Hawk Quest

XXXI

The fires were faint red smudges in the blackness when Vallon accompanied the women and old folk down to the riverbank. Even standing at the water’s edge, he couldn’t see Shearwater moored only a few feet away.

‘Garrick?’

‘Here, sir.’

In darkness Vallon helped the evacuees climb aboard. His hand closed around a woman’s arm, soft and resilient.

‘Let go,’ Caitlin said in a strangled whisper. ‘I don’t need your help.’

Vallon held on. ‘But I’m grateful for yours.’

She must have turned. Her breath feathered his face and he smelled her perfumed sweat. Her hand cupped his neck, drew him closer.

‘Vallon, bring Helgi back safe.’

She was gone from his grasp, only scent and sensation remaining. Garrick’s murmur restored him to the moment.

‘Everyone aboard, sir.’

Vallon stepped back. ‘What’s the state of the tide?’

‘Still rising.’

‘Make haste then.’

‘How will we know if it’s safe to return?’

‘You’ll know.’

Vallon listened for splashes that would betray their departure. He heard only a few muffled strokes soon lost in the random river noises.

‘I don’t like letting Shearwater out of our sight,’ Raul murmured. ‘If things don’t go our way, Drogo and Helgi might try to seize her.’

‘One threat at a time.’

Vallon returned to the camp and lit a torch and made a pretence of inspecting the defences. The rain was still falling when he went to take up a waiting position by one of the fires. Drogo and Helgi had crept away to muster the Icelanders and saddle the horses. Vallon stared into the embers, the pulsing coals shaping patterns that might have been a prefiguration of his destiny if he’d had the means to interpret them.

‘Raul and his raiders are waiting by the river,’ Wayland murmured.

Vallon riddled his eyes. ‘I’m ashamed. You catch me napping while I run you ragged.’ He shook his head and snorted. He couldn’t see a thing. It was so dark that he almost lost his balance when he stood. ‘Take my arm.’

Wayland led him to the bank. Only the muscular swirling of the current told Vallon that he was at the river.

‘Everyone assembled?’

‘Aye,’ Raul answered. ‘And everything loaded.’

‘How will you fire the compound?’

‘Each of us carries a shaded lamp and a firebrand.’

‘The tide’s in rhythm with our plans. You won’t need to use your oars to approach the camp.’

‘Fat lot of good if we can’t see it.’

‘Come here,’ Vallon said.

One by one he embraced them and wished them good luck, the three Icelanders included. Then all six climbed into the invisible boat and pushed off into the invisible river.

Sightless as the blind, he returned to the camp. The fires were down to ash. He stoked them for the benefit of the watchers, then joined Drogo and the rest of the ambush party. In all they numbered fourteen — nine foot soldiers and five cavalrymen.

‘Ready?’

‘The night’s as black as a chimney.’

‘Not to Wayland. Let’s go.’

They used the same method that had served them for their flight from Olbec’s castle, each man holding on to a knotted rope with Wayland pathfinding. The dog went ahead to check that the route was clear and in the rear came the horses with their hooves muffled in sailcloth. It was a tetchy advance, the men tripping over branches and cursing the bogs and blood-sucking insects until Vallon grew so incensed with their racket that he felt his way down the line threatening to kill the next fool who railed against nature.

He and Drogo had decided on the ambush site with Wayland on their return from the Viking camp. It was on a broad ridge with a wind gap between the trees and it lay on the logical route between the rival positions. By day it offered a good view across to the next ridge and the river on their left. No river to be seen now, no trees, nothing. Vallon had only Wayland’s word that they’d reached the right spot.

‘See what the Vikings are up to. If they move, get back to us as soon as you can.’

The men dropped in their tracks and wrapped themselves against the rain and swarms of bloodsucking insects.

Drogo groped up to Vallon. ‘They won’t attack on a night as foul as this.’

‘Then we’ll have lost nothing more than a night’s sleep.’

Vallon knew that wasn’t true. He pictured the Vikings slumbering while his own force grew weary and demoralised. If the enemy didn’t come tonight, he’d be hard put to impose his authority tomorrow.

Impossible to measure time in the blackout. The mosquitoes burrowed into his hair and brows. His face began to come up in bumps and weals. Men complained at the torment.

‘I’ll cut the tongue out of the next one who makes a sound.’

That didn’t stop them cursing when the drizzle hardened into a drenching shower. Vallon stood with his back to it. He was ready to admit that their night’s work had been wasted when the rain tailed off. There was no warning. The rain simply stopped and a cool draught stirred the trees.

Vallon turned to face the breeze. ‘There’s still time.’

The clouds peeled away layer by layer. The moon drifted out, bright enough to cast bars across the river and etch the trees in inky outline on the next ridge. Vallon gestured. ‘Gather around, men.’

They shuffled up, shivering and rubbing their limbs. Vallon laughed and patted backs. ‘A little exercise will set you all to rights. Nothing stirs the blood like shedding your enemy’s.’ He looked around. ‘Drogo, position your horses in the trees on the left. Infantry, form up opposite.’ He pointed at a spruce standing isolated in the wind gap, its branches spreading to the ground. ‘I’ll spring the trap from there. The moment I do, shoot a volley of arrows. Drogo, that’s the signal for your force to hit them as hard as you can. Time it well and the Vikings won’t know which way to turn.’

Some of the Icelanders didn’t understand and shrugged at each other. Vallon repeated his orders, wishing he spoke better Norse.

Drogo sniffed. ‘I’m surprised you choose to fight on foot.’

‘Without an experienced soldier at their sides, the Icelanders won’t press home their attack.’

Drogo left to make his dispositions. Most of the sky had cleared and stately white clouds drifted across the indigo gulf. Vallon stiffened at the sound of hurried footfalls.

‘Wayland’s coming.’

The sound grew louder. Vallon narrowed his eyes in concentration. Someone behind him hissed and his eyes bolted around. It couldn’t be Wayland. The footfalls were approaching from the wrong direction. The Vikings must have seen that the camp was deserted and sent a runner to warn their chief.

Vallon ran for cover. ‘Stay hidden. I’ll deal with him.’

A man padded up onto the ridge, hurdled a toppled trunk and raced on. Vallon stepped out into his path at the last moment and the Viking ran himself through the heart with his own momentum. He dropped dead to his knees and Vallon braced one hand on his shoulder to withdraw his sword. As he did so, another figure crested the ridge. He saw Vallon, flailed to a halt and began to back away.

‘After him!’

Half a dozen Icelanders sprang from their hiding places. The Viking flung himself to one side and hared off into the trees.

‘Don’t let him get away!’

Men plunged in pursuit. Vallon heard them tearing through the forest, the noises growing fainter until no sound was left except the wind sighing in the branches and his own thumping heart.

‘We should have guarded our rear,’ Drogo said.

Vallon swiped at the ground. ‘The men should have been more alert.’

He crouched over his sword hilt as the searchers straggled back, blowing hard and shaking their heads. When the last of them returned to confirm that the Viking had escaped, Vallon rose with a long sigh and rubbed his itchy brow. Drogo idly kicked the ground. Vallon let his arms flop.

‘We’d better return to camp,’ said Drogo. ‘The other two spies are probably plundering it.’

‘You go. I’ll wait for Wayland.’

The Icelanders were beginning to file away when Vallon spotted movement on the next ridge. ‘Hold it.’

A shadow flickered through black palings. Vallon lost it, then picked it up again on the downslope. Two shadows moving in a soundless glide.

‘It’s Wayland and his dog.’

Vallon waited in the open. Wayland came flogging up the hill. He swallowed one breath straight after the other and glanced in bewilderment at the company. ‘Why are you standing about? The Vikings aren’t far behind me.’

Vallon rasped his hand along his jaw. ‘The ambush has been discovered. The spies saw that we’d left the camp and sent two of their number to raise the alarm. We dealt with one, but the other got through.’

‘No, he didn’t.’

It took a moment to sink in. ‘You killed him?’

‘The dog caught him.’ Wayland shoved Vallon away from the edge. ‘Hide yourselves. They’ll be here any moment.’

Vallon came to his wits. ‘Quick! Back to your positions.’ He dragged Wayland to the ground beside him. ‘Did Raul make contact?’

‘No. He hadn’t reached the camp when I left.’

‘Damn! How many are we facing?’

‘Sixteen.’

Vallon looked for Drogo. He lay propped on his elbows a few yards away. ‘Hear that?’

‘Sixteen of them, fourteen of us. You might regret sending the raiders downriver.’

‘The horses make it even.’

The dog whined. Wayland tensed. ‘There they are. Crossing the ridge.’

Vallon made out a column filing through the trees, winding down from the ridge, disappearing into the dark sink at the bottom of the slope and then emerging again as they climbed towards the ambush. Moonlight glinted on axes and spearpoints.

Vallon gripped Drogo’s arm. ‘Direct your charge at Thorfinn. Take your timing from me. I won’t attack until they’re almost within touching distance. Be patient. Make sure the blood doesn’t rush to Helgi’s head.’

‘I hear. Now let go. The enemy’s almost on us.’

Vallon released his hold and Drogo hurried off.

‘Where do you want me to stand?’ Wayland asked.

‘With the infantry. Aim for Thorfinn. Kill him and you could settle the encounter single-handed. Keep back from the fray and direct your arrows where they’ll inflict the most harm. God spare you.’

Wayland nodded and ran off.

Vallon waited until the Vikings were committed to their path before worming back from the crest. Once he was out of sight he ran at a crouch towards the spruce. His eyes darted around, checking that everybody was concealed. He heard the slurred steps of the approaching Vikings and a muttered exchange. He pushed back into the branches and cleared a gap just wide enough to see through. He felt sick with excitement.

Up over the crest tramped the Viking leader, pale eyes roaming from side to side, breath misting. His axe rested over one shoulder and a sword hung from his hip and there was a shorter sword stuck in his belt. Lop off the serpent’s head, an inner voice urged. Vallon resisted it. He waited with his sword held before his face. His breathing had steadied. Thorfinn Wolfbreath trudged past within twenty feet of him, his helmet dangling from his waist like the trophy head of some alien foe. Vallon counted off the men as they trooped by. ‘ … eight, nine, ten … ’ He closed his eyes and kissed his sword.

‘Charge!’

Helgi’s cry, followed by thudding hooves, a dismayed shout from Drogo and the hiss of a single arrow.

Spitting with fury, Vallon pushed out round the back of the tree. Thorfinn stood unhurt, bellowing to his men. Helgi galloped towards the enemy line, spear levelled, Drogo and the other cavalrymen riding ragged behind him.

‘I’ll murder you,’ Vallon mouthed, hurtling towards the nearest enemy and all his rage directed at Helgi.

The Viking swung round gaping and took Vallon’s sword in his mouth, the impact sounding like a cleaver chopping through a rack of meat. Teeth and blood sprayed. The Viking dropped, clutching his face.

‘At them, men!’ Vallon shouted, his attention on the Viking in front of his first victim. The man swung. Vallon parried, disengaged, countered. His opponent blocked with his shield. Vallon feinted right, feinted left, left again, right, dragging the man off balance, saw the opening and slashed into it. The man dropped his sword and looked down at his arm dangling by a rope of muscle. Vallon leaped back, legs a-straddle, assessing the situation.

A mess. The Icelandic infantry still stumbling into action and Helgi prancing about with his liege men, looking for easy targets. Only Drogo and Fulk were fighting with discipline, riding against the enemy stirrup to stirrup, one hacking to the right the other to the left. Thorfinn stood swinging his axe in great arcs, roaring at his men to form up around him.

Vallon glanced round and saw an Icelander tottering away clutching the shaft of a spear that skewered him through the belly. The warrior who’d killed him avoided Vallon’s blow and darted off to join the group around the chieftain. Vallon dragged away two Icelanders chopping at a fallen Viking.

‘He’s dead, you fools. All of you, form up on me.’

Only seven Icelanders joined him, leaving two of their number dead. He counted five dead Vikings, but the rest had thrown a shield wall around Thorfinn and were holding off the cavalry with their spears.

‘Drogo, you have to break the wall! Back off and charge. This time do it right.’

Drogo cast a desperate look at him, seemed to shake his head, then wheeled away shouting at the others to follow. Twenty yards from the enemy they turned and bunched up. One of the horses was badly injured and slumped to its knees, spilling its rider. The Vikings knew that their position was almost impregnable and roared defiance.

Drogo whirled his sword above his head. ‘Charge!’

Vallon grabbed the nearest Icelander. ‘Follow me,’ he shouted and plunged straight at the enemy.

The cavalry clashed before he reached them. Head and shoulders above his companions, Thorfinn leaned forwards and delivered a mighty blow. One of the horses galloped away with its rider lolling in the saddle.

Then Vallon was eye to eye with the foe. A spear lunged at him and he only just deflected it. He tried to follow up, but the shields closed again and he couldn’t find a way past. Over to his right an Icelander maddened by battle tried to kick his way through. A Viking rammed his shield into his face, darted out and stabbed down, his victim dying with a bubbling scream. Almost in the same moment Thorfinn burst through the wall, his eyes burning with battlelust. His sword thrummed and an Icelander folded over like a cut sapling, his trunk almost severed.

Vallon knew that he’d lost all advantage and so did Drogo. He wrenched his horse away from the melee. ‘It’s no good,’ he shouted. ‘We’ll try to cover your retreat.’

Vallon backed away. ‘Withdraw in close order. Look out for each other.’

He’d retreated only a few yards when one of the Icelanders broke and ran, provoking a rout. Vallon found himself facing the Vikings alone.

‘Flee!’ Drogo shouted.

But Vallon stood his ground. His strategy had failed. This was his doom. He watched the Vikings, heard their exultant cries, saw them swell and surge towards him.

Drogo galloped across his line of sight, cutting down with savage precision. A gap opened in the Viking line. Through it ran another opponent.

Vallon adjusted his sword grip, his face an ugly snarl. ‘Come and join me in hell.’

Six feet away his attacker stumbled and fell forward, an arrow wagging in his back. He struggled upright and twitched as another arrow thwocked into him.

‘Run!’ someone shouted, and Vallon glimpsed Wayland bending his bow for another shot.

Vallon fled after the Icelanders, the Vikings chasing in a screaming pack. Thorfinn’s shout shivered the forest. His men stopped. Through the trees Vallon saw the warlord shake his axe above his head. His men left off their pursuit and ran to join him.

Vallon spotted Drogo. ‘They’re after our stores. Round up the Icelanders.’

Drogo spurred his maddened steed towards him. ‘Impossible. The nearest is half a mile away and still running.’

‘We would have routed them if you’d kept Helgi in check. Why didn’t you follow my orders?’

‘Don’t blame me for your failure. It was lack of numbers that cost us victory.’

Vallon swore and staggered after the enemy. They were gone, the ridge empty. Vallon stood alone surveying his defeat when the distant blast of a horn rose up over the forest. It came again, drawn out and desperate. Vallon turned. For a moment everyone stood suspended, taking in the message signalled by the horn.

A roar from ahead and the chieftain came lumbering back. Vallon was standing in his path and didn’t wait to contest it. He sprinted into the trees. The Vikings raced past and disappeared over the skyline.

Drogo spurred towards Vallon. ‘Does that mean the German found the ship?’

Vallon folded over, fighting for breath. ‘What else?’

The horn was still blaring. Vallon pulled himself upright and turned to survey the slaughter. Moonlight was giving way to grey dawn. Steam wafted from the wounds of the littered dead. Vallon found the Viking whose arm he’d all but severed writhing around the useless limb. Vallon reversed the grip on his sword and raised it above the man’s chest. The man fell still and their eyes met, staring down opposite ends of a corridor that each must travel at the allotted time. Vallon brought the blade down and the Viking convulsed and then relaxed, stretching out one updrawn leg as if falling into slumber.

Drogo rode among the dead, taking stock.

‘What’s the count?’ Vallon called.

Drogo looked over his shoulder. ‘I make it six of them and five of us.’

‘Don’t forget the two scouts we killed.’

‘There may be more dead on our side. Helgi’s missing. He took a bad hit.’

Vallon remembered the rider swaying on the runaway horse. He pointed. ‘His horse bolted in that direction.’

Fulk went in search. Drogo dismounted and wiped the blade of his sword with a handful of pine needles. He glanced at Vallon, shook his head and rammed his sword into its scabbard.

Vallon wandered away and faced the rising light. He filled his lungs with resin-scented air, astonished to be alive.

One of the Icelanders trotted out of the trees and called out.

‘They’ve found Helgi.’

His horse had carried him a long way before he toppled out of the saddle. A circle of Icelanders surrounded him. He lay on his side with his back against the trunk of a fallen birch. His face was as white as clay, his eyes blank, blood dribbling from one corner of his greying mouth. Vallon began to crouch beside him, but Drogo pulled him back.

‘Your face is the last thing he’d want to see.’

Drogo knelt and lifted Helgi’s limp arm from his chest. Vallon grimaced. Thorfinn’s axe had inflicted appalling damage. It had struck under his armpit and sliced diagonally through his torso, exposing the barely beating heart in its broken cage, cutting through entrails, releasing a fetid liquor from the torn bowels. Drogo took Helgi’s hand.

Vallon looked at the Icelanders. ‘Have you sent for his sister?’

‘His spirit will have flown long before she gets here.’

Vallon sat down on the dead tree and mouthed along to Drogo’s prayer. ‘Gloria patri et filio et spiritu sancto … ’

When he looked again, proud and handsome Helgi was quit of this world. Vallon took no satisfaction in his death; he’d been a nuisance, not a foe. Vallon walked away and looked across the river. A fine day in the dawning, sunlight dappling the trees, splashes of gold among the conifers. A woodpecker jarred in the distance.

A shout went up. Someone else called out and by the time Vallon had dragged himself back to the ridge a chorus of excited cries rang through the forest. The sight that greeted him stopped his throat. From the direction of the Viking camp a column of sooty smoke rolled into the sky.

He shot a grin at Drogo. ‘Not such a crackpot plan.’

Drogo gave the gusty laugh of a professional gambler beaten by the most improbable of flukes. ‘One day your luck will run out and I’ll be waiting.’

‘Luck favours the bold.’

‘Try telling that to Helgi’s sister.’

Vallon sobered. ‘You’d better break the news to her.’

Drogo nodded and mounted. Wayland was standing near them and when Drogo turned his horse, their eyes met. Drogo looked back at Vallon and gave an odd smile, then he rode away.

The Icelanders bore their fallen back to camp, leaving the slain Vikings stripped of their arms to be burned by their companions or abandoned to wolves and gore-crows. When the field was empty, Vallon and Wayland descended to the riverbank to await Raul’s return. The falconer sat stroking his dog and staring across to the opposite bank. Watching him, Vallon thought that he’d be proud to have him for a son.

‘You’re a born warrior,’ he said. ‘Even though I was shaped for war from childhood, you’ve killed more men than I had at your age.’

‘I don’t take any pleasure in it.’

‘I’m surprised. You told me that your grandfather was a Viking and would choose no other employment. You seemed proud of his exploits.’

‘They were stories he told me while he was tending his vegetable plot.’ Wayland gave Vallon a quick look. ‘Do you take pleasure in killing?’

Vallon thought about it. ‘I take satisfaction in the defeat of my enemies. The world’s a dangerous place. Life’s a vicious game. Your falcons know that.’

Wayland gave a scornful laugh. ‘If you had lived among the beasts, you’d know that they kill out of necessity. Only men treat death as a sport.’

‘I don’t make war for sport.’

‘Why then? Did you believe that the rulers whose armies you led waged war to make the world a better place?’

Vallon breathed in until his lungs pressed against his ribs. Two years ago, if a peasant had dared ask such a question, he would have had him flogged to death and forgotten his existence by next morning.

Wayland was watching him. ‘You don’t answer.’

Vallon’s response rose in his throat but he couldn’t give voice to it. I made this journey to atone for a mortal sin and swore that I wouldn’t take life except in defence of my own or my company. Six months later and I’ve lost count of the men who’ve died by my hand. And there’ll be more.

He smiled. ‘I fight because that’s all I’m good for.’ He squeezed Wayland’s arm. ‘Off you go. Syth will be anxious for you.’

Wayland stood.

Vallon squinted up. ‘Before Drogo left, you exchanged a look. As if you shared a secret.’

‘What sort of secret would I share with Drogo?’

The oblique light left Wayland’s face in shadow. Vallon nodded. ‘I must have fancied it. Don’t keep Syth waiting.’

When Wayland had gone, Vallon linked hands behind his head and stared at the sky. A line of geese flew upriver with their wings almost touching, the formation so precise. Soon they’d be going south, taking only a few days to make a passage that Shearwater wouldn’t complete in a month. Winter would soon be on them. No food. The Icelandic skippers had told Raul that rounding the North Cape at this season might be impossible. So many things to worry about and yet his thoughts were so fickle that he found them turning towards Caitlin.

The boat appeared out of spangled reflections. Vallon stood and shaded his eyes. Six men had set off and only five were returning. He recognised Raul’s squat form and prayed that the missing man wasn’t Hero or Richard. He walked to the tip of the bar and hailed the raiders. He gave thanks to God when he picked out Hero and Richard’s features. A pang of remorse as he realised that the missing man was one of the Icelanders — a man whose name he’d forgotten and whose face he couldn’t recall.

As the boat rowed closer, Vallon saw that Raul’s beard had been burned to a frizzy mat and his eyebrows scorched to black speckles. Vallon helped him ashore.

‘We saw the smoke. You saved the day.’

Raul stepped past him in a stink of burned hair. He threw himself down against a tree and plucked at his nitty brow with broiled hands. ‘Didn’t your ambush succeed?’

‘We didn’t hurt the enemy as much as I’d hoped. Tell me about your own action.’

Raul waved at Hero and shut his eyes.

Hero and Richard dumped themselves down beside Raul. They looked tired but surprisingly collected. The two surviving Icelanders joined them.

‘The night didn’t begin well,’ said Hero. ‘It was so dark that we lost all sense of place. The current kept pushing us into the bank. Eventually, from the sheer passage of time, we decided that we must have gone past the bend, but we couldn’t locate the Viking camp. Insects were eating us alive. In despair we rowed for the shore with no more ambition than to make our way back as soon as we could see what we were doing.’

‘We cursed you,’ Richard said.

‘You’re not the only ones. On with your tale.’

‘After a flurry of rain, the clouds parted and the moon showed itself. We worked out that we were below the camp.’ Hero touched one of the Icelanders. Vallon recognised him as the youth who’d jumped aboard Shearwater ahead of the womenfolk. ‘Rorik went up the bank in search of the Vikings. He wasn’t gone long. Their camp was around the next point, no more than an arrow flight from our hiding place. Rorik arrived as the Vikings were filing out.’

‘You waited for them to leave and then attacked the longship.’

They exchanged glances. Raul looked up from under his scorched brows. ‘We were done in, wet to the bone and driven mad by the midges. Our kindling was damp, we had no idea how many Vikings were guarding the camp or where they were laid up. Flog me or dock me, Captain, but my only thought was to save our skins.’

Vallon eased back. ‘In those circumstances, I might have made the same decision.’ He grinned. ‘Something made you change your mind.’

Hero resumed his account. ‘We rowed across the mouth of the bay, plying our oars as if they were feathers. The longship lay only fifty yards from us and there didn’t seem to be anyone on board. We kept going and then Richard said, “We can’t skulk away like this. What will we tell Vallon?”’

Richard smiled sheepishly. Vallon stared at him.

Raul spat. ‘We all sort of looked at each other and then without a word we began pulling towards the ship. ’Course we hadn’t gone more than a few yards when an almighty shout went up from the shore and two guards who’d been sleeping on board sprang up. Three Vikings came running down from their posts on the hills. I took aim on one of the ship-guards. Twenty yards range. Couldn’t miss.’ Raul spat again. ‘Well, I did. The rain had made my bowstring limper than the pope’s dick.’

Richard sniggered into his palm.

‘We fought our way aboard,’ said Raul. ‘I dealt with one of the guards. Rorik and Bjarni finished off the other one. Skapti got killed in the scrap. He fell dead into the water, God keep him.’

Vallon nodded. He hadn’t the faintest idea who Skapti was.

‘By this time the shore sentries had nearly reached the bank. There was just time to cut the mooring and push off. Two of the Vikings ran into the water and we fended them off with oars. The other one stayed on shore blowing the alarm. While we were fighting off the two in the water, Hero and Richard set about raising a fire.’

‘I thought it would never light,’ said Hero. ‘There was an inch of water in the hull and the timbers were soaked from the rain. Luckily for us, the Vikings had refitted the sail. We drenched it in oil, piled all the faggots around the mast, and poured our compound over them. Even then it took an age for the fire to take hold. When it did catch, the flames shot halfway up the mast. The Vikings had left their oars in the ship. We gathered them up along with anything else that would burn and threw them on to the blaze.’

Raul continued the tale. ‘When the Vikings saw the fire, the one on shore launched their boat and the two in the water waded back to join him. Hero was shouting for us to get off, but the yard and sail had collapsed across the deck and there was a wall of fire between me and our boat. By now the three Vikings had nearly reached the ship. Captain, you know I’m no swimmer or I’d have jumped overboard. I held my breath, shut my eyes and ran through the flames. Tripped over a thwart. I thought I’d had it.’

‘He was smoking when he came out,’ Hero said.

‘We jumped into the boat and rowed as hard as we could. The Vikings didn’t chase us. They were too busy trying to save their ship.’

‘Did they succeed?’

‘Last I saw, it was burning like a torch.’

‘So it’s destroyed.’

‘As good as,’ Raul said. ‘Mast gone, sail gone, oars gone, shrouds gone. The keel’s probably no more than scorched, but the strakes amidships must be burned to cinders.’

‘We didn’t wait around,’ said Richard. ‘We knew the main Viking force would soon return and might pursue us in the ship’s boat. The thought of what they’d do if they caught us kept us from flagging even when our strength was spent.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘And here we are.’

Vallon gazed at them in wonder. ‘Here you are.’

Grief-stricken wails rose from the camp. Garrick had rowed Shearwater back to her mooring and the refugees ran down to the shore, clamouring for news. Vallon parted the crowd and walked towards the centre of the camp.

Caitlin knelt over Helgi’s body, rocking back and forth. Her maids and her brother’s followers stood behind her. Drogo frowned and waved Vallon back. He hesitated. Caitlin lifted her distraught face and caught sight of him. She ceased her lamentations and made a sound low in her throat. Seizing the sword lying on Helgi’s corpse, she ran at Vallon mouthing gibberish. Drogo and her retainers raced after her, but she reached Vallon before they could catch her and drew back the sword with both hands. He shot out a hand and grasped her wrists. She struggled and then she went limp and dropped the sword. Her eyes gushed tears. She sagged against him and he had to gather her close to stop her falling. He hadn’t held a woman for years and it was the strangest sensation to be holding to his chest a princess who wanted to kill him.

Her voice bubbled through tears. ‘You promised to bring him back safe.’

‘I’m sorry. Take comfort in the knowledge that your brother died bravely, engaging the enemy with no regard for his own life.’

She batted her hands against his chest. ‘You threw his life away!’

Over her shoulder, Vallon saw Drogo striding up. ‘What lies have you been spreading?’ the Frank said.

‘No lies,’ said Drogo. ‘You knew the charge was pointless.’ He wrenched Caitlin from Vallon’s grip. ‘Get away from her.’

Caitlin’s maids took her by the arms and led her away. Vallon stood chest to chest with Drogo. ‘I should have known that you’d twist facts to your own end. Well, here’s another tale for you to distort. The longship is ashes and two more Vikings have gone to their doom.’

Drogo’s stubbled cheeks worked. He managed a stiff bow.

‘Don’t congratulate me,’ said Vallon. ‘It’s your brother who deserves the credit.’

He swung on his heels.

‘Vallon.’

Vallon wafted a blood-smeared hand. ‘Enough.’

Drogo caught up with him. ‘I grew close to Helgi. Last night, before we went into action, he asked me to act as Caitlin’s guardian should he be killed. I told him that I’d be honoured to accept. I pledged to protect her with my life.’

Vallon kept walking. ‘Very worthy and I’m sure you’ll honour your pledge. But how does it concern me?’

Drogo’s throat strained with emotions he couldn’t express. He jabbed a finger. ‘Just keep away from her. That’s all.’

Vallon had retreated to a quiet stretch of the riverbank before he fathomed Drogo’s meaning. Helgi must have dressed up the encounter at the lake to make it look like he — Vallon — was besotted with his sister. Drogo thought he was a rival for her affection. The Norman’s stupidity angered him. He turned and glowered.

Garrick was approaching, carrying a bowl and bread. ‘You haven’t broken your fast, sir.’

Vallon ate in silence, looking across the river.

‘What will we do now?’

‘We’ll set up camp on the far bank. It will take a couple of days to make the ship seaworthy. Wayland can use the time to gather food for the hawks. After that … ’ Vallon checked himself. He’d almost said, ‘We’ll go home.’ He smiled at Garrick. ‘We’ll continue our journey. Will you come with us to Constantinople?’

‘What would I do there, sir?’

‘Whatever you want. It’s the greatest city on earth.’

‘Cities don’t agree with me. I went to Lincoln once. All those people in one place made my head spin.’ He glanced shyly at Vallon. ‘I dream of buying ten acres in the place where I grew up. Live my life out and go to rest in the soil I sprang from, the place where my parents lie buried, the plot where my children sleep. I know it’s only a dream.’ He laughed. ‘That Daegmund wouldn’t be happy to see me back. He’d make life hot, I can tell you.’

Vallon gripped his arm. ‘You’ll have your ten acres. If that’s all I achieve by this endless wandering, I’ll be content.’

Garrick’s eyes found his, ducked away, face shadowing. ‘I can’t get quit of the sight of those women and what the Vikings did to them. They’re mother and daughter — only a girl. Can’t we save them, sir? I’d take up a weapon if you thought it would help.’

Vallon shook his head. ‘I can’t ask my company to make any more sacrifices. The season’s growing late and we have a great distance to travel. We must press on.’

He’d risen to his feet. Garrick remained seated with an expression of gentle melancholy. Vallon touched his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do.’