At the foot of the damp and slippery path, we joined a growing group of panting, tired warriors. Brent had stayed behind at the castle gate to lead any rearguard action, but the men now were so few, just some eighty fit warriors, out of the original raiding party that must have numbered over a hundred. Any Norseman that had been critically wounded had been callously put to the sword. As Brent had told me, there were no passengers. Not even, it seemed, amongst his own people.
A pungent, nauseous steam rose from the nervously jostling men as they gathered on the shore at the foot of the path. Our minds were in the state of shock that follows a battle, when the euphoria leaves and is replaced by a feeling of anticlimax.
The inexorable wheels of nature had turned the tide and the sea was already washing at the smooth slabs of the beach, its waves licked at the rocks with an eerie phosphorescent foam. The night air was as dark as ink and a freshening north-westerly wind brought with it a frosty threat of snow.
I could see no sign of the waiting fleet of ships through the stygian blackness of the night. I had become disoriented after our charging battle with its swooping, plunging escape and couldn’t decide exactly where they should be. The coldness of the night air slowly dulled the throbbing pain in my head and sharpened my tired wits.
If I escaped from my captors now, I ran an almost certain chance of immediate execution from the mob at the Castle above. From here there was nowhere else to go. I would have to bide my time, try to keep my weapon a secret and wait for the moment when I could deliver justice for the lives of those three innocent children.
The sound of scrabbling feet on the cliff path above us broke into my thoughts. Brent reached the foot of the winding track and arrived amongst us. I couldn’t see him, but you could sense his terrible presence as though a solid part of the darkness. Silence fell among the tired, expectant men as they waited for orders and rescue.
The standard bearer un-shouldered a long bull’s horn and gave it to his master. Brent faced out to the sea and, holding the horn to his lips, gave a short bellowing blast. As if by the magical hands of fairies, a string of twinkling yellow specks of light appeared before us as the ship-minders un-shuttered horn lanterns.
Right on time, as though arranged with the devil himself, the moon briefly peeped its slivered crescent from behind low bubbling clouds. With a rumbling cheer, the warrior group surged forward and we were soon wading and staggering through the rocky shallows towards the gently rocking craft.
With aching muscles and a pathetically low spirit, I heaved myself aboard the dragonship that Ivar thrust me towards. My frozen legs trembled as they let me down onto the oarsman’s bench and I groaned with the effort of lifting my oar into its thole. I felt as though my back would break in two rather than heave on the long heavy sweep. But I managed. The wound on my chest was sore and had bled a little where it had broken open. They will not win, I told myself and struggled to muster some stubborn determination.
‘I’ll show them what it means to be British.’ I mumbled.
Angry shouts reached us from the shore and the hiss of arrows passed very close above our heads. Our escape was discovered.
With a slow wallowing swing our ship turned to nose into open water. Ivar beat his drum and the men chanted a song of thanks to Odin. As I looked through tear smudged eyes, I was astounded to see that the cliff was becoming a purple-grey against a paling of the eastern sky.
Already, another day was in prospect. The clean light of the sun would soon drive above the horizon to pierce the smoke and show the world what we had done.
I felt ashamed. For in my cowardice, I had surely been a part of the savage atrocity that had undone many innocent lives that night. It would be better if the sun should hide its brilliance from us until we could prove that we were worthy of its miracle.
I was tired, but through my exhaustion I remembered the shouted farewells and the departure of the small knarrs with their much depleted crews. We turned to head west while they veered away to sail towards their island home. The strokes from Ivar’s cane ceased to trouble me and when we were ordered to ship the long oars, I needed help to retrieve mine and stow it in its place on the deck.
Near collapse I threw myself into the remnants of an old sail and sank into a near unconscious, dream filled sleep. My dreams were peopled with awful creatures that inhabited the outer edges of the world that were eventually subdued by the gentle rocking motion of the ship. My mother’s voice appeared from behind a dazzling curtain of solid mist, she was wailing in what seemed bereavement. As I awoke I realised that my family would soon hear of my supposed treason and traitorous deeds. It would probably mean the end for my father, Lord Odda the Thane and King’s adviser. My spirit was close to despair as I struggled with gummed eyelids to meet another terrible day.
The sail had been set, although it seemed somehow, smaller than I remembered it. Brent was the only one on his feet and with his one good arm, he was heaving at the steering blade to control the corkscrewing motion of the plunging vessel. The wind snatched at the sail as we plunged into the trough of a wave only to soar wildly skywards again, to the brink of another foamy crest. Brent’s seamanship skills and amazing strength stopped us from toppling sideways from the wave-top. Then, in a frightening, but exhilarating swoop, we cut a creaming wake to fall into another, steep sided wave trough.
I sat motionless, wedged against the planking of the ship’s side and the rowing bench, watching the actions of the man at the steering board and listened to the flap and quiver of the sail as the wind filled it again with a crack of thunder. Spray flew in spiky sheets from the diving prow, the sail was soaked and dripping with salt water despite the rush of wind to dry it. Much of the spray water pitched onto the deck and streamed in tiny rivulets between the sturdy boards down into the hold area beneath us. To ease my chest, I rested my head against the rowing bench.
I must have dozed off again and when I awoke I sensed, rather than felt, that the sea was becoming less boisterous and the wind cracked in the sail with a reduced urgency. Around me the crew of warriors were also propped and wedged into corners, most were sleeping the slumbers of numbing exhaustion. Others, pale faces a slight shade of green, looked to be in a similar discomfort that I had seen with my King. The sickness of the sea.
‘Ivar.’ bellowed Brent, his eyes reddened with tiredness and salt spray. ‘Rouse out that lazy scum of a slave, damn you. Get him bailing the water out of this war-canoe before we founder.’
Without waiting to be slashed with Ivar’s ready cane, I scuttled across to the hatch way above the main hold, grabbing a leather bucket on my way.
The steady flow of water had washed the decks clean and created a foul, stinking atmosphere in the small place beneath the main deck. It made me gag, but I took advantage of a few moments to look around and noticed the iron bound, wooden chests. One of them had been broken open and there was the gleam of new silver coins inside. I picked one out and, sure enough, it was the work of the Watchett moneyer. A King’s coin. Carefully I slipped the silver coin into my boot and grabbed at the bucket.
Brent had detailed one of the crew’s idlers to take the bucket from me and empty it over the side, which speeded the operation and saved me a lot of effort climbing up and down. But even so, the full bucket must have weighed as much as a flour sack, and the man above wouldn’t bend to take it from me. It was tiring work which, although I eventually caught up with it, the dribble of water into the ship was continuous and never ending. The memory of a childhood story rushed into my mind, I was just like the wicked, Giant Tregeagle, of the Cornish legend, when he was set to empty Dozmary Pool using an Oyster shell.
During one of my few, brief rest periods, I sat on the edge of the hatch watching the routine work on the deck. Most people seemed to have set tasks, which they got on with, but a few provided a mobile pool of extra labour as it was needed. Another crewman had taken the helm from Brent and he had slept for a short while. But now he was up, stripped to the waist and washing his hair and body in, what I knew to be, ice-cold sea water. When he had finished and dressed himself, he strode across to where I sat.
‘Well pig, now we see the wisdom of my father’s judgement in devising your punishment.’ he paused to glance around the deck. ‘You are now reviled as a traitor by your own people, and as a lowly slave by mine. You’re a No-man, British pig!’ he laughed at his own joke.
Brent’s laughter died. ‘Give it to me.’ he demanded.
My heart missed a beat. Had he noticed the carefully hidden knife, or had he somehow found out about the silver penny. Suddenly I realised that it was neither, he had noticed my signet ring, still on its thong about my neck. I’d fastened it there for safety when we moved into battle on the banks of the River Parret all those long days ago.
I didn’t move quickly enough for him and received a painful kick in the ribs while he wrenched the ring free.
‘When did you steal it. Pig.’ he snapped.
My lungs fought to regain their breath but I managed to briefly gasp the history and significance of the ring and its engraved wolf’s head.
‘Silence. I believe you stole it. It is one of my family’s insignias.’ he held it up to inspect it more closely. ‘I haven’t seen it before though. The craftsmanship is much too clumsy to be one of mine.’
Brent looked at me carefully. I could feel the hairs on my neck bristle uncomfortably. The cold eyes were not compromised by the man’s tense smile as he dropped the piece of gold into his purse.
‘I say you stole it. Be grateful that I allow you to live.’ he turned and shouted for Ivar. ‘One dozen strokes Ivar, if you please. Now. Then you can remove his collar...No-man has nowhere to go.’ he added, laughing again as he turned away.
I winced and sucked at my breath as a series of cutting blows rained on my shoulders.
The routine seemed endless. Bailing, resting, bailing and resting, through the long day and through the longer night. It became instinctive after a while, but it left my mind clear to think without distraction, except for the cold. The crew rigged a sort of tent over the space behind the mast, using timber and a spare sail. This, as far as I was concerned, served two functions, it kept some water off of the deck and thence from my labours and it was a warmer spot in which to take my rest periods.
Then the weather and sea moderated. Quite suddenly the pressure on the sail eased and the plunging, corkscrewing motion grew smoother. The tortured sound of the ships strong timbers fell to a soft groaning sigh and some of the pale faces regained their colour.
From where I sat and worked I could only see a very limited view of anything outside the ship, although I had the fearful impression that we were out of sight and far from land. It came as quite a surprise when I realised from the conversation about me, that we approached a coast. And somewhere that must be familiar and friendly to the warriors, as they made no preparations for a landing of force.
As I sat, facing the stern of the ship, the heavy steering board was to my left, set towards the front of the raised master’s deck and where an especially skilled crewman continually corrected the ship’s heading. Brent stood behind him, on the very top strake of the hull’s planking, his eyes shaded with one hand while with the stump, he steadied himself against the high sweep of the gilded dragon ship’s tail.
Another crewman, stationed in the bow, called a constant, monotonous litany, describing our approach towards the channels,
‘Clear water. Clear water. Shoal and small spray to eastward.’ the calling became rhythmic. Song-like.
Brent called to his expectantly waiting group of sailors. ‘Rig a small grapnel anchor aft, use the green rope. The rest of you, man the lines and take up a reef in the Great Sail.
The party of crewmen smartly set about their tasks, one fellow jumped into the hold before me and passed up a heavy looking steel grapnel and the end of a coil of rope that was almost as thick as a man’s wrist. The ends of the rope were bound with a broad whipping of green cord, thus the green rope. An impressively simple method of coding the ship’s cordage and rigging that enabled the crew to carry out the commands of the ship’s master with a minimum of explanation. An important priority in an emergency or when the ship was in action.
‘Clear water. Shoal and white caps to east and west.’
We had obviously entered a narrowing channel, I could see it quite clearly in my tired imagination. Cautiously I tried to peer over the top of the nearest bulwark, but without standing I could see nothing, except of course, for the cavernous dome of a cloud strewn sky. Brent, like a wooden statue, stayed on his lonely lookout perch, seemingly oblivious of those around and before him. Every so often he gave a quietly spoken course change to his steersman and calmly continued to scan the approaching landfall and horizon. Despite his lack of rest, Brent looked fresh and alert, his gaze swept the ship.
‘Oarsmen...make ready and stand-by.’
I hopped up from the edge of my hatchway and, for want of a change, almost gladly took my place on the benches.
‘Clear the decks. Prepare the mooring lines.’
‘Clear water, clear water. Rocks to east and west, one length distant.’ sang the lookout.
I was still facing the stern of the ship, but from my new position I could clearly see what was happening. Over my right shoulder, within a strong bowshot, a rocky coast sprawled at the foot of tall, dark granite cliffs. The steep rocky walls were topped by a mop of waving green grass and dazzlingly white gulls sailed and soared on the wind as it rose from the cliffs.
Over my other shoulder I could glimpse a lowering of these craggy heights as they fell towards a cluster of brightly thatched houses that nestled into a cosy cleavage above a sandy cove and harbour. A jetty thrust its sturdy stone blocks into the clear green water and from the look of things that’s where we were headed. The steersman hauled against his board and the bow of the longship swung to take us parallel to the toes of the cliff.
‘Clear water. Sandy bottom. Rocks to south, three lengths distant.’ came the singsong voice from forward.
Just entering the channel, directly behind us, was another Viking ship. They had sailed late and had arranged to meet up with us at Watchett. It would seem they had been too late for that as well. Already she had furled her sail and was being brought in under the power of her oarsmen while we surged on, our own oarsmen still making ready. Another example of Brent’s superior skill on the water I thought.
The excitement of the crew was infectious and I felt a curious light-headedness. I had never travelled like this. Apart from our King and his upper court, I’d not heard of anyone who had. I’d read about it of course, during those long, numbingly cold mornings at the abbey. But this was real. I had a thousand questions, and no one to ask.
I must get home somehow. Clearing my name would be easy enough I thought, Brent didn’t understand the British loyalty and our straight honesty. We had to start our own sea service. We just had to.
‘Shake out the reefs and strike the sail.’ called Brent as the nearby cliff took our wind. ‘Oarsmen, out oars.’
Ivar walked up and down the lines of rowing benches his cane whistling to discourage tardiness. We slid the long heavy sweeps into position and held them ready, hovering above the chill pale-green sea. Ivar stood at the step before the master’s deck, his drum beside him.
‘Steady men. Ready...together. One – Two.’ and the drum boomed a steady swinging beat.
The oars slid into the still moving water and smoothly swept through their stroke in time with old Ivar’s beat. The powerful thrust lifted the hull in the water and the ship glided along, almost across the water rather than through it. The line of the cliff-tops had reached the point that I had glimpsed earlier and ran smoothly down, to give their shelter to the small hamlet that had tucked itself into the foot of the hill.
‘Stop your oars.’ shouted Brent, and to the steersman. ‘Away helm.’
The steersman put his weight to the handle on the Steering Board and pushed it firmly away from him. The longship swung to the right and quickly lost speed.
‘Stow your oars.’
I pulled mine in quickly and laid it on the bench at my side just as the wind carried the ship gently onto the woven willow buffers that hung from the stone blocks of the jetty. The mooring lines snaked through the air and were caught by eager landsmen, who quickly made them fast to the wooden pilings. The neatness of the manoeuvre impressed me. Brent had brought his craft alongside the mooring with its head facing the open sea, ready for our departure.
It was almost a shame that all this knowledge and skill would die when I killed him. For kill him I would. I had made an oath to three tiny souls.