We made our way to a spot well below the village, on the inside edge of a curve in the river that had deep water almost to the edge. I ordered one of the men to make a small fire on the edge of the bank to provide a signal to the ship.
As we waited, several partially submerged shapes floated by us that must have been the bodies of drowned men. I felt nothing for them at all, no guilt or sorrow and no elation from victory. The fish would feed well tonight.
The ship came easily down to us and with hardly a scramble, we all climbed over the side and onto its deck. The steersman gave quiet orders to the men at the oars and, using the strength of the river’s current, he took the ship back into the main flow. A flood of relief poured over me like water from a bucket.
I looked around at the orderliness of the ship and her main deck. They had come through the skirmish with no ill-effects at all, as far as I could see. Listening to the men, I discovered that when the tree trunk had pushed past them like a raging sea monster, the ship had come within a hand’s span of capsize. Everyone had sobered immediately and swiftly, they took up the disciplined ways of the sailor-warriors that they were.
‘No-man!’ called Brosnan sharply from the master’s deck.
‘No...No. You remember our agreement, Brosnan. My name is Ranulf.’ I said in a tone which, despite myself, sounded as though I was scolding a child.
‘Huh.’ he grunted with a dismissive shrug. ‘You say that you know the whereabouts of the merchant’s treasure.’
Brosnan’s voice held a sneer that felt menacing. Others in the crew heard it too and watched us carefully. The steersman tried to speak to him but Brosnan cut him short. He saw me as a threat, I had beaten him once, and he was going to pick another fight. No doubt he’d make sure I didn’t win again. As casually as I could, I strolled across to look down on the step, where he sat.
‘You think you’re clever don’t you. With your numbers, writing and fancy talk.’ he said coldly, fixing his eyes on his boots.
‘No, it’s what I’ve been brought up with.’ I answered calmly.
‘Ha! You and your slippery words.’ he exploded and stood up, stamping onto the higher level of the master’s deck.
I turned away and gazed across the side to see the dawn’s cool light beginning to reach out of the east. Inside me I could feel another light, the madness of the warrior was glowing and pulsing, but in a new, controlled way. Now I knew why old Edmund’s face had been lit with a smile at the prospect of battle. But this I thought, would only be a fight of posturing and words. I could afford to let Brosnan feel as though he’d won, it wouldn’t matter. For the moment.
‘I don’t trust you at all. You British pigs are all the same.’ said Brosnan, spittle flew from his lips as he spluttered with his excitement. ‘And I’m not bound by Brent’s oath to keep you alive.’
I shrugged and as calmly as I could answered.
‘What you say is not unreasonable I suppose. But, without my help the Merchant’s treasure will lay in its dark hiding place forever.’ i told him.
‘What’s to stop me torturing you to get the answers we need. Huh. Tell me that?’ his fists rested against his hips like a fishwife and he leaned forward.
‘Oh. I could tell you anything, lies or even the truth. How would you know which was which? You can’t check anything until you’ve found the tiny island that Brent called Sark.’
‘We could find someone that would lead us there. We are a nation of sailors.’ he said, pride swelling his chest. ‘We could go home and find another Pilot.’
‘Ha, ha.’ I chuckled and added quietly. ‘First you have to find home. No...Brosnan. I’m afraid you need me, more than I need you.’
Brosnan’s rage bubbled over and his fist lashed out at my face. I stepped and turned my head, his hand caught my cheek with a glancing blow. I could tell from the tone of the bubbling murmurs that surrounded us that Brosnan didn’t have the combined support of the crew. My fists tightened, longing to close on the hilt of my sword. With an effort that made me sweat, I managed to hold them to my side. With the rising dawn came a useful breeze springing out of the west. Its chill made me shiver as it plucked at my wet clothes.
The Viking’s face had turned ugly with his rage.
‘Show me, or I will kill you now.’ he roared. ‘Show me some proof that you know what you say.’
‘Do you think me a wizard? That I could conjure up wings or a magic carpet so that we could visit the island.’ I stepped a few paces backwards, away from him and turned so that I could see the faces of those that had gathered around us. I prayed that the jewels were still in my pouch.
‘I have your proof. Never fear.’ I said and my questing fingers closed over the smooth, polished hardness of three gems.
My hand lingered, then impulsively grasped all of them and with a flick of my wrist, I threw them at the feet of the nearest line of crewmen. The scramble was predictable, as were the cries of delighted surprise when the lucky few grabbed the coloured stones. Even in this early light they managed an inner gleam that marked their quality.
‘Give them to me.’ shouted Brosnan. ‘You scum, pass them here.’
‘You’re not Brent!’ came a harsh reply. ‘We’ll keep our own from now on.’
‘Pass. Them. Here!’ Brosnan snarled.
One of the stones, a bright emerald, was held up for him to see. It was the size of a hazel nut and sparkled brightly in the early rays of the dawn sun.
What caught my eye was not the reflected dazzle of the early light. But beyond the upraised fist, a row of sails stood, tooth-like, above a small promontory and were moving steadily in our direction. I grasped one of the shrouds and leapt up onto the ship’s side. We were just entering the salt lagoon that lay at the river’s mouth. To the south was the open sea, the soft curls of white foam marked the entrance dead ahead. To the north, and running down to about half way along the lagoon was a finger of sandy soil, a short promontory rimmed with treacherous looking rocks. A movement from the mast top of one of the approaching ships caught my attention. I shaded my eye and concentrated. Yes, there it was again a figure. A man dressed in the flowing robes of the Moorish Arab his brown arm, plain against the creamy sail, was pointed directly at us.
It had never occurred to me that they would try to attack us at sea. I hadn’t considered that they would have an organised marine defence. A rider from the party that met us at the village must have continued down river with the message. I counted the sails, four against one. Not the best odds, and they looked to be handy manoeuvrable craft. But they were smaller than us.
I looked around the deck, the steersman and one or two others had followed my interest and were straining their eyes to the north. The rest were squabbling with a furious Brosnan.
‘Look to your weapons lads.’ I shouted to them. ‘We’ve stirred up a bit of a hornet’s nest.’ I pointed away towards the promontory.
Brosnan’s face paled and his chin sagged, he’d not considered a sea borne challenge either. Quickly he collected himself and gave a series of curt orders that had men manning the oars and handing out the boarding weapons. He started to have the sail rigged, but quietly I told Gort the steersman, that with the wind from the west we would at best be trying to sail into it, and at worst, be brought up on the lee shore. The Arab boats were sailing on an intercepting course and were obviously more capable of sailing close to the wind. The steersman nodded and called to Brosnan. With undisguised grumbling the men lowered the heavy sail and its boom back onto its crutches but, at my suggestion, left it ready to hoist should we have change of fortune or a shift in the wind.
The men at the oars bent their backs and pulled harder than they had for some time. Brosnan came back to the raised deck and scowled at the approaching sails. He called an archer and told him to take a supply of forked arrows into the bow and, when they got closer, try to cut the sails. The special arrows, instead of having a finely tapered or barbed point, had a forked shape rather like a pair of bull’s horns. The cutting edge was between the two points, the intention being to aim the arrow so that it tore a gash in the fabric and ruined the sail.
A shout went up from the bow as the first of the Arab ships cleared the point and shot into the lagoon. Swiftly, their sailors re-trimmed their craft as they turned to bear down on us. The wind was on their quarter a good, strong point of sailing. They would be on us in minutes. Their intention must be to get alongside us and scramble on board, carrying the fight with the shear press of their numbers. All four of them were now in the lagoon and heading directly at us, each travelling at a ferocious rate with a white foaming curl beneath their pointed bows. Instead of being in a line ahead though, they were each trying to outdo the other and were spread out almost in a row abreast. I judged that the one farthest to the right, or north, was the fastest. He was sailing the quieter water nearer to the shore. But to get to us he would have to cut across the line that the others were steering. It seemed to me that the crew that captured us may have been promised a purse or some other reward.
‘What’s best then Pilot.’ muttered Brosnan as he buckled on his sword belt over a gold decorated, ring-mail tunic. Beneath the tan, his face was pale.
‘We’ll alter course slightly to run towards them. Then at almost the last moment, we’ll bear away. Maybe manage to ram one of the devils on the left.’
Brosnan stroked his blonde beard as he gazed at the approaching ships. We could see rows of brown faces jeering at us now.
‘Aye. That’s as well as anything.’ he said. ‘I’ll attend to the fighting. The gods go with you.’
And he was gone, leaving me with Gort, the master steersman, and a brace of warriors with bows.
‘Bring her up slightly to head closer to the leader.’
Gort grinned and pulled at his tiller bar. The ship steadily began its shallow turn and we took our new line heading almost directly for the nearest of the Arabs.
‘Brosnan.’ I called. ‘Tell the archers to shoot at the craft on our left. Leave the closest one alone. I’ve got other plans for him.’
With a wave of his arm the big swordsman pushed his men into position. We were short handed and some men would have to be taken from the oars to help with the defence.
A half a dozen arrows rose in a lazy arc from the leading Arab ship, except for the wind that was in their favour, they would have missed us. Several thudded into the hull planking and one skittered across the deck and caught an oarsman a glancing blow on the leg. I dropped down to see to the wound and swiftly bound the man’s neckerchief around the oozing cut. Nothing much to worry about, but first blood went to the enemy. The attack had a remarkable effect on the efforts of the men at the oars and we had surged ahead.
From the master’s deck I could see that the leader had altered course slightly toward us. Another shower of arrows soared into the morning sky. But the movement of their ship must have spoiled the aim because all of them missed, the nearest hissing softly into the sea by the steering board.
I waited several tense moments until the nearest was within a long stone’s throw.
‘Put the helm down Gort.’ I said. ‘Peel away from the devils and head directly for the river’s entrance.’
I watched our head swing away from the leading vessel. Smoothly we turned and steadied up with the bow directly over the tumbling waves that marked the lagoon’s end. The leader viscously swung his helm across to follow us and the craft rolled heavily before the crew could ease the sails. To compensate for his loss of speed, he pulled the little sailing boat around even harder. All their attention was focused on us in an almost hysterical intensity. Not one of them noticed the boat that had been just a length away on their windward side. Too late, the following boat saw the danger and tried to take evasive action. We heard the urgent chorus of shouts, closely followed by the crunching smashing of timbers as the leading boat was rammed amidships by its confederate. The mast of the following boat snapped with the impact and it toppled onto the craft that was beneath its bow, trapping the men under its wet, billowing sail. Within seconds, both of the boats were awash to the main decks and men were jumping overboard clutching anything that would float. A deep-throated cheer went up from our decks as the warriors realised what we had done.
The remaining two attacking vessels wouldn’t make the same mistake. Already they were moving into a line ahead position. Their crews were silently focused and saw their chance for revenge as well as the prize.
I gave Gort a new heading and the sweeping stem swung slightly south to face the approach of the remaining craft. Our men at the heavy oars had begun to tire and the skimming speed was slackening. It seemed that this time we would be boarded. What I had to try and guard against was an enemy ship hooking on to each side. We had closed now to within arrow range and our men were doing their best to reduce the inevitable warrior odds and to tear the sails of the first boat. I turned my attention to the lagoon entrance where the shallow water and rocky spit, guarded it. We were so close. I could clearly see the gulls wheeling above the thin surf.
A roar went out from our bow and, looking around, I saw a strip of shining blue open up in the straining sail of the nearest boat as the power of the wind turned to our aid. An arrow had done its job and sliced open a cut, the strength of the wind had completed the job by tearing the cloth from top to bottom. Rapidly, the ship lost its speed and it fell away to the lee.
‘Up helm!’ I shouted urgently to Gort.
We swung away from the stricken ship and, as though it were connected to us, the fourth one turned to meet us.
The force of its charge down our side dragged the oars from the hands of the men and a shower of short spears took some of them as they sprawled on the rowing benches. Ropes with iron grapples snaked over our side and with a frenzied yell of Infidel! the Moors swept up over our side to meet Brosnan and his band of warriors. The remaining oarsmen abandoned their places, grabbed up sword and axe and dived at the flanks of the stream of Arab warriors. The Arabs relied upon their god for protection and carried no shields, the cutting swings from the Viking long axe found little resistance and the deck was soon a slippery mess.
Amid the yells and Viking curses the Moors seemed to be losing ground, but once committed, these men knew nothing of surrender or retreat. The ferocity facing us was as savage as a cornered wolf or boar but the instinctive warrior discipline of the Norsemen presented the Arabs with a wall of shields and thrusting spears. The only time they managed to break through was by the sheer weight of their numbers. But even that small triumph was short lived. I was waiting with a group of oarsmen, ready to reinforce our line and we swiftly cut them down with our swords and short stabbing spears.
We had all been on our feet for well over a day and a night and every single one of us was close to exhaustion. It was perhaps this tiredness that made us forget the other enemy craft that was still afloat, and had been close to hand. Their master must have had his crew take up the paddles and they came at us from behind, swarming over the stern.
My thin line turned, we put our backs to Brosnan’s ranks and took the first charge of the devils. My sword seemed to take on a life of its own, the jewelled hilt flashed in the morning sun as the crimson blade parried, slashed and thrust my way through the jostling enemy’s line of attack. Almost as we reached the clear deck beyond the horde, I slipped on the sticky mess that covered the deck and went heavily onto one knee. The broad blade of a Moor’s scimitar flashed across the blue sky, but before it could begin its fatal sweep, Gort pushed himself between us swinging his short war axe. The Arab’s fury crumpled around the axe head as it hacked into his body. Gort turned and helped me to my feet, my knee was painful and I staggered. The steersman gripped my arm and forged a way for us through the remaining few warriors to the commanding height of our master’s deck.
I supported myself on the smooth timber of the gunwale and turned to see an amazing scene below. Our men had formed into a long-sided square and were solidly defending against the disorganised frenzied attack that seemed almost suicidal in its frantic conviction. Brosnan was doing what he did best, winning. The enemy were being struck down as they stumbled and fell over their own dead. It was a slaughter and would soon turn to a rout.
I looked over the side and found that the two Moorish boats had drifted on their grappling lines to lie either side of our ship, just forward of where we now stood. They were quite empty except for the disarray and clutter that had been left behind in the rush to attack us. An idea began to form in my tired mind.
“Gort, I’ve an idea. Bring one of those oars.” I said.
Using a broken spear shaft as a stick, I made my way across the deck and to the side, above one of the Arab boats. Taking the oar from Gort, I used the handle of the loom to stove in some of the bottom planks. Water spouted through the jagged holes and quickly, the shallow, beamy boat began to founder and sink in the calm water. With a broad grin, Gort took the oar, it was the work of only a few moments to deal with the other craft. With a slow gurgling swirl they sank beneath us, their masts and rigging sliding slowly downwards in a way that seemed almost, absurdly comical, I had an impulsive urge to laugh.
‘We’re short of able bodied men for the oars.’ I said to Gort. ‘If we can stop Brosnan before he slaughters all of them, we can make some of them help us.’
Gort leapt onto the master’s deck and pulled a short, silver-mounted horn out of one of the side lockers. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, I nodded and with puffed cheeks he blew into the mouthpiece. A mournful note came from the bell and immediately caught the attention of the fighting warriors. The Vikings quickly disarmed and searched the dozen or so defeated Moors who were almost collapsing with exhaustion, their eyes were wide and sparkling with fear. Brosnan looked at us angrily.
‘What’s that for, we’ve nearly finished it.’ he snapped.
‘We need them for the oars. As slaves.’ I answered simply. ‘I think we should hurry. There may be more of the devils and besides.’ I pointed to the seaward spit of rocky land. ‘The wind carries us towards a grounding.’
Brosnan shrugged, nodded curtly, and brusquely gave the necessary orders to clear the ship for sea. Both dead and wounded were dumped overboard without ceremony and their blood was washed from the decks with buckets of sea water. Of the remaining Moors, Brosnan ordered two that were wounded, to be given the Viking honour of death by the sword, before they were dropped overboard. Another man who looked as though he could spit venom and was probably one of their leaders he also sent to Neptune with a sweep of dagger blade across his screaming throat.
One of the other prisoners, he looked no more than a youth, tried to make a run for escape. Brosnan threw him to the deck and, as casually as if he were cleaning a mackerel, he cut the hamstring tendons behind one of the lad’s knees.
‘He’ll not run again.’ he chuckled, and shoved the shuddering lad back to the group of prisoners.
‘Anyone else.’ he asked, waving his short dagger at the group of Moors.
They couldn’t understand his speech of course, but they certainly understood his meaning and shrank away from him. The crew laughed their approval as they paused in their gruesome tasks to watch. Brosnan stomped across the deck to where I stood.
‘That was a good piece of sailing.’ he said. But no smile leant any feeling to his words.
Without any discussion the warrior leader got his men at the oars, ten of them doubled up with the remaining prisoners.
‘When you’re ready.’ he snapped.
I scanned the coast around us, the sea beyond the rocky spit was tantalisingly close, but we would have to head in a northerly direction first to get back to reliably deep water.
‘Give the order Brosnan. Both sides together.’ I answered him. ‘Steer towards that hilltop.’ I added to Gort, giving him a heading that would be roughly North West.
I looked over the stern as we got under way and watched as we drew away from a raft of dead and floating wreckage.