Hawk Quest (24 page)

‘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.