The hours slowly eroded the day into night. My reprieved life at sea as a slave, was not the interesting voyage that I’d hoped for. The storm damaged hull planking still leaked and I alternated my time between the writing desk and long periods in the bilges. The ship would have to be repaired properly soon or we would all be going nowhere. Except down of course. Although the amount seeping past the emergency repair was controllable, it was only just. We had to have two people working at it all the time now, wet and cold I managed a few exhausted hours of sleep in between working at my turn in the night hours.
Brent seemed to be sure enough of where we were going and the wind had sprung to our assistance by changing direction and sweeping upon us from the north east. A cold wind, true enough, but it was useful enough to be able to bring in the long, heavy oars. Most of the warriors had drunk their fill and were sleeping it off in the thickened atmosphere of the deck tent. A few pale faces, the usual ones, showed that some were still suffering from the sickness.
My back felt as though it would break. The constant lifting of the damned bailing bucket was hard and supremely monotonous work. I often felt my spirits failing. Pulling back from that edge was getting harder each time.
‘Land ahead!’ the watchman’s excited yell seemed to fall upon deaf, or disbelieving ears.
I hadn’t even noticed that the dawn light had grown into morning.
‘Land ahead!’ the watchman called again, his voice louder in an attempt to break the general dullness of spirit. His arm pointed steadily over the windward bow.
Risking a caning from Ivar’s persuader, I hauled myself out of the hatchway and gazed across the choppy greyness in the direction of the shivering watchman’s pointing arm. Brent swung into the rigging above me, his mutilated arm clinging about a shroud and his hand shading his eyes. He nodded to the watchman and grunted something that sounded like thanks.
At first I could see nothing, then, out of the paleness that marked the horizon, I noticed a more solid grey. It seemed that a strong current in the sea was carrying us swiftly towards it for, despite the fidgeting fullness of the great sail, we appeared to be progressing almost crab-wise.
‘It is the Frankish northern coast.’ Brent said, almost speaking his thoughts aloud. Then looking at me with a laugh, added. ‘It is full of peoples similar to yourselves, except that they have their defences well organised.’
He looked at me with an almost quizzical expression, before turning abruptly away, ‘Tis not a place for us, rocky shores and army bands that are full of fight. If you look carefully you’ll see the flares of their warning beacons already.
Driven by powerful underwater currents, we moved along at a good rate, the grey smudge became a rocky cliff, the white foam at its foot showed the brokenness of the shore. From the top of the nearest rocky finger, a plume of smoke rose from spurts of bright orange flame. The beacon must have been huge.
To the other side of us, the seaward side, the ocean seemed to be boiling. Large waves heaved their bulk high into the air to fold and plunge against others that opposed them. The wind, cajoled just locally by unseen hands, joined in with the spirit of the dance, it swirled and slashed, whipping spray from the leaping water and gleefully throwing it into the air and dashing it in our faces. The sight was frightening, the raw power of Mother Nature, or for the Vikings, their goddess Gaia.
‘It’s known as a Race No-man.’ Ivar’s voice came sleepily from behind me. A small groan betrayed his sore head. ‘Where the tides rush around the coast and meet up to fight.’ He swept his hands together graphically. ‘And unless my little persuader must again meet your weakling back, get you to your task of emptying the bilge water.’ he growled.
Ivar had been one of the leaders of the revelling during the previous evening and looked as though he were suffering for his efforts this morning. They had noisily divided the spoils amongst themselves and then redistributed them by gambling with dice and bones. Ivar had done a lot of winning, in spite of the men’s efforts to fuddle his mind with strong wine and he had, I thought made one or two enemies amongst the men with his ruthless sarcasm and lashing tongue. They wanted the jewel boxes broken open but Ivar insisted that they were better off with the master for safe keeping, until they got home. I had a good idea where the cream of the treasure would end up. But what did Ivar get out of it.
Brent called to him to wake the rest of the crew and post extra watchmen to look and warn him of shoals and rocky outcrops.
We travelled along a course parallel to the coast, sandwiched between it and the tidal race on our seaward side. A very dangerous position to be in, I overheard a crewman say, that we could be trapped in the bay by the onshore wind and forced onto the rocks. I guessed that any minute now, Brent would call the men to man the oars as a towering peninsula stole our breeze. But the wind seemed to run around the promontory and bend itself to sweep around the coastline. We managed to negotiate the choppy channel without mishap or inconvenience and soon, we were headed west for the open horizon. A flatter, lower shore now off our leeward side and I could see a large party of obviously disciplined, mounted militia following our progress as they trotted easily along the beach.
Edmund was certainly on the right track back at home. Within a few years we’d have an effective, mobile army too. And better than those I thought. If only we had a Marine group, acting in consort, we’d be invincible.
While we surged along on this more comfortable route, Brent called out the cooks and had them freshen the brazier and make a mess of hot porridge. Nothing like a belly full of warm food to make a man more amenable and more likely to work.
When some other men were available, they were told off to take over the bailing.
‘Come, No-man. We have more to set down in our Saga.’ The master beamed happily. ‘While they are fresh in your mind I want you to sketch the shape of the headland that we’ve just cleared. You’ve an uncanny knack of making a good likeness with that pen of yours.’ he said.
The record that I was compiling was growing daily, much of it, edited of course, but it would be useful as a pilot to help others move about these seas. I wondered if that was how Brent hoped to buy back some status amongst his peers and lords. Perhaps he intended to return to his island fiefdom and enjoy a lordly position, but that might be difficult, without a host of warriors to back his authority.
After some while, as the sun climbed into a silk-blue sky, we altered our heading slightly and began to sail towards a group of islands that had appeared in the hazy horizon. Those of the crew who were not busy, gathered at the ship’s side to watch the approach of the thickly wooded hills with their sailor-unfriendly fringe of cliffs.
We passed the first one, leaving it to our leeward side, and sailing before the breeze we struck a course roughly south east, directly towards a small island that seemed to be shaped a little like a curled lizard. As the ship nosed into the bay that was created by the curving tail, Brent ordered out the oars and we rode directly towards the distant, silver-white line of beach. The sandy bottom of the bay rose gently towards the bubble of surf at its edge. My pen and stump of charcoal carefully recorded the shape of the small island, with our position and course shown as a dashed line as we entered the tightly sheltering bay.
‘Clear bottom. Sand, some rock.’ came the call from the bow watchman.
‘Ivar.’ called Brent. ‘Have a rope flaked out. We’ll drop an anchor from the stern in case we need to kedge her off.’
We were obviously going to go into shallow water for repairs. Silently I rubbed my aching back and wished them luck.
A party of the crewmen sped into action. A stout cable was laid out on the deck in a serpentine fashion and a heavy, broad bladed anchor was fastened onto its end. Another group swarmed about the mast and quickly had the sail stowed against the spar and the whole parcelled shape lowered away from the mast head and lashed onto the deck crutches.
We moved slowly and steadily towards the shore. Ivar stood with a group of men ready to let go the anchor and feed out the cable when Brent gave the signal.
We all gazed shore-wards, it was a small island and it seemed as though its slender tail was curling protectively around us. Brent gave the helm to Ivar and went to the ship’s side to gauge the right moment to drop his anchor. The oars took the big ship surging across the calm water, and apart from the muffled drum beat and the rhythmic splash, all was eerily silent.
‘Bow watchman.’ called Brent. ‘Keep a sharp lookout for rocks, I want to ground on sand.’
Away in the bow, a crewman expertly wielded a long pole, a bit like an overlong lance, to feel the depth of the bottom.
‘Aye sir.’ he called. ‘I’ve only touched lightly once or twice.’ he answered.
‘Then why didn’t I know. Damn your eyes.’ exploded Brent, his face contorted in a fury. ‘Ivar, fifty cuts of the cane for him and put two watchmen up there that know their job.’
Everyone, except for the cooks who were clearing away their mess and me, again at the bailing, stood silently and watched as the bowman was quickly stripped and lashed by his wrists over a rowing bench and beaten with the infamous cane. Long red wheals broke into bright cuts that tore across his back. Ivar smiled as, even through his alcohol haze, he expertly covered the man’s soft white back with carefully laid strokes that fell neatly side-by-side. Twenty five one way, then twenty five the other to form a criss-cross pattern. Another crewman marked each stroke of the cane on a tally-board until he reached the allotted fifty. The man’s bonds were cut free and his semiconscious form was doused liberally with sea water before his contorted, shuddering body was taken to the shelter of the deck tent.
The coast got nearer, and nearer until, breaking the frightened but angry silence, one of the bow watchmen called out,
‘Touching sir.’ his voice cracking with the tension. ‘Sand and shingle.’
Brent clapped his hand against his thigh,
‘Away anchor. Lively now.’
With a soft splash and a rumble we swept eagerly on leaving our anchor with its flukes planted in the muddy sand.
‘Easy oars.’ called Brent, altering course slightly to bring the high prow towards a group of sturdy looking trees that grew just above the beach.
Brent stood on a gunwale, his right arm gripping the mast’s shrouds while he scanned the narrow line of shore and the broad sweep of hardwood that met it.
There were no signs of any people, no smoke from cooking fires and no sign of felled timber to form a clearing. We should be safe, lying here at our most vulnerable with the ship unusable.
‘Shallows.’ came the cry from one watchman.
‘Sand with some mud.’ added the other in a singsong voice.
‘Stop oars.’ yelled Brent as he took the helm once again. ‘Back water.’
The men struggled with their long heavy sweeps to push instead of pull and bring the Ship to a standstill.
‘Stop. Ship your oars. Ivar, drop a bow anchor to hold her steady.’
I knew that the design of the ship was broad beamed and shallow draught, just what was needed to get in close. Although I couldn’t see them from my place in the hold, I could smell the trees and knew that land was very close.
‘Ivar.’ called Brent again. ‘We need to lighten the ship. Set some warriors as beach guard then organise the men into a chain to empty the stores and cargo.’ then in a louder voice, he added. ‘I’ll have both hands from any man that’s caught pilfering.’
With disciplined speed and efficiency a secure camp was set up on shore, the ship was emptied of everything portable and a lookout set atop the high cliff. The ship rode much higher in the water and, using a line attached to the bow, a caterpillar of men drew her gently onto the shallow slope of sandy beach. The receding tide lifted its frothy petticoats and left us high and dry, well above the normal low tide mark. Our men would have a good eight hours between high waters to work at the ship’s damaged hull planking.
A tackle was rigged from one of the trees and, with one end attached to our masthead, the men heaved on the ropes and tilted the ship so that even when the tide was just turned from full, the damaged planks would be lifted clear of the water.
I slipped over the lowered side behind Brent and waited while he checked the fastenings of the tackles. It was good to feel solid ground beneath my boots although my legs did stumble several times against its steadiness.
I found sleeping easy though. That night, I slept through the crew’s noisy rituals to give thanks to Odin and Thor, and through their noisy party afterwards. I slept under a small shelter with the groaning body of the only other person not moved to partying. The young watchman who’d been beaten.
His treatment had been very simple, a dousing with cold sea water then someone, presumably a friend, had urinated over the fresh wounds. The result, though less than miraculous, was nonetheless impressive. In the morning the man was able to move around, albeit stiffly. I remembered reading of this treatment in a book at the monastery, but had never seen the results of such a case. Something to be remembered and recorded in the Saga that Brent one-hand, Brent the-child-slayer, still thought of as his own.
With the ship secured and the carpenters busy, Brent had little to do. Leaving Ivar in charge of the beach he led a small group of warriors to walk the island and search out a supply of game, if there was any to be had. I stumbled along behind them under the weight of a parcel of food, a wine skin and, tucked into a small leather pouch, a piece of charcoal and a small roll of parchment. If I had the opportunity I would make a sketch of the island’s form, including our anchorage.
We reached the highest point without any great difficulty and while they ate and fed their substantial appetites for wine, I worked at my sketched outline of the small island, marking in the anchorage bay and the approximate position of north. Brent noticed me working,
‘No-man, bring it here.’
Wearily I took it to him. ‘A map of the island sir.’ I said.
He looked at it in silence. For a moment I thought he would tear it up, but he handed it back.
‘I came here many years ago. Its name is Sark.’ he said, then thoughtfully he added. ‘These drawings could be of great value to our enemies, No-man. We will have to guard them well.’
And he waved me aside. ‘Don’t forget to mark in the position of the fresh water lake. I will show it you when we go down.’
After we had eaten, they carried on with their hunting, but only managed to collect a dozen or so rabbits. For me, the going was much easier now that the food and wine were gone and it was all downhill.
Back on the beach, we found a well set-out camp. Two avenues of simple, mud brown tents with a larger white one at their centre and a cooking fire that we could smell long before we could see it. Beyond the tented town, on a flattened piece of ground, Ivar was giving the warriors training in arms and battle tactics. Brosnan, their champion swordsman, stood to one side choosing suitable opponents for his own training.
Brosnan was, to my mind, an almost complete paradox. He was a heavily built young man who held his personal appearance in such esteem that it surpassed plain vanity to approach the nauseous. His muscles, by hard work and careful diet, were solid and well defined. To enhance their appearance, he applied a daily smear of a lightly perfumed oil. But the thing that really seemed at odds with his warrior appearance and Viking reputation was his open sexual preference for young men and boys. I also thought that there was something between him and our illustrious master. Not anything to do with his preferred company I was sure of that. But there was the odd look or unguarded expression that sometimes passed between them. Another half-brother maybe...or perhaps blackmail. Either way it would certainly explain how he got away with a lot of things without question or hindrance.
His reputation for being a master swordsman preceded him and in most cases, that on its own, was enough to ensure his win. His technique, according to Edmund’s teaching, was to a large extent predictable. He was always the first to lunge and his physical size belied the speed that he could achieve. Generally though, his instinctive skill and the unerring accuracy of his swift reactions were impressive.
The day slid into late afternoon and the cooks were about to serve a rabbit stew from a giant pot.
We had been lucky with the weather so far and the skies were still a clear blue beyond the tribes of fair-weather clouds. It looked as though it was settled and would hold, at least for a while. We must be a fair way south already I thought. The air felt softer, its harsh coldness had been left behind us.
The carpenters worked solidly, except for the few hours over the highest part of the fast flowing tide. Within a few days they had cut and fitted several new strips of planking and, accompanied by a symphony of hammering, renewed all the caulking over the forward parts of the elegantly curving ship. It was a process that, whenever I could, I watched with great interest. The men produced some beautiful work, close fitted, overlapping planks that were pulled onto the reinforced frames with iron nails and bronze rivets.
According to the master craftsman, the nails had been the problem, they had been seemingly eaten by the sea leaving the structure weak. We had been lucky that the planking hadn’t been carried away completely. And that really would have been a disaster, as most of the men aboard had no idea how to swim. Those that could, would only manage to stay afloat long enough to beseech their gods and to commend their spirits.
As the work neared completion, Brent became noticeably more frustrated, impatient and animated. The slightest misdemeanour by crewman or burley warrior brought out the aggressively, sadistic face of his nature.
One unfortunate young man who committed the crime of whistling a cheerful tune, a deed said to conjure storms at sea, was bound hand and foot and buried to his neck in the sand below the high water mark. During the night, the relentless flow of tide eventually stifled his pitiful cries and, in the morning we saw that the gulls had been busy with the bloated remains. The eyes had gone and the swollen tongue was a lacerated mass where the sharply hooked bills of the large seabirds had probed and torn at their delicacies.
‘Bury this mess.’ ordered Brent, showing no more feeling than he would, if he were ordering the disposal of a sack of bad apples.
But he must have sensed the resentment and tension that his actions had produced because, as he watched the dead man’s remains removed and dragged up the beach he announced in a loud voice.
‘Get the camp struck and the stores loaded on this morning’s high water, and you can all have the rest of the day to relax before we sail in the morning.’
The men nearest him who had heard the announcement, gave a hearty cheer and Brent beamed at them, pleased with what must have seemed to him, a return of popularity.
I tailed along behind him not really knowing what to do. ‘Sir, you mentioned a fresh water lake.’ Brent gave me an irritable glance, but I pursued it. ‘You said that I should mark the drawing of the island with the spot where drinking water may be found.’
Grudgingly he pointed to some crewmen who were rolling some casks along the beach towards the woodland.
‘I’d not forgotten, damn you. Take yourself off with them. And make sure you mark it accurately, do you hear.’
My spirits lifted as my steps sprang after the gang with the barrels. If I was careful, I had just gained an extra half-day of freedom, on top of the Master’s proclaimed holiday. I had charcoal and some scraps of used parchment in my pouch already.
‘No-man.’ he bawled at my back.
My soaring thoughts plunged. So, after all, it was just a trick I thought, as wearily my feet trudged through the sand towards him. ‘Yes sir?’ I asked, bowing my head slightly so that he shouldn’t see the disappointment and anger in my face.
‘Make sure you’re back here by sunset or by all the gods I’ll have your eyes.’
‘Aye sir.’ I smiled despite myself. ‘I’ll be here.’
I turned again to follow the men who were disappearing into the shoreline timber. It seemed obvious to me, that if I caught up with the work party I’d be roped in to do the work of, at the very least, one of them. Whereas, if I followed behind them keeping at a distance, just inside the line of thick woodland, I could enjoy my time of semi-freedom and indulge in my thoughts and the countryside.
I chose the inland side of the rough track that the men followed. To the seaward side, the trees were less dense but they grew out of a jumble of shattered rocks and crumbling cliffs. My selected route was beneath the low canopy of an evergreen species of pine and underfoot was the smooth soft carpet of shed needles. Tree recognition had never been a strong point, something that had exasperated my mentor and tutor, the old gardener, Master Styg.
Thoughts of the old man turned my memories towards all the other friends at home, they wove their way through my mind like shadows. What were they all doing I wondered. Edmund with his horse soldiers, my Lord Odda with his hands full of the problems at Cynwit, and maman, she would know in her heart that her son was no traitor. Could they have really believed that I had run off to join this murdering bunch of pagan thieves? I hoped not, but in my heart I knew that with some of them, it was possible. And what of my lovely Hild, where was she I wondered.
Distracted, I absently followed the noise from the gang of men with their rumbling empty casks. My subconscious keeping me just short of catching up with them while my feet picked their own way through the debris of the forest floor. Without hearing, I had been listening to their chatter for some while. It must have become suddenly animated or maybe a shout of annoyance jerked my mind back to the present. With something approaching a mixture of horror and excitement I realised that I was eavesdropping on some detailed plans to overthrow Brent and take the ship and all the treasure for themselves.
I quickly calculated that my chances of surviving this blood bath would be non-existent. What to do. What to do. My mind buzzed.