.

Vallon lowered his hands. ‘We have to go back.’

Raul opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

They rowed standing up, walking two steps forward, two steps back. Shearwater rode so high that the oars clipped the surface and the rudder couldn’t bite. The ship veered like a leaf in an eddy.

‘The ship’s boat,’ said Vallon. ‘We’ll tow her in.’

Into the boat they clambered — Vallon, Wayland, Raul and the carpenter. Vallon raised his oar. ‘On the count of three … heave. Again. Heave. Once more. She’s coming. Now, deep and steady. That’s it. Keep to the channel or we risk grounding. Raul, no need to crick your neck. The Normans will let you know when they’re here.’

Wayland rowed until his shoulders burned in their sockets and the sweat ran down his chest. They nuzzled into the mouth of the creek.

‘Not far now. Put your backs into it.’

They made land and hauled the ship to the bank. The Normans were still out of sight or sound. ‘Set your dog on guard,’ Vallon told Wayland. He led the way to the ballast at a shambling run. Snorri had off-loaded the stones on to a ledge of turf above the high tide mark. Over the years, grass and weeds had grown over the pile. Vallon clawed with both hands and unearthed a stone as smooth as an egg and bigger than a man’s head.

‘Fetch spades,’ he told Snorri. ‘Hero and Richard, dig them out. ‘You,’ he said to the carpenter, ‘get aboard and pass them down to Snorri. The rest of us will carry.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Go to it.’

Wayland hoisted a stone and set off at a clumsy trot. Back he came for the next one. After his fifth run, he stopped counting. Everyone had settled into a brutish rythm. Back and forth they toiled, wearing a greasy furrow in the turf, blundering into each other like beasts. Raul improvised a sledge from a plank and sacking and dragged five or six stones at a time. Crossing paths with Wayland, he grinned like a troll. ‘Ain’t this hell for breakfast?’

Wayland slowed to a trudge. Ahead of him Vallon skidded on the mud, dropped his burden with a gasp and clutched his ribs. Wayland started towards him, but Vallon, features drawn with pain, shook his head.

As the pile grew smaller and Shearwater settled closer to her water-line, Wayland allowed himself the possibility that the task might be completed and there dawned the realisation that a thing that seemed impossible could be achieved by cooperation harnessed to a strong will.

There must have been more than a ton of ballast remaining when the dog came loping up the shore and took up position beside him, its jaws rucked and its mane a-quiver. Everyone stopped. Wayland set down his load. From down the coast came a faint roar, like surf crashing on a distant beach. It came again — the sound of thousands of wildfowl panicked into simultaneous flight.

‘That’s it,’ Vallon shouted. ‘Everyone aboard.’

Before Wayland reached the ship, another flock of birds roared into the sky and billowed overhead, making a tremendous clamour and passing so close that he could see their wings slicing through the murk. Some of the birds plunged into the shallows around him.

‘Captain!’ Raul shouted.

Wayland saw the fowler and carpenter running for the reeds. Snorri was preparing to cast off. ‘Leave them,’ Vallon ordered.

They poled and thrashed away from the shore.

‘Keep going. We’re not out of danger yet.’

But they had nothing left to give and they set down their oars and collapsed groaning on the boards.

Raul caught his breath. ‘Here they come.’

Through the hammering of his heart, Wayland heard the sound of riders forging through water.

Vallon grabbed the sternpost. ‘God’s blood! Somebody on the shore. Looks like a girl.’

Wayland came up off the deck. Syth was standing at the water’s edge with her hands clasped as if in prayer.

Vallon whipped round. ‘Row, damn you.’

Wayland advanced like a sleepwalker.

Vallon raised his hand. ‘Get back to your place.’

Wayland leaped on to the gunwale and threw himself into the sea. The cold squeezed the breath out of him. He floundered and went under. His feet kicked bottom and he found himself in water up to his neck. The dog appeared at his side. He wrapped its mane round his hand and half-swam, half-waded towards the shore. Syth hadn’t moved.

‘Walk towards me.’

Syth took a few timid steps. ‘I can’t swim.’

As he staggered the last few feet, the first riders came spewing out of the fog like warriors from a nether world. They rode in ones and twos and random groups, men and horses slathered with mud. One of the horses went into a ditch or hole and cartwheeled with a tremendous splash.

Wayland dithered. The leading soldiers were already galloping up the sand bar and he knew he didn’t have time to reach the marsh with Syth.

‘Wayland!’

Raul was standing in the stern, whirling a rope. Vallon was beside him, making frantic beckoning gestures. Wayland grabbed Syth and dragged her into the sea.

The bed sloped gently and he was only thigh deep when he heard furious splashing and glanced back to see four or five cavalrymen plunging after him. He ploughed on, grunting with effort, the soldiers getting closer. He drew his knife and was about to turn at bay when the bottom shelved and he sank.

He surfaced spluttering, saw the nearest rider aim a lance and kicked away into the deeper water. He’d dropped his knife but still had hold of Syth. He guided her hand towards the dog’s collar. ‘Hang on to it.’

The riders had worked out that Wayland had fallen into a tidal channel. They detoured right, feeling their way along its margin, moving faster than Wayland. Step by step the nearest rider drew level with him, the water up to his mount’s chest. He already had his sword drawn and he transferred it to his left hand and shifted his weight on to his left stirrup and leaned over and raised the sword. He looked colossal. Without purchase or footing there was nothing Wayland could do to evade the stroke and he knew he was going to die. Everything slowed down. The soldier had his sword poised and was leaning out to make certain of his strike. Wayland could see the measured determination in his eyes. He held the position for an age and then he leaned even further and dropped his sword and toppled into the sea in front of Wayland. He surfaced, gargling, blood welling in the back of his mouth. Then the weight of his armour pulled him under and he didn’t rise again. His horse had lost its footing and thrashed wildly. Its panic infected the other horses. One of them reared and spun, throwing its rider.

Wayland looked for Syth. She was ahead of him, still hanging on to the dog. He thrashed after them and grasped the dog’s tail. The dog grunted and turned its head, the whites of its eyes showing. The burden was too much for it.

‘Go!’

Wayland tried to follow but his legs were cramping up and he began to founder. The world became more water than sky, the ship poised high above him.

‘Wayland!’

Vallon launched a rope. Wayland didn’t see where it fell. Raul was taking aim with a crossbow and Wayland realised what had killed the soldier.

‘Wayland!’

Vallon had retrieved the rope and was whirling it again. Wayland knew there wouldn’t be another chance and he watched the line snake out and splash down ahead of him. With the last of his strength, he lunged for it. He made a turn around his wrist and Vallon began dragging him forward.

‘Wait!’

The line slackened. Wayland called to the dog. It turned and paddled towards him, towing Syth’s dead weight. He fumbled one hand under the dog’s collar and grasped Syth with the other. Her eyes were closed. The line bit into his wrist as Vallon began to tow them in. There was a grey interval and then the dark wall of the hull rode up above Wayland and hands reached down.

Raul hauled him up and over. He flopped on all fours and retched until it felt like he’d turned himself inside out. Raul was rubbing him with a piece of sailcloth, cursing all the while.

‘Syth,’ he mumbled, and struggled into a kneeling position. She was lying face down a few feet away with Hero astride her, pumping her chest. Wayland looked around in a daze. He reached for the gunwale and tried to pull himself up.

‘Keep down,’ Raul cried. ‘We’re still in range.’

‘Where’s the dog?’

‘We couldn’t get hold of it.’

It was treading water astern, falling back. In a little while it would be beyond rescue. Wayland groaned and dragged himself forward hand over hand. He leaned over, but he couldn’t get anywhere near the dog.

Raul pulled him back. ‘It’s no use. We have to leave it.’

Wayland shoved him away. ‘Where’s the rope? Get me a rope.’

‘You crazy bastard,’ Raul shouted. He pinned Wayland with both arms. ‘Captain, lend a hand. He’s planning to go over the side again.’

Vallon swore and ran towards them at a crouch. ‘Haven’t you put us in enough peril? I’m not risking our lives for a dog.’ He pointed at the shore, his features distorted by anger. ‘Look at that.’

Wayland registered a line of soldiers crouched along the shoreline, loosing bolts at the ship. ‘Let go,’ he croaked. ‘I’m not leaving the dog.’

Raul gripped harder, then suddenly released him and slapped the deck. ‘Shit!’ He looked at Vallon. ‘I’ll go. Keep a tight hold because I swim even worse than Wayland.’

He hung from the stern and dropped. When he surfaced, his face was knotted up as if a stake had been pushed up his rectum. He kicked off like a maimed frog. Wayland called to the dog, imploring it to swim towards him. Raul thrashed up to it and managed to loop the rope through the collar. Vallon and Wayland hauled them alongside and hoisted Raul aboard. It took all three of them to manhandle the dog over the side. It kicked and bucked and pitched on the deck half strangled. It stood straddle-legged, head hanging, like a dying calf, then it vomited seawater. It stood looking at its own puke, shook itself, then walked unsteadily towards Wayland, gave him a feeble lick and collapsed.

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.’