Hawk Quest

XXXIII

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-’

Arne held up a hand. ‘He said that the meek would triumph over the strong and that judgement and punishment belonged to god alone. Thorfinn asked what sort of god it was that gave up his life to save criminals and cowards. The priest would have been wise to shut up, but instead he continued preaching until Thorfinn asked him if he had the courage to follow his god’s example.’ Arne stopped. ‘No, you don’t want to know.’

‘I can guess,’ Hero said. He shivered slightly.

‘Thorfinn told the priest about his violent deeds — how he ate the livers of his enemies and cut the blood eagle on them. Then he said that if this god was real, the priest must be prepared to sacrifice his life to save Thorfinn’s soul. The priest was terrified and cried out to his god to save him. Thorfinn crucified him.’

Hero stared at the ground. ‘Did he go to his death bravely?’

‘Men die bravely only in battle.’ Arne stood. ‘We’ve been away too long. Thorfinn will be growing suspicious.’

Two days later they rounded the end of the peninsula and entered the White Sea, anchoring at twilight in an estuary overlooked by iron-grey cliffs capped with eaves of snow. In the calm of the anchorage, Hero used his compass to confirm their new course. His heart flew into his throat as a blurred iron arc splintered the thwart beside him.

Thorfinn bent and picked up the scattered parts. ‘What’s this?’

Hero scrabbled backwards. ‘A direction finder. It can show the way when clouds hide the sun.’

Thorfinn loured over him, his right cheek puffed up, his eye closed in an obscene wink. ‘You think I don’t know how to find my way?’ He flipped the compass overboard.

Hero’s fear flashed into anger. ‘You ignorant heathen,’ he shouted in Greek. ‘No wonder your expeditions end in failure.’

Arne pulled him away. ‘Idiot! The tooth worm’s driving him mad. The only way he can deal with pain is by inflicting worse suffering on those around him. You’re lucky he didn’t strike you dead.’

For the rest of the evening, Hero couldn’t stop trembling.

When he boarded the longship next morning, two Vikings pushed him into Thorfinn’s presence. His legs almost gave way at the thought that the chieftain had discovered his part in firing the longship. Thorfinn sat slumped on a thwart, his face swathed in a filthy bandage. He cocked his good eye. ‘You claim to be a healer.’

Hero fingered his throat. ‘I’m a physician, not a dentist. In my country we leave tooth-pulling to barbers.’

Thorfinn’s pale eye twitched. ‘I’m not in your country and I’m not asking for a shave.’

Arne nudged Hero. ‘You’d better do it. I’ve seen men die from the tooth-worm, and if Thorfinn goes, he’ll take you with him. Believe it.’

Hero linked his hands to stop them trembling. ‘I’ll need to examine you. Lie on your back.’

Pain and the hope of release from it can tame the most savage soul. Thorfinn reclined on a thwart and opened his mouth. Hero inspected the claggy teeth, tried not to breathe the fog of putrefaction. The seat of infection was a broken and rotted upper right molar. ‘You’ve got a bad abscess.’

‘Aargh.’

Hero considered lancing it with a fleam, but the relief might be temporary and the operation could make the infection worse. ‘The tooth will have to come out. Any of your men will be able to pull it.’

Thorfinn grinned horribly. ‘I don’t want any of those ham-fisted butchers messing about with my jaw. I want you.’

Hero broke into a cold sweat. It would be like pulling a tooth from a bear. ‘I don’t have the proper instruments.’

One of the Vikings handed him a pair of blacksmith’s tongs. ‘These should do the job.’

‘No, they won’t. There isn’t enough tooth left to provide a firm purchase. The tongs will crush what remains and he’ll be in a worse state than before.’

Thorfinn patted his swollen cheek. ‘Enough talking.’

Hero glanced up at the yardarm. An idea came to him. He dismissed it as absurd, but he couldn’t think of an alternative plan and he kept coming back to it. ‘Show me the tooth again.’ He studied the craggy stump, isolated in the infected gum. ‘Who can make the neatest job of whipping a rope’s end?’

The Vikings backed off. ‘Arne’s your man.’

Hero looked at him. ‘I want you to whip a cord to the tooth, using fine gut thread. I’ll supply the whipping.’

Arne inspected the tooth. He shook his head.

Thorfinn clubbed him. ‘Do what the Greek tells you.’

Arne grimaced. ‘The pain will make him lash out. I won’t be able to tie the cord properly.’

Hero remembered the sleeping draught in his chest. He took out the bottle, unstoppered it and asked for a cup. He measured out half the contents of the bottle and passed the cup to Thorfinn. ‘Drink it. It will dull the pain.’

Thorfinn smelled it and blinked. ‘Are you trying to poison me?’

‘Your tooth is poisoning you. Drink.’

Thorfinn tossed off the potion.

‘We have to wait for it to take effect,’ Hero said.

Presently Thorfinn’s good eye began to wander and he broke into ragged song. The Vikings stared at each other. ‘By Odin, I don’t believe it. Our chief’s drunk as a lord on a few spoonfuls.’

Hero nodded at Arne. ‘You,’ he said to one of the Vikings, ‘hold Thorfinn’s head steady.’

‘Whoo-hoo,’ crooned the chief. ‘Iddy-biddy boo.’

Arne set about whipping the cord to the rotten tooth. He muttered as he worked and kept having to break off to clear the site of blood and saliva. At last he rocked back on his heels. ‘That’s as tight as I can make it.’

Hero looked up at the mast, calculating more like an engineer than a physician. ‘Lay your chief on that thwart directly under the yard, head against the side. Tie the free end of the cord to a line long enough to run over the yardarm with about ten feet to spare. I need a heavy weight. A ballast stone will do. Also a sack for the weight and a short rope to hang it from the yard. Three feet should be enough.’

One of the men selected a large oval stone from the bed of ballast around the mast and held it up.

‘My favourite little stone,’ Thorfinn warbled. ‘I picked it myself from the strand on Saltfjord.’ He began to sing again, swinging one hand before his face like a pendulum.

‘Place the stone in the sack,’ Hero said. ‘Tie the short rope to it and hang it from the yard.’

One of the Vikings climbed to the yard and pulled himself along it. Hero calculated angles and forces. ‘Tie it there. Just outboard. That’s the spot. Stay where you are and cut the rope when I give the word.’ He looked round. ‘Toss the line from the tooth over the yard. Good.’ He estimated for a drop of ten feet and looked up at the man straddling the yard. ‘Take in the line. That’s enough. Cut it there and tie the end to the sack. Make it secure.’

With everything in place, Hero made a last inspection of the set-up. ‘I want two men to hold Thorfinn so that his head doesn’t move when the stone drops. Put his head as far back as you can. Someone had better hold his legs as well.’

The Viking on the yard held his knife ready. Someone sniggered. ‘The Greek’s going to drop it on our captain’s head.’

‘Cut!’

Down dropped the stone. Up flashed the line leading from Thorfinn’s tooth. It twanged as it met the ballast stone’s heft. Thorfinn convulsed, kicking off the assistant pinning his legs. The line whipped over the spar and the stone hit the sea in a spout and disappeared, dragging the line so fast that no one could see if was still connected to the tooth or had broken. Hero ran to Thorfinn. Black blood and pus poured from his mouth.

‘Keep hold of him.’

Hero splashed water into the pirate chief’s mouth. He mopped it with a rag and inserted a finger. Where the tooth had been was a gaping cavity.

He reeled back on his haunches. ‘It’s out. You can unloose him.’

Thorfinn groped to his feet like a drunken mariner waking in a storm. When he’d achieved a degree of equilibrium, he cracked open his maw and delved inside with a filthy finger. A crazy grin spread across his face. He pointed at Hero, took one step, crashed into a thwart and, after one last witless stare, fell full length, cracking his head a mighty blow on the gunwale. One hand closed and unclosed; one leg contracted and stretched. Then he fell still.

‘You’ve killed him,’ one of the Vikings marvelled.

Hero felt Thorfinn’s pulse. ‘He’ll live. When he wakes up, tell him to rinse his mouth out with salty water. Keep food away from the cavity until it heals.’

Arne smiled at Hero and winked. The other Vikings slapped his back and guffawed. ‘Hey, Hero,’ one called, using his name for the first time. ‘Give me a taste of your cordial. I’d pull out my own eye-teeth for a cup of that brew.’

They sailed south along the White Sea coast into the forest zone. Thorfinn hadn’t exaggerated the bounty of wildlife. Salmon packed the estuaries, waiting for an autumn flood to carry them up to their spawning grounds. The Vikings speared them from the ship’s boat, trapped them in wicker funnels, hooked them on gaffs as they threw themselves over the rapids like bars of silver.

Thorfinn’s jaw healed. The swelling went down, and with it his boiling temper. In quiet moments some of the Vikings sidled up to Hero and sheepishly asked him to cure their ailments. He agreed to do what he could in exchange for better food. He told the Vikings that their comrades on Shearwater were dining like lords on the game killed by Wayland. It wasn’t a lie. Once at a distance they saw Wayland, assisted by one of the hostages, catch a dozen grouse in a net drawn over the pointing dog and the sitting covey. At night the Vikings shifted to make space for Hero around the fire and sat rapt as children while he went on with his tale.

One fine morning Thorfinn shaped a course away from the coast until it sank below the horizon. In a glassy calm they approached at evening an archipelago of wooded islands a day’s sail from the head of the gulf. The Vikings had used it as a waystation before and made for an islet set on the sea like a green crown, every tree and rock faithfully reflected in the water. Watching it draw close, Hero was reminded of the sacred groves where the ancients consulted the oracles.

He stepped ashore half expecting to see a rustic temple. What he saw confirmed his intuition and wiped the smile from his face. At the centre of the island rose a bubbling spring surrounded by pines and birches decked with votive offerings. Hero saw cast hammer amulets, the shrivelled wing of a raven, carved bone images of Freyr with his immense phallus. Scattered beneath the trees were many bones. Hero recognised a horse’s skull and a sheep’s scapula, both green with moss. Hero spotted a more recent sacrifice and his blood ran cold. It was a human skeleton collapsed all of a heap, the bones still chalky white. His eye darted up. Directly above the skeleton the frayed end of a rope dangled from a branch.

He turned to see Arne studying a birch post carved with runes. ‘Who did you hang here?’

‘I don’t know. A captive, a skraeling …’

‘But why?’

‘Punishment, sacrifice … Ask Thorfinn.’

‘Sacrifice? You kill men to propitiate your gods? You’re savages. Worse than animals.’

Arne showed anger. ‘See that?’ he demanded, pointing at the rune-post. ‘It says “Thorolf made this for Skopti, died in the north.” I knew Skopti. He had a brother, Harald, who lived up the valley from my own farm. Harald had a wife and two children, a boy and a girl under five. Six years ago we had a very bad winter, the worst anyone can remember. So bad that the snow rose above the eaves and trapped us in our homestead for months. When the thaw came, we went to see how Harald and his family had fared. We called greetings as we approached the house and when we received no reply, I went into the farmstead and found Harald and his wife dead. They’d starved. I didn’t find their children, though. Only their bones. Their parents had eaten them.’

Hero began to walk away, but Arne grabbed his arm. ‘What would you have done? You boast about your homeland with its fields of wheat stretching to the horizon, orchards laden with apples, pastures crowded with sheep and cattle. Land shapes men’s lives. Don’t stand in judgement over others until you’ve experienced their sufferings.’

Hero stood mute and sullen.

‘We’re here for one night,’ Arne said. ‘Tomorrow you’ll go back to your friends. Shut your eyes and morning will soon come.’

That night the Vikings got drunk on birch ale and took the women into the grove and gang-raped them. Hero went to the other side of the island with Garrick and Arne and tried to blank out the sounds. The aurora danced in the north.

‘The skraelings say it’s the souls of the dead,’ Arne said.

‘Why don’t you join the debauchery?’ Hero asked.

Arne stared at the ghostly lights. ‘I have a wife and daughters. I think, What if it were them?’

‘Your companions have wives and daughters.’

Garrick put his hand on Hero’s arm and frowned. The aurora faded. On a neighbouring island the flames of Shearwater’s company licked at the dark. Snatches of conversation drifted across the gulf. Hero recognised Raul’s laughter. One of the women gave a smothered scream.

‘You know this journey will end in blood,’ Hero said.

‘Yes,’ said Arne. ‘If Thorfinn doesn’t take revenge, the men won’t follow him again.’

‘Change sides,’ Hero said. ‘Bring others with you.’

Arne rose heavily and went away into the night.

After silence had fallen, Hero and Garrick returned to the camp and settled down around the embers. Hero listened to the offerings clacking together in the sacrificial grove until he fell asleep. He dreamed of bones and woke in the dark to hear Garrick slipping back into his place, breathing in pained sighs. All around them the drunken Vikings snored and groaned. Garrick’s breathing steadied and Hero’s eyes closed again.

A commotion at daybreak snapped him awake to find men running in all directions. Arne hurried past with his sword drawn. ‘The Icelandic women have escaped.’

Hero began to rise but Garrick restrained him. ‘You don’t want to see.’

A blast from a horn sent the Vikings racing towards the eastern side of the island. With a wondering glance at Garrick, Hero followed. He found the Vikings standing around the women. Mother and daughter sat side by side on the shore, slumped together as if they’d fallen asleep waiting for the sun to rise. Hero stepped in front of them. They would never see another dawn. They had cut their wrists and their life-blood had drained away, leaving their faces white as chalk and their laps drenched with blood. On the ground lay the bloodied stone they’d used to commit suicide. Arne tried to stop him from picking it up, but Hero swore and shook him off. The mother had sawn her daughter’s wrists before hacking at her own. Hero’s face lost shape. He hurled the stone into the sea.

‘Curse you! Curse this place!’

Thorfinn laughed in Hero’s face, then his eyes narrowed in baleful intensity and he strode back to the camp.

Arne caught Hero’s arm. ‘Listen to me. It was your English friend who gave the stone to the women. I heard him creep away in the night. When you go back, don’t speak to him. Don’t even look at him. If you think that Thorfinn can’t read your thoughts, you’re wrong. He sees into men very well, especially if they’re hiding what he wants to see. Stay here until I fetch you.’

‘Why? Are there more horrors to come?’

‘Thorfinn is going to hang one of the prisoners. He thinks one of them gave the stone to the women.’

‘Mother of God. You have to stop him!’

‘I can’t. He’ll kill me.’

After Arne left, Hero found himself looking across the strait to where Shearwater lay anchored. A thin column of smoke rose from the island and then flattened out with the wind. Over there they would be blowing life into last night’s embers, preparing breakfast, exchanging the everyday asides of travellers grown easy with each other’s company. He was still wishing himself across the gulf when Arne returned.

‘It’s over.’

Hero followed him back to camp in a sick daze. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his eyes turning towards the hanged man. The poor wretch dangled with his head wrenched at a grotesque angle, eyes bulging from his mottled face.

‘Hey, Greek.’

Hero’s blurred gaze fell on what he’d imagined with horror but never really believed, and never for a moment thought he would see. It was true, though. Thorfinn sat on a log tearing with his huge teeth at the freshly plucked liver of his victim.

He waved the steaming offal at Hero like a man tucking in to a hearty breakfast. ‘Put that down in your story.’