Imperial Fire

The Caspian Sea and Turkestan
XVIII

On a muggy afternoon towards the end of May, Vallon stood looking across a corridor of coastal steppe to the Caspian Sea merging into the sky like a misted mirror.

Otia pointed at a tiny stain on the shore. ‘That must be Tarki.’

‘It doesn’t look like much of a place.’

‘It’s the only port between the Volga and Derbent.’

Vallon reviewed the squadron ranged along the ridge. ‘Take three squads and secure the town. Offer no violence unless necessary. Make it clear that we’ll pay for our passage.’

‘We’ll be lucky to charter a fishing smack in that back-of-beyond hole,’ Josselin muttered.

‘Mind your tongue,’ Vallon snapped. ‘I won’t have my officers voicing doubts in front of the men.’ He turned back to Otia. ‘Signal if you’re successful. The usual system.’

Vallon retreated to his tent after the force had left. Since breaking through the Caucasus he’d kept much to his own company, only communicating to his men through terse orders.

Night fell, and with it, rain. Vallon was penning a letter to Caitlin that she’d never receive when his servant announced Wayland. Not long before, the Englishman would have entered the commander’s tent without ceremony and they would have exchanged pleasantries as a prelude to business. This time Wayland presented himself with a formal bow.

‘No signal yet,’ he said.

‘I don’t expect any before morning. Keep lookout from first light.’

‘Very good, General.’

Vallon cast down his pen. ‘What’s this “General”? Even as a youth you weren’t afraid to call me by my name.’

‘I think it would be better for discipline if I addressed you by your rank.’

‘Even in private? Oh, to hell with it, then.’

At the entrance, Wayland paused and Vallon opened his mouth in anticipation. The moment passed. Wayland was gone and Vallon was alone again. He read the letter he would never send — the words no more than an outlet for the heartsickness he couldn’t confide or cure. He crumpled the letter into a ball and flung it across the tent.

He buried his face in his hands and was still sunk in that position when his servant stole in to enquire if he needed anything for the night.

‘No, nothing, thank you,’ Vallon said. ‘You can take your rest now.’

The servant noticed the screwed-up letter and stooped to retrieve it.

‘It’s not important,’ said Vallon. ‘Burn it.’

At dawn he tracked the sun rising in a baleful red swell. The pall thinned and the brassy orb bored through the haze. Still no signal from Otia’s men. Sweat trickled down Vallon’s neck. He rubbed his chapped lips. If the force failed to take the port, he had no idea which way to turn.

‘There’s the signal,’ Wayland said.

‘Where?’

Wayland jostled his horse alongside. ‘There.’

Through the overcast a mirror flashed dully — once, twice, thrice. Vallon curbed a cry of triumph. ‘They’ve taken the port. One squad accompany me. The rest follow with the baggage train.’

A ragged cheer went up and Vallon’s squad swept down to the coast. Otia rode out to meet them. ‘No casualties on either side, sir. The inhabitants are sheltering in the church. I’ve told the priest and elders that we’ll pay for anything we take.’

‘Good work,’ said Vallon, but he could tell from Otia’s expression that the capture of the port hadn’t solved all their problems.

He understood why when he rode through the settlement of daub walls and tousled thatch and saw four small fishing boats and two shabby coastal freighters riding the listless tide. One glance told him the vessels couldn’t carry all his men and freight.

He feigned cheerfulness. ‘The worst is behind us,’ he said. ‘If we can come through the Caucasus, we can cross this millpond. Organise a feast for the men.’

Vallon examined the vessels with Wulfstan. ‘How many can we pack into them?’

‘Most of the men, but that will leave little room for horses and cargo. And none of the vessels is fit for deep-water voyaging.’

Vallon surveyed the Caspian’s oily calm. ‘It’s just a big lake. Why, the tide’s so feeble there’s barely a foot between ebb and flow.’

‘It’s a lot wider than the North Sea and a storm in shallow waters can whip up waves before you can reef sails.’ The Viking pointed at one of the freighters listing like a weary drunk. ‘I wouldn’t risk sailing out of land-shot in that wreck.’

‘We need to rest and recover. There’s a good chance that a trading ship will dock in the next two or three days. Meanwhile, do what’s necessary to make the vessels seaworthy.’

Returning to camp, he had to skip aside as a gang of troopers chased a squealing pig through the muddy lanes. He shut himself in his tent while the men feasted and they were still sleeping it off when he went down to the strand next morning. Not a sail showed all day, nor did the morrow bring any relief. Vallon waited by the slopping waves, wiping sweat from his eyes, and was still scanning the horizon with his shadow lying long before him. He turned to face the blue wall of the Caucasus. Returning through the mountains meant certain death. North lay nothing but empty grassland and the marshes of the Volga delta. The only large harbours were in Georgia to the south, reached along a coastal strip that pinched shut at the Iron Gates of Derbent. Follow that corridor and in a few days they would be among Seljuks or Arabs.

Otia had been hovering and seemed to read his commander’s mind. ‘I suggest we go south, the squadron travelling by land, the baggage train staying in close touch on the ships. Derbent’s the only city where we’ll find vessels large enough to transport all the men and supplies.’

‘We’ll give it one more day.’

Vallon was trudging back to camp when Wayland called out.

‘Sails to the north-east. Two of them, close together, halfway below the horizon and bearing south.’

Vallon ran over. ‘Show me.’

‘Out there, heading away from land.’

The light was draining fast and Vallon couldn’t spot anything against the upwelling night. He knuckled his eyes.

‘Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?’

Wayland looked at him.

Vallon backed away. ‘Light a fire,’ he ordered. ‘Pile it high.’

The men ran in search of firewood. Wulfstan hurried over. ‘If you want to attract their attention, burn that.’

He was pointing at a haystack capped with a wooden roof. Vallon glanced at the settlement.

‘An inferno is as likely to repel as attract.’

‘They ain’t going to see us any other way.’

‘You’re right. Use Greek Fire to quicken the blaze.’

Wulfstan ran into the night. Stars twinkled in the east. Wulfstan returned, climbed a ladder leaning against the stack and poured incendiary compound over the hay. He sprinkled more around the base. Troopers lobbed firebrands onto the stack and flames licked into the sky.

Fifty feet away, Vallon shielded his face from the singeing heat. The fire illuminated Wayland. ‘That’s someone’s precious fodder we’re burning. I hope your eyes didn’t deceive you.’

‘They didn’t,’ Wayland said. ‘There was something odd about the sails, something…’

‘Yes?’

‘Wait until dawn. If I’m right, the blaze will have lured the ships closer. Keep a fire burning on the foreshore and have some of the men blow trumpets and act as if pirates have taken the port.’

‘Damn it, Wayland. Aren’t you going to tell me what you suspect?’

‘I’ll come for you early.’

‘Wayland’s here,’ Vallon’s servant whispered, holding up a lamp.

Vallon rubbed his eyes and threw off his bed covers. He dressed and went out. Stars outlined the Caucasus and the eastern horizon was invisible.

‘It’s still the middle of the night,’ he said, tetchy from having been kept awake by the racket of trumpets and war cries.

Wayland guided him towards the bonfire on the foreshore. Three troopers pulled themselves to attention. Wayland stationed himself at the waterline. Vallon sat beside the crackling logs with a blanket draped over his shoulders.

‘See anything?’

‘It’s still too dark.’

‘Why did you drag me from my bed, then?’

‘Because if I’m right, we’ll need to act fast.’

Vallon mouthed an oath and fell into a doze. Wayland woke him by squeezing a shoulder. Vallon still couldn’t separate sea from sky.

‘They’re out there,’ Wayland said.

Vallon stumbled to his feet and peered into the pre-dawn gloom. ‘If I didn’t know your eyes were as keen as a hawk’s, I’d swear you were making sport of me.’

Wayland’s teeth glimmered in the fireglow. ‘Cover your eyes for a time. You’ll see all the better.’

Like a child playing a game, Vallon shielded his eyes.

‘I can make them out now,’ Wayland said. ‘Not far to the south of us, about a mile out.’

Vallon probed the semi-darkness. His gaze kept returning to two motes of matter that remained dark while the world around them grew ever paler.

‘Is that them?’

‘That’s them.’

At this season of the year, the light came fast. Birds were in full song when the ships took on solid form. Vallon advanced a step, rubbed his eyes and gave a husky laugh. ‘By God, I don’t believe it.’

‘Nor did I when I first spotted them, but the cut of the sails looked familiar. It’s like when you see someone from afar. Even though you can’t make out their features, something about their posture, the way they move, tells you it’s an old friend.’

Vallon laid an arm around Wayland’s shoulder. ‘Or enemy.’

Side by side they stood looking out to sea until the sun’s first flush silhouetted two Viking longships, the carved dragons on their stem- and stern-posts rearing up in black snarls.

The entire squadron stood along the shoreline watching the Vikings watching them.

‘What do you make of them?’ Vallon said.

‘They must be Swedes,’ Wulfstan said. ‘The only way they could have reached the Caspian is down the Volga. I never heard of a Norwegian crew taking that route.’

During the night, the ships had crept to within half a mile of the coast, still well out of hailing distance. They drifted together, roped stern to bow.

‘I count only forty-two crew,’ Wulfstan said. ‘They must have lost a fair few men on the way south. From Sweden to the Caspian is more than a year’s voyaging.’

Vallon swung his arm in a come-hither gesture. ‘Call them again.’

‘Waste of breath,’ said Wulfstan. ‘They ain’t going to risk landing in the teeth of a well-armed force.’

One of the Vikings gave a loose wave and his comrades separated and began to take their positions on the thwarts.

‘They’re leaving,’ said Vallon in exasperation. ‘Well, if they won’t come to us, I’ll send someone to them. Wulfstan, you’re the man for the job. Off you go.’

Wulfstan cast a dubious look at the longships.

‘What are you waiting for?’ said Vallon. ‘They’re not going to carry off an old pirate with only one hand.’

Wulfstan spat. ‘That’s what worries me. They might just knock me on the head and drop me in the sea.’

Vallon shoved him. ‘You’re wasting time. Don’t tell them any more of our business than you have to. Say nothing about my voyage to the north.’ He pointed at a grassy spit curving into the sea half a mile to the south. ‘Tell their leader to meet us there — four in each party. Everyone else to stand well clear.’

Wulfstan ran towards the harbour. The Vikings had begun to stroke away when he took to the sea in a skiff rowed by two oarsmen. Vallon shielded his eyes against the glare. The longships slowed and stopped. The skiff came alongside in a twinkling of oars and a Viking reached out to help Wulfstan aboard.

There followed a long hot wait before Wulfstan returned to the skiff and pulled for shore. Vallon met him at the water’s edge.

‘Well?’

‘They’ve agreed to talk. They’re Swedish all right. Their leader’s called Hauk.’

‘Anything else?’

‘They’ve been in a bad scrap, but Hauk’s too proud to admit it. He doesn’t give much away. If it wasn’t for the empty thwarts and half a dozen men groaning from wounds, you’d think he was on a spring cruise.’

‘Join me for the negotiations,’ Vallon said. He addressed his centurions. ‘Remain here with the men in clear sight. Any threatening move and the Vikings will be off.’

Josselin clearly would have been happy to see the back of them. He indicated Vallon’s splendid armour, his superb sword in its finely chased scabbard. ‘With respect, sir, you shouldn’t put yourself in jeopardy. Let me go in your place.’

‘You don’t speak Norse and this won’t be the first time I’ve negotiated with Vikings.’ Vallon grinned at Wayland. ‘Do you remember balancing on a rock in a wilderness river while we parleyed with Thorfinn Wolfbreath?’

‘That didn’t turn out too well.’

‘Not for Thorfinn it didn’t. I want you at my side again.’

Hero took a tentative step. ‘And if the Vikings are carrying wounded men, perhaps my presence might be useful.’

An hour after the sun had started its descent, Vallon and his team were still standing on the promontory, blasted by heat, while the longships lolled offshore.

Hero fanned away flies. ‘Do you think he’s changed his mind?’

Wulfstan removed a pebble from his mouth and spat a fleck of white spittle. ‘He’s softening us up by letting us stew while he lounges in the shade. I’ll send for water.’

‘Wait,’ said Vallon. A stirring at the side of one of the longships had caught his attention. The Vikings lowered a skiff and four men climbed into it. ‘At last.’

The boat rowed towards them, its occupants elongating and dwarfing in the heat waves. They ran the boat aground and stepped out — three yellow- and russet-haired warriors standing half a head taller than their commander, all of them wearing woollen cloaks over rusty mail shirts, linen kirtles and leggings or trousers.

‘Hauk, you said.’

‘That’s the fellow.’

Vallon studied him as he approached. Neat of foot and well-made, clean-shaven and with sun-faded brown hair trimmed short. Small only by comparison with his brawny companions. Not a heathen either, judging by the crucifix at his throat.

The delegation halted ten yards away and Hauk appraised the general. He had eyes like a jackdaw’s — silvery grey pupils ringed by dark irises, a quick unsmiling gaze. His eyes dwelt on Vallon’s armour, lingered on Wayland and glanced over Hero.

He gave a dismissive sniff. ‘Your commander has chosen a strange set of lieutenants,’ he said to Wulfstan. ‘I expected something more formidable than a one-armed soldier, a holy water clerk and a man with a dog.’

‘You can speak to me directly,’ Vallon said. ‘I’m Vallon the Frank, general in the army of His Imperial Majesty Alexius Comnenus. And Hero isn’t a priest. He’s a physician. Wayland’s an Englishman, a former hawkmaster to the Sultan of Rum.’

A slight widening of Hauk’s eyes betrayed his surprise at being addressed in his own language.

‘Where did you learn to speak such bad Norse?’

‘On a journey to Iceland and Greenland. We travelled the Road to the Greeks with Norwegian Vikings before going our separate ways. I continued to Miklagard where I took service with the Byzantine army.’

‘I’m Hauk Eiriksson, a prince of Uppland, grandson of a Viking who travelled to the Caspian with Ingvar the Far-Traveller some forty years ago. If you voyaged down the Dnieper, you might have heard of his exploits.’

‘By the time we ran the Dnieper, the Varangians were a fading memory.’

‘My countrymen still honour their venture. More than thirty runestones commemorate the men who made that voyage.’

‘I hope they returned home laden with riches.’

‘Six ships began that journey and only one returned. My grandfather died in Serkland with Ingvar. I hope to discover how he went to his doom.’

Vallon found Hauk’s lack of bombast encouraging. ‘Yet you’ve chosen to repeat the enterprise. I thought the days of the Viking raider were over.’

‘The king of Svealand exiled me after I killed one of his sons. I’ve won fame in my country, but not fortune. I intend to gain both in Serkland.’

‘He means Persia,’ Wulfstan said.

‘And you,’ said Hauk. ‘I understand you’re on a mission to the East.’

‘To a land called China. My orders are to establish friendly relations with its ruler. Tell me, Hauk Eiriksson, how you reached the Caspian.’

‘We crossed the Baltic last spring and travelled by way of Novgorod to Vladimir on the Volga.’

‘Surely you didn’t carry those drakkars across the portage.’

‘Of course not. We built them on the Volga last winter and sailed downriver when the ice broke up.’

Vallon’s gaze strayed to the longships. ‘Forgive me if I aggravate a sore, but I’d say you have many fewer men than you started with.’ He splayed a placating hand. ‘I speak as one with bitter experience of setbacks and losses. Our journey through the Caucasus has cost me nearly quarter of my force.’

Hauk relaxed. ‘Sickness claimed twenty of my men during the winter and I lost another dozen in a battle near the mouth of the Volga.’

‘I’m glad we speak so frankly. It seems to me that this meeting might breathe fresh wind into both our endeavours.’ Vallon waved at the sorry little fleet in the harbour. ‘We don’t have enough ships to cross the Caspian. You, on the other hand, have empty berths. Perhaps we can — ’

‘I’m not a ferryman. I steer my own course.’

‘Hear me out. I’m not calling on your charity. Transport us to the eastern shore — a week’s sail at most — and I’ll pay you for each man you carry.’

Hauk’s eyes narrowed. ‘In silver.’

‘No.’

Hauk snorted.

Vallon held up a solidus. ‘In gold.’ He held it out. ‘Take it. Go on, take it.’

Hauk reached out and handed the coin to one of his lieutenants without looking at it. The man turned away like a dog concealing the theft of some dainty and assayed it by taste, texture and weight, his companions craning for his verdict.

A grin split the man’s face. Hauk plucked the coin from his hand and stuffed it into his purse. The sun struck silver flecks from his eyes. ‘One gold coin doesn’t persuade me of your honesty. You outnumber us two to one. If I take your soldiers on my ships, how do I know you won’t try to seize them?’

‘My word, for a start.’

Hauk’s laugh rang harsh.

‘If that isn’t enough, we can make some practical accommodation. Suppose you transport my muleteers and grooms, leaving my fighting men to take their chances on the freighters and fishing boats.’

‘You sound desperate.’

‘I can only go east. Even if I could bring my force back to Miklagard, I would face certain disgrace and probable death. There you have it.’

While they’d been talking, intermittent wails had drifted from the longships.

‘Some of your companions are wounded,’ Vallon said. ‘Whatever you decide, allow Hero to treat them. He’ll minister to them for no reward.’

‘Why?’

‘Treating the sick is his vocation, as tending men’s souls is a priest’s sacred calling.’

Hauk took another look at Hero. ‘I’ll discuss your proposition with my comrades.’

‘While you’re talking, I’ll send for water. I can hardly speak for thirst.’

Hauk’s party withdrew to the skiff and huddled together, punctuating their exchanges with emphatic gestures.

‘What do you think?’ said Hero.

‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit him,’ Wulfstan said.

‘I expect he feels the same about us.’

A trooper hurried up with goatskin bags of water. Vallon drank in long glugs, the liquid spilling down his chin. He took off his helmet and poured the rest over his head.

‘Here comes the answer,’ Wayland said.

Hauk advanced at the head of his men. ‘It’s not enough.’

‘Then name your own terms.’

‘I don’t have to. I could seize you here and now and hold you for ransom.’

Wulfstan laughed. ‘I’d like to see you try.’ He cocked a finger at Vallon. ‘The general’s the finest swordsman I’ve met.’

‘Hush,’ said Vallon.

Hauk’s escort fingered their swords. One Viking, his face disfigured by a purple cicatrice running from temple to jaw, partly unsheathed his blade. Vallon made no move.

‘Fighting would be stupid before we’ve finished negotiating. I’ve stated my terms. Now let’s hear yours.’

Hauk’s nostrils dilated. ‘Three solidi for each man we carry, plus another solidus for each beast of burden.’

‘Agreed.’

Hauk’s features froze. ‘What?’

‘I said I agree to your terms.’

Wulfstan hid a snigger. Hauk ground his teeth. ‘To be paid in advance.’

‘You’ll receive half the gold when we quit this shore. The rest when we make landfall on the other side.’

Hauk looked at the ground and then raised his face with a pensive smile.

Another gargling cry from the longships broke the impasse. ‘Your wounded need treatment,’ Hero said. ‘Let me collect my medicines and return to the ships with you.’

‘Wulfstan and I will come too,’ said Vallon. He half-inclined his head. ‘With your permission.’

Hauk gave a curt nod. ‘Come in your own boat,’ he said. In parting, his gaze lingered on Wayland. ‘He doesn’t speak much.’

‘He speaks when he has something important to say.’ Vallon smiled at Wayland and spoke in French. ‘Have I made a bargain with the devil?’

‘I don’t know. Hauk’s a lot smarter than Thorfinn. He reminds me of someone.’

‘Oh, yes. Who?’

‘You.’

Conditions on board the dragonships were worse than Vallon had expected. The Vikings were famished, dull eyes cupped in mauve sockets, sores on their faces. They were a mixed band, some of them barely into their teens and some old enough to have made their first raids when the men of the northlands still ruled the seas.

Hero took charge. ‘These men need food and fresh water.’

‘We have plenty to spare,’ Vallon said.

Hauk’s jawline tightened. He dipped his head a fraction.

‘Fetch them,’ Vallon told Wulfstan. ‘Don’t stint.’

Vallon and Hauk trailed after Hero while he examined the six wounded men, probing their injuries with an unflinching delicacy that both repulsed Vallon and filled him with admiration.

One man had taken a stab to the gut and was rotting from inside. Another, barely conscious with an indented skull, drooled and gibbered to old gods. A third, with no apparent sign of injury, clasped his stomach and implored Hero to put him out of his pain. The fourth stoically proffered an arm severed at the elbow and wrapped in a filthy bandage crawling with flies. The fifth had taken two deep slashes, one to the ribs and one to the shoulder, both exposing bone. And the last — one glimpse of the smashed leg, splintered bone sticking out of seeping, stinking flesh, made Vallon giddy. Dear Lord, he prayed, when death comes for me, let it be swift.

Hero rose, flicked a maggot from his hands and rinsed them in seawater. His expression was strained and distant. So far as he was concerned, Vallon, Hauk and the others didn’t exist.

‘You’d better go ashore,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at work all night.’

‘They’re as good as dead,’ Vallon said. ‘When they die, their companions will lay the blame on you.’

Hero towelled his hands dry. ‘Since when were you a physician? I might be able to save two of them if I attend to their wounds straight away. As for the others, I have physic to make their last hours bearable.’

Awkwardly, like a sinner reaching for a holy relic, Vallon touched Hero’s arm. ‘You’re a good man.’

He was climbing into the boat when he noticed the girl sitting alone in the stern of the second longship. From a distance and in the shallow evening light he formed an impression of dark hair and pale hieratic features.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

Hauk didn’t look round. ‘A slave.’

‘Why is she tethered?’

‘To stop her throwing herself into the sea. She’s already done it once.’

Vallon nodded at the oarsmen to begin rowing. He chuckled as they found their rhythm. ‘A year’s voyaging and all Hauk has to show for it is one wild slave girl.’

Wayland sat facing him in the bow, framed by the sun’s aura. ‘I’m not travelling in the company of slavers.’

Vallon yawned. ‘We’ll meet precious little else in the East.’

‘I mean it. If you recall, when we met, I was a slave in all but name. So was Syth.’

One startled glance and Vallon knew that Wayland spoke in earnest. ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’

‘Buy her freedom. I’ll pay.’

Vallon remembered how Wayland had fought tooth and nail to keep Syth with him on the northern voyage.

‘Wayland, I hope — ’

‘The girl means nothing to me. I set her value at no more than a few of those coins you’ve been throwing around.’

Vallon’s mouth worked. ‘Stop rowing,’ he ordered. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Hauk Eiriksson.’

The Viking leaned over the side, his features burnished by the sun.

‘The slave girl,’ Vallon called. ‘Where did you get her?’

‘In a village near the Volga Bend. What’s it to you?’

‘Have your men used her?’

‘That would halve her value. In Serkland they employ witches to tell if a girl still has her maidenhead.’

‘What will she fetch? I only ask because I’ll be dabbling in the slave trade myself.’

‘A girl as rare as that one — at least five solidi.’

‘You overestimate her worth.’

‘I told you I’ll pay,’ Wayland muttered.

‘Row us back,’ Vallon told the oarsmen

Hauk received them with mild surprise. Vallon extended a hand. ‘Five solidi, you said. Here’s six.’

‘I didn’t say she was for sale.’

‘Yes, you did.’

Hauk laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have put a lust for virgins among your weaknesses.’

Vallon slid a glance at Wayland. ‘She’s not for me.’

Hauk regarded the Englishman in a new light before whisking the money from Vallon’s hand. ‘Take her and good riddance. A word of warning,’ he said to Wayland. ‘After you’ve taken your pleasure, stay awake unless you want to feel her teeth closing about your throat.’

A huge Viking hoisted the girl kicking and scratching over the side and dropped her into the skiff. Her struggles threw her ragged clothing into disarray, giving Vallon a glimpse of the dark triangle above her thighs. He tugged his cloak tight over his shoulder and set his sights on shore.

‘You’ll rue that purchase,’ the Viking said. ‘She’ll cut your balls off while you sleep.’

The skiff rowed towards shore.

‘What’s her name?’ Wayland asked.

Vallon stared past him. ‘How would I know?’

Wayland sprang forward to stop the girl throwing herself into the sea. Her struggles threatened to capsize the boat. Raucous jeers billowed from the longships.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Vallon said.

Wayland pinned the girl down. ‘Find out what tongue she speaks.’

‘I’m not your go-between, damn it.’

‘Just try her.’

‘Anyone else…’ Vallon growled. He turned and addressed the girl in Greek. Her expression didn’t change. Vallon tossed a hand and faced forward again. ‘She doesn’t understand Greek.’

‘She must be a long way from home.’

‘Aren’t we all?’

Wayland spoke to her in Persian, one of the languages he’d learned at the Seljuk court. ‘What’s your name?’

Vallon glanced round when the girl answered in a gush of words, first pointing south, then north.

‘She’s called Zuleyka,’ Wayland said. ‘The Vikings weren’t the first to carry her off. Khazar raiders captured her in Persia five years ago. She claims to be a daughter of the King of the Gypsies.’

Vallon gave a scoffing laugh.

Wayland stepped past Vallon and resumed his place in the bow. The sun had sunk into a bank of cloud and Vallon no longer had to squint to make out Wayland’s expression. ‘Why are you looking at her like that?’

‘See for yourself.’

‘I’m not interested.’

‘Her head hangs like a wild hawk hooded for the first time. Touch her however lightly and she’ll spit and bate.’

Vallon pointed a finger. ‘Wayland, if I thought you intended to man her…’

‘I don’t.’

‘Good,’ Vallon said. The skiff grounded and he clambered past Wayland. ‘Because she’s not coming with us.’

‘Thanks to you, she’s a free woman. She can go where she pleases.’

Vallon stalked up the shore. ‘Anywhere except in my company.’