‘Land ahead!’
The call came just before we had the midday meal, away to our leeward side was a brown smudge in the uniform haze. It surprised me how far the storm had carried us away from our original coast-hugging course. But these new shores were very different, gone were the gently sloping wooded hillsides and the soft surf rolling along friendly looking beaches. As we got closer I could see that the tall red cliffs were jagged, ripped and torn by the power of the sea, there were cavernous cracks that the ocean’s waves plunged into, sending gouts of spray into the air with a noise like thunder.
A jutting promontory that hung in the sky above us put our puny ship into a perspective of insignificance, but also marked a stage in Brent’s list of landmarks. He seemed surprised to see it so soon. In fact, when I thought of the vastness of this ocean, we’d nearly missed it completely. As the coast opened up beyond the flanks of this huge up-thrust of riven rock, Brent had Ivar organise the crew to adjust the sail’s bracing lines and he gave me a new heading to aim for.
The coastline had changed in direction as well as texture and we were going to continue to follow it. The midday sun was gathering a good bit of heat around it now and the sweat ran down my back as I pulled the steering board arm to bring us around to the easterly heading. With the wind now directly at our back, we picked up speed and the pressure on the steering board eased as we ran before the warm air of the westerly breeze.
This was more like it I thought, I could relax a little and look around. But, typically, soon it would be time for our dinner and my duty spell would be taken over by another steersman. The fact that I was doing it at all had caused a considerable fuss. As the men woke, some glowered at me while they ate some breakfast, particularly aggressive, were those amongst Brosnan’s little group. It had briefly crossed my mind that Brent might have done it for this very reason. A spiteful put-down, for a shadow from the family’s past. But I was too busy to really care.
I had a lot of notes to write in the journal and a sketch to make of the rocky promontory that had marked our turning point. So after I had stood down from my temporary new duty, I gathered my writing case together and, while I munched on a delicious meal of boiled eggs in a thick, nutty sauce, managed a reasonable sketch of the land.
After the food had been finished and the wooden trenchers cleaned of sauce with large hunks of bread, the cook’s fires were doused and all loose gear was either stowed away or secured with cord. Generally, this was a necessary ritual on two occasions, before a storm hit us and before action. The reason this time I thought, had to lie in the direction of the latter, the fine weather held and even the deep troughs between the toppling waves had flattened. We must I thought, be approaching our next goal, the richly endowed fortress town of Silves. From the chatter amongst the men I learned that the town was usually well run, friendly and reached by sailing up a broad river. And that would mean using the oars all the way. If they’d had the heavy rain inland, the river could well be in flood. It held the promise of a long hard haul.
Brent spent a good deal of time stood high up in the tall, sweeping bow. His shortened arm hooked around the mast fore-stay as he scanned the tall cliffs along the coast. His scowling features were concentrating on trying to match old memories with the view that he saw.
The men around him were busy preparing their armour and weapons, stones scraped busily against steel edges and finishing touches were put to the fletching of arrows. But they were all cheerful. Nobody expected to actually have to use them.
A group of crewmen took down and stowed away the deck tent that had sheltered them for these many nights, it was also the spare sail and was carefully rolled to prevent damage. They moved methodically around the deck, coiling ropes ends and securing anything that could move. Leather buckets were pushed flat and secured near the base of the mast where they could be at hand for fire fighting. Short, steel tipped stabbing spears were placed along the sides beneath the rowing benches, ready for use when landing, or repelling any impudent boarders that may be daring enough to try their luck.
I had completed my sketching and had written a good deal when Brent hurried back to the master’s deck.
‘We are there. No-man, get me a good picture of the river entry. There’s an awkward spit of land that almost covers it from view, it curves down to a narrows where it meets the sea and the water just there can be quite rough.’
I did as he asked, and took my charcoal stick to the ship’s side where I could get a better view. A narrow arm of rocky land stretched out to an area of shoals and jagged rocks. Behind it was a tumble of water where a river in full-flow met the resistance of the ocean. Beyond the jutting arm, on both banks, the land was richly forested. The new-green of fresh leaves showed as small islands in the darker green sea of coastal pines. Here and there I could see smoke from the fires of a settlement before the sea breeze shredded and whipped them away.
The great sail was furled and secured, the oars were heaved into position and slowly the long sweeps brought us forward into the mouth of the narrows. Brent sent two men forward as lookouts and steered for the inboard side of the entrance. Under the forest edge, the water was much quieter than farther out where it rose and tumbled in a frenzy of spray and foam. We could clearly smell the land now, a mixture of pine and earthy richness with just a hint of wood-smoke and the taint of human presence. We travelled slowly at first, pressing against the rush of water through the narrow entrance. But once through, we rode smartly along on the mud stained water of the swollen river.
After several broad curves we arrived at the edge of a riverside settlement, at normal river heights there must have been a ford here I thought, as the flow of water cut the township neatly in two. The people came to the riverbank and watched us with an open curiosity, many waved a friendly greeting towards. That, I thought, answered the question regarding any local knowledge of our recent visit to Lisbon.
Brent beamed back and had all the unemployed men stand at the sides and wave back. Weaponry, helmets and the like were quickly thrust out of plain view. The men enthusiastically called to the folk as we passed by. Some made lewd comments about the women who, though not understanding the words, had a fair inkling of the meaning and returned the comments with a sign language that seemed amazingly international.
Brent had a man take soundings of the river’s depth as we went through the narrow section, between the twin settlements. The man tested continuously with his wooden pole and only briefly encountered what he thought a muddy bottom, so there was no obvious sign of a ford.
‘One less obstacle on our way back.’ remarked Ivar as he scowled at the land.
I wasn’t so convinced. I had noticed a heavy timber framework on one side which had been built opposite an old tree on the other. I said nothing but it seemed like the moorings of a rope bridge to me. Perhaps it had been taken down because of the flood, or perhaps because their lookouts had warned of our coming. The settlement and its cheerful people soon dropped out of sight behind us as we continued on upstream.
Brent steered the ship himself for much of the long river road. He kept us carefully midstream on the straight sections, and swung us towards the inside edges of the broadened curves of the waterway. Always there was a crewman at the waist with a long pole testing the bottom and two lookouts at the bow, one either side of the dragon’s swanlike neck.
The forested banks began to give way to areas of cleared farmland and, quite suddenly, we rounded a tighter bend than most, to see before us the span of a heavy stone bridge. Built by some ancient Roman craftsman I thought, judging by the close-fitted stonework and the well finished design. To the side of the bridge, let into the bank, was a flat quay-side that had been built using huge blocks of stone. But what really took the eye was the brooding bulk of the fort. It had been built from the local, dark red sandstone and was perched on the top of a steep hill that rose from the north bank of the river.
Curious dark faces watched us from the tops of the heavy walls and from the small settlement about its skirts. A solitary tower, its archway with its massive gate, looked like an eye that watched with a silent accusation.
Using the smooth flow of the river, Brent had the men on one side bring their heavy oars in, while those on the other balanced the sweep of the current as he brought the ship to a graceful stop within a handbreadth of the smooth stone wall. A small but enthusiastic party of people on shore cheerfully took our mooring lines and quickly secured us to two giant iron rings that had been set through short stone columns.
Brent quickly issued an order that nobody, on pain of death, would set foot on land until he had sought the necessary permission. And he’d not long to wait, a group of men were already coming toward us from the gate tower. All except one, was dressed in the long flowing robes of what must be the local Arab style. The odd one, was dressed more like us, in tunic, breeches and boots with the criss-cross bindings that marked him as a nobleman.
With some surprise I realised that at this town, these barbarians had lodged their own man as an agent. He spoke the local language fluently and had made all the necessary arrangements for Brent’s arrival, including it seemed, some temporary accommodation on shore. I took it for granted that I would stay on the ship with the duty crewmen, and was quite happy to be out of the way.
As I watched the meeting, it occurred to me that I might be the subject of part of their conversation. Brent smilingly pointed towards me while the new man spoke to one of the officials. Eventually Brent and the official clasped hands in some sort of agreement. The new man pointed towards the village, and the group turned away to make their slow ascent towards the tower gateway and the fortress, leaving Brent grinning as he watched after them and rubbed his hands. He called to Ivar and had him send half the crew, including Brosnan, after the departing group. They would make ready the barrack hall and move the crew’s personal gear then keep a close guard over it.
‘You’ll not be leaving with us, No-man. I’ve just sold you to that local chieftain.’ Brent called to me gleefully. ‘My bond was not to kill you. And I haven’t.’
It was a shock, but I suppose I should have foreseen it. ‘What about the Saga.’ I asked him. ‘Who’ll finish that for you.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that. Sven is coming home with us when we sail. He’s had enough of their devious ways and he can read and write well enough to translate your efforts and to carry on.’
My mind reeled, but I had a way out of my predicament. I delved into the bag that swung from my shoulder and brought out a small, rag-wrapped package.
‘This may interest you Brent-one-hand.’ I said boldly, holding out one of the sparkling jewels.
‘Where did you get that.’ he snapped, grabbing at my hand.
‘It would be a shame to lose the merchant’s treasure.’ I said.
Sparks of greed and fury danced in his eyes as he thrust his face towards me.
‘Where did you get it!’ he snarled. His only hand fell to his sword.
‘There’s more where that came from. Seven boxes filled with them.’ I answered quietly. ‘I was on the hill the afternoon that you and Ivar hid them away. I was so close I could hear almost every word.’
‘You British pig.’ he screamed in my face. ‘I’ll make you talk. You’ve signed your own death order.’ he hissed like a snake with his temper. ‘I can promise you, it will be as slow and as painful as I can make it.’
‘If you do that, you’ll never know where the treasure is hidden. I could plead almost any location on Sark or in the sea at its coast. Or maybe I should let your half-brother in on our secret.’
His fist slammed into the side of my head and I hit the deck planking hard.
‘You keep your mouth shut. Do you hear me.’ Brent’s voice came through rage twisted lips. ‘I think you hid the jewels in the ship. In the bottom that’s why you spent so long down the stinking hole.’
He shoved me toward the hatch from where I’d lifted many buckets of bilge water. He pushed two of the crewmen aside and toppled me into the space under the deck.
‘We will turn everything upside down. We will find them, you will amuse us with your dying. I will probably finish you with the bloody angel.’
‘We’ve a long wait then.’ I answered. ‘Because there’s nothing here. How could I have, the ship wasn’t afloat even.’
The men were working all around us, clearing the water and food casks from the hold and, wrapped in a bolt of cloth, the remaining boxes of Brent’s stolen silver. They completely ignored us, Brent’s flushed, and purple face was like a brilliant beacon of danger.
Even through my awful predicament, I think I sensed something wrong. A quiet seemed to have fallen over the ship, like a blanket that will muffle but not kill sounds. Almost at the same time Ivar jumped into the hatch way. His face was pale,
‘Trouble, Master. Come up, quickly.’ his voice was tense.
Brent scrambled out behind Ivar’s heels. I followed.
It was immediately obvious that the local council officials must have received a messenger from the north. Sven, my eager replacement, was standing with his arms tied behind him with a group of savage looking warriors.
‘Brent, do you hear me? They’ve had a runner arrive from Lisbon.’ he called. ‘They want you to come up to the fort, where they intend executing you for the murder of the Caliph’s brother.’
A Moor warrior drew his sword, a wickedly curved thing that ended in a broad sickle shape.
‘You stupid son of whore.’ Sven shouted. ‘You’ve messed up everything. The only way to save your crewmen is to give yourself up. Now...Quickly, for once in your life, do the right thing.’
‘Silence Sven, you sow’s whelp.’ yelled Brent. ‘What lies have you been telling them.’
Brent grabbed one of the short spears from beneath the nearest rowing bench and in one smooth movement hurled it at Sven. But before it got even half way, the Arab’s sword swung a singing arc and the Dane’s headless torso staggered towards the ship, blood spouting as though from a fountain.
The group of Arabs fell back before the whooping bunch of warriors that leapt ashore.
‘Stick by me No-man. If you leave my side, I will kill you.’ Brent said.
And with a call to Thor, we were off, charging up the hill at the retreating group of Arabs.
The retreat was, of course, a tactical one to draw us out. I could see it as plain as day. But off we went in hot pursuit. Before we arrived at the first few buildings of the settlement, below the gate tower, the trap was sprung and a line of Moor warriors came through the eye of the gate tower. They divided into the horns of the bull formation as they came into the open and quickly encircled our band of some thirty men. They nearly won the day too. But they hadn’t counted on the ferocity of their aroused enemy.
The Danes fought like the savage barbarians that of course they were. And before long we could hear an answering cry from ahead of us. The advance party of crew were fighting their way back to meet us. From the brief glimpses that I had, between dodging spear thrusts and swinging swords, I saw that they were led by Brosnan.
As we joined forces, the remaining Moor warriors fled for the gate tower. Some were cut down by a small band of Vikings that gave chase, but soon we stood on the slopes of the hill. Each side of the short track was littered with bodies, by far the majority were clothed in the fluttering robes of the desert dwellers. It seemed that the Danes had lost about a dozen men. Nearly enough would be missing now to impede the smooth running of the ship I thought. I expected a fast retreat to the ship and an empty-handed departure.
But Brent had the taste for blood, his good arm was coated in the sticky red slime. With a whoop he led the men off to sack and pillage the township. I followed close behind him as he thrust his way into each of the small houses that we came across. Screams from men and women told us that Brosnan’s party had found some occupants.
A local man, courageously swinging a sword, ran at Brent who, almost casually, swung his own in a backhand swipe to open the man’s belly. The corpse landed almost at my feet, his yellow and purple guts spilling against my legs. Brent laughed and Ivar attacked the door of the house with his boot. Screams came from within. My eyes lit on the curved sword that the man had carried, its gold pommel was facing me and within reach. What had I to loose, if Brent won I was certainly dead, if he lost I would still probably not see the new sun tomorrow.
The door cracked beneath the onslaught of their heavy boots and burst inwards. The two of them dashed inside. I snatched up the fallen weapon and peered through the shattered doorway.
In an instant, my eyes took it all in. Against the far wall crouched a young mother with two children clutched to her skirts, before them stood an old man, a heavy, ancient sword grasped limply in his hand. His old eyes watched in disbelief at the spreading ruby stain that ran from his chest, slowly he crumpled and slid to the floor without a sound. Brent was yelling, shouting like a demented savage for Ivar to hold the woman for him so he could show the brats how a real man behaves. With a tug of a cord he loosed his breeches and started to tear at the skirts of the young woman’s clothes. Ivar held the young mother with one hand while with his other he forced one of the small boys onto the ground where he trapped him with his boot.
He was about to draw the blade of his dirk across the child’s throat when my yell turned their heads. Both their eyes opened wide at the sight of my charge. Ivar dropped his woman captive and released the sobbing boy as he stood up to face me. With an awkward thrust of the heavy, curved blade I caught him as he turned and buried the blade to the hilt in his chest. I grabbed his sword from the already lifeless hand and with a shock recognised the familiar jewelled handle, I swung the razor sharpness of Wolfbane upwards from the ground to bite deeply into Brent’s naked groin.
I drew the sword back and screamed. ‘For the children of Watchett. You bastard.’
Brent’s eyes were wide with fear as he held in his guts with his one good hand and watched as the good British steel swung again to cut off his breath forever.