CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A BOAT
Time passed swiftly for the rest of the crew. Halldís buried herself in her duties as hostess, the beer flowed freely, and all had begun to be lulled by the general good cheer of the occasion when a shrill shout brought them suddenly to their senses.
"Boat! Boat!" It was the reedy voice of a boy waving frantically from the watchtower. Bjólf and his crew were immediately on their feet, heading to the gate, weapons ready. The local people's reaction to the cry was equally swift, but their sense of urgency took them in quite the opposite direction. As Bjólf's crew raced past, mail and weapons ringing, they retreated rapidly, melting away into their homes, terrified.
"Look at them!" said Godwin in disgust. "Like frightened sheep!"
Arriving at the gates, Bjólf hurled himself up the uneven ladder to the covered platform of the watchtower where the young, skinny lad still stood, spotty beneath his straggly blond hair and red-faced, pointing down towards the water's edge.
Before he had even made the top of the tower, Bjólf had heard Úlf's distinctive whistle fade in and out on the stiff breeze that now blew at his back. It was the signal indicating another vessel, yet Úlf had not raised an alarm. Bjólf narrowed his eyes, looking down towards the harbour where his ship sat - at an angle now on the mud, where the tide had left it stranded. At first he did not see it. There was no sign of his men on the ship - they would have concealed their numbers, he knew - but beyond that, there seemed to be nothing unusual about the scene, just his ship, and a few small boats... Then he realised. Out in the water, almost obscured by his own craft, a small boat, sitting low in the water, drifted gently past, apparently brought by the current, its upper strakes and curving bows gaudily painted in a familiar style. He could see no sign of life, but within it was a curious shape, partially covered by a large swathe of dark red cloth. Another whistle went up - the sign that all was clear - and Bjólf saw the characteristic shape of Úlf Ham-Fist stir in the stern, his big forearms reaching out to the water with a boat hook to catch the passing craft.
"Open the gate!" called Bjólf as he threw himself back down the ladder. The gatekeepers hesitated, looking timidly from him to Halldís, who had herself just arrived at the rampart.
"Do it!" she cried.
They set about the task, hastened by several of Bjólf's men who lifted the weighty oak beam clean out of their hosts' hands and tossed it aside. Atli jumped back as it crashed at his feet, then joined them as they heaved on the creaking gates.
Within moments, Bjólf and his band were striding into the harbour mud, where Úlf had hauled the small boat up onto solid ground. The decoration upon it was unmistakable now. It was the row-boat from Grimmsson's ship. As he approached, he saw the big man - who was afraid of nothing on earth that Bjólf knew of - staring down into it, quite motionless.
"What is it?" said Bjólf as he came up alongside, breathing heavily. But he could see for himself now. Inside Grimmsson's boat was a single oar, a large wooden chest girt with black bands of iron, wrapped around with a heavy chain, half-draped with a cape of fine manufacture, and an expertly-wrought Frankish sword, its blade slicked with something black and sticky. Nothing else. It was immediately clear, however, what had caught Úlf's attention. On the top of the chest was a single, clear handprint of blood, still glistening in the early afternoon light.
The other men crowded around the boat, each staring at the strange sight.
"Things did not go so well for Grimmsson, then," said Gunnar. He prodded the abandoned sword-blade tentatively with the tip of his spear. "What is that? Is that blood?"
"If it is," said Godwin, "it's like none I've seen."
"Not from a living man, anyway," said Njáll.
Atli, catching only the occasional sight of the boat between shifting bodies of the other men, shuddered.
"Open it," said Bjólf.
Úlf stepped forward, his mace raised, and gave the iron lock a crashing blow. Bits of metal were sent flying. Bjólf threw off the chain and heaved the heavy lid open. The men murmured in awe at its contents.
Atli at first struggled to get a glimpse of what so impressed them. Then, as they moved, he caught sight of it, glittering in the sunlight. A precious hoard such as he could not have imagined.
Njáll whistled. "Arab dirhems, English silver pennies, Byzantine gold... this is the cream of their booty."
"Such valuables would only be in this boat if someone had been trying to make off with them," said Thorvald.
"Or more likely if the ship was lost, and they were trying to make an escape," added Godwin.
"So, what became of those who loaded it into the boat?" asked Njáll.
"The greater question must surely be what happened to the rest of the crew," said Godwin.
"Dead," said Bjólf.
Thorvald frowned at him. "All of them? The whole crew?"
"Or they fled for their lives. From a threat greater than the lure of this booty."
"Grimmsson's crew doesn't run," said Gunnar.
"And no one lets go a sword like that while they have breath in them," added Njáll.
"Then that leaves only one possible fate," said Bjólf.
"But what could wipe out an entire crew like that?" said Atli.
Gunnar looked about at the dark, blank walls of forest that surrounded them. "There's something out there. Worse than plague."
For a moment all the men looked around them, shifting in anxious silence. The thickening, mountainous clouds finally succeeded in obliterating the sun, casting a chilling pall over the company.
"Looking on the bright side," announced Fjölvar, attempting to dispel the gloom, "in the space of a day we have gone from being poverty-stricken victims of that dishonourable bunch of inbreds to having the greater part of their plunder."
"Perhaps we should quit while we're ahead," mused Thorvald.
"I vote we take what food we can and get out," said Godwin. Several nodded and muttered their agreement.
"We cannot leave," said Bjólf. The men fell silent.
Gunnar frowned at him. "One more successful raid, we said, remember? We have that now. Grimmsson finally destroyed and enough plunder to set us all up for life."
"I am sick to my stomach of running," said Bjólf. "We chose this life to be free from tyranny. Now here we are retreating from it."
"This is not our fight, my friend." Gunnar said. "And it is not tyranny we have to worry about. There is something different here. Something deadly... That wiped out eighty warriors like that." He snapped his fingers.
"The people here expect it of us," said Bjólf. Then, after a moment's hesitation, added: "She expects it."
Gunnar's voice hardened. "We made no deal. There would be no shame."
"There would," said Bjólf, tapping the side of his head, "In here." For a moment the two regarded each other, deadlocked. Finally, Bjólf pulled himself away and raised his voice to the rest of his men. "It is your decision. Stay or go?"
For a moment there was silence. Few could honestly say they were for staying, but none wished to speak out openly against their captain.
"Stay," said Atli. The men parted, turning to him.
Gunnar stared in surprise. "Now I feel shame. You have an uncanny knack of complicating matters, boy!"
Godwin gave a heavy sigh, nodding in reluctant agreement. "This little man is making us look bad."
"While you ladies are deliberating," interrupted Úlf, giving the hull of the Hrafn a slap with his huge hand, "allow me to point out that there's no way we're shifting this out of the mud without nature's help."
Bjólf looked at his beloved ship, held fast.
"How long until next high tide?" he asked, squinting at the edges of the mudflats.
All then looked at Kjötvi. He leaned heavily on his spear, looking back at them awkwardly. Gunnar noticed that he had bored a hole in the sliver of leg-bone and now wore it on a thong about his neck like a talisman. Kjötvi shrugged. "Tide's at its lowest. It'll be another quarter day until it's at its peak again. Around nightfall. Then again in the morning, when it will be high enough to get us off the mud for nearly half the day. But if we are still here at midday tomorrow, we'll likely be stuck again."
Bjólf nodded. "Then the decision is made. For now, at least. We stay put and take stock in the morning. See what another night brings. Which means, gentlemen," his voice rose with enthusiasm and not a little relief, "that tonight we feast!"
There was a mutter of assent from the men, mingled with muted approval. If they were forced to stick around to partake of a feast, well, maybe that wasn't so bad. Catching Atli's eye for a moment, Bjólf gave the boy a smile. He had earned the respect of many of the men today, men not easy to win round.
"We must prepare," Bjólf said. "Bring all weapons from the ship. Everyone is to stay armed." He pointed at Grimmsson's chest of silver and gold. "Stow that aboard, out of our hosts' way. Thorvald - take Einarr, Grimm and Eldi and relieve Úlf's watch here." The men snapped into action, heaving the chest from the boat and clambering aboard the ship. "Godwin?" The Englishman stood at his captain's shoulder. "I want a man up on the ramparts. Keep the ship in clear sight at all times. And have four more men on hand below. I want to be able to open those gates at a moment's notice if need arises, whether we have our host's permission or not."
"One more night, Gunnar," he said, slapping his friend on the back. "Then we see."
Gunnar looked up from beneath creased black brows, his eyes scanning the slowly darkening sky. "A storm is coming," he said.