The bow lifted smoothly to the swell as we crossed into open water, the whole ship seemed to quiver with the thrill of being back in its native environment. For the men however, it was an anticlimax. Although we had won the battle and regained our freedom, we had again lost a significant number of the crew. Many familiar faces would not be seen again and unless we found a supply of good fresh water and provisions soon, a number more would perish.
I soaked a bandage in cold sea-water and wrapped it around my knee which had begun to swell, it was uncomfortable but I thought, not badly damaged. Partly to ease it, I went among the warrior crew, using what little salves I had left and dressed the worst wounds. Several of the arrow injuries were badly inflamed and I suspected that they had been poisoned.
This suspicion was born out when I came to the oarsman who had been hit in the leg. He was huddled into a rug and falling in and out of consciousness. The wound was badly inflamed and his whole leg burning hot. Almost as I watched, a paralysis seemed to creep over him, his breathing became strained his wide eyes watched me with pleading, but I could not help him. He died soon after. It looked a little like the results of Hemlock poisoning, but I’d not heard of any method to make it concentrated enough to use in this way. I had one of the men carefully collect all the spent arrows that he could find around the deck including those hidden away as souvenirs.
I went back among the men to search out the others with arrow wounds. Some seemed to be experiencing a similar effect, most only to a slight degree, but there were some that wouldn’t see another day. Our few prisoners were becoming more important.
The wind, unfortunately, was still contrary and the men had to stay at the long oars. I scanned the coast for a suitable spot to land. We all needed to rest and sleep.
Clumsily, I swung down into the hatchway where I had spent so many miserable wet hours. I hadn’t far to look before I came across my old battered writing box. It was still wrapped in its piece of tarpaulin and was quite dry. I lifted it out of the hold and onto the deck. The contents were going to be very useful over the coming weeks and I would try to keep it up to date.
‘Brosnan.’ I called as I heaved myself out of the hold.
‘Yes.’ he answered abruptly.
He was sat on the step to the raised after deck and one of his band of friends was cleaning the dried blood from a cut on his shoulder.
‘I think we may need someone to clear the water from the bilges.’ I suggested, while I rummaged in the box to check that all was still dry and clean.
‘Well, you know how it’s done. You do it.’ he sneered and smiled at his accomplice.
‘Leave it, Brosnan. There’ll be plenty of time for that nonsense when we’re home.’ said a voice from a resting crewman behind me.
I turned to see who had spoken, but all the men wore the same, dull eyed, dejected expression of total exhaustion.
‘Shut it you! I’m master here. Unless any of you want to try your luck.’ he threw down the challenge generally and although his glare was directed over my shoulder. His slow gaze swung back to me,
‘Like I said, you do it No-man.’ he stood. ‘And while we’re about it give me that pretty sword. Slaves are not allowed weapons.’
His hand went to the hilt of his own sword as he reached forward for my sword-belt. I stepped back, carefully avoiding the open hatchway, the crewmen moved to give us space.
‘We’ve been through all this Brosnan. We had an agreement.’ I smiled and tried to reason. ‘How can a slave be Pilot. How can a slave direct the sailing of the ship to win battles.’
‘Give me your sword No-man.’ he said, drawing his own with a hiss like an angry viper.
I noticed that the cut on his left shoulder was inflamed and obviously painful. In all probability, it was an infected arrow wound from a glancing hit. From the shadowy look in his eyes, I decided I was right and thought it would only be a matter of time. But he was strong.
‘The name is Ranulf.’ I said, beginning to circle away from his threatening blade, moving towards his left. I left my own sword where it was for the moment. ‘Let me have a look at that cut.’ I tried. ‘I think it needs treatment.’
‘You keep your stinking, Christian hands off of me.’ he growled. ‘Prepare to meet your puny god.’
‘If you are successful, Brosnan, who is going to show you the way to Sark and the treasure.’ I asked, my voice sounding far calmer than I felt.
‘I don’t believe you know anything about it. Those pretty stones looked like glass to me.’ he sneered.
And then he charged at me. The tiredness and poison must have been having an effect because he staggered slightly, giving me ample time to sidestep his angry rush. Hands from the gathered warriors and crew grasped at his ring-mail tunic to hold him back. But he shrugged them off. His eyes were reddened with his rage and building fever, he could see naught but his intended victim, the irritant that had nettled him since his fractured nose.
I drew my sword and a short dagger that I had taken from an Arab corpse. The rush and ring of steel on the mouth of Wolfbane’s scabbard, sounded eager in the tense,sudden silence.
Again Brosnan began to edge around in a circle, I noticed that his left arm seemed to hang stiffly from the now visibly swollen shoulder. He feinted a lunge and burst into gusts of laughter at my nervous response. I forced my heaving chest to steady and let my warrior’s training take over.
His next feinted lunge across that confined space was followed by a determined attempt to cut at my left side. I couldn’t move back, so took the weight of his strike on the crossed blades of sword and dagger, absorbing the violence with a low sidestep. A twist of my left wrist traced a thin crimson line on his forearm. He roared like a maddened bull.
A familiar voice called an urgent warning. ‘The hatchway, it’s right behind you.’
Round and round we manoeuvred, each looking for the advantage, blades rang and curses flew to the air. We were both tired, but still he pressed me. Each slashing cut of his heavy, double edged sword seemed to be heavier, some almost breaking through. I turned my tactic to offensive and in a flurry of energy sapping thrusts and feints managed to lay another long cut across his already heavily inflamed arrow wound.
His eyes rolled with the madness of pain and his attack came low. The tip of the blade came from the deck and travelled in a line directly towards my throat. With a desperate heave, I caught the point on my dagger’s hilt and lifted it to pass above my shoulder. I felt the hotness of a line open across my cheek and jaw as I forced my legs to spring away to the right. Before Brosnan could recover from the commitment of his lunging attack, I managed to bring my own sword point to his throat. I held it steady, a dribble of bright blood ran down his neck from the needle sharpness.
‘Do you stop now Brosnan?’ I gasped. ‘You’re sick. We must stop it. Now!’
‘British pig!’ he snarled.
With an effort that must have cost him much of his remaining strength, he grasped my blade with his left hand and, although it laid open his palm to the bone, he wrenched the sword from my grasp. The severed tendons of his fingers loosed their grip and my glittering sword fell to the deck.
Quickly I backed away and came to an abrupt stop as I stumbled against the low hatch combing. Brosnan took his chance and charged at me, using his arm and sword blade as you would a lance. I feinted to the left and then ducked to the right, rolling across the deck and back to my feet. Brosnan had fully committed his attack and when his foot met the hatch it tripped him. The sword flew from his hand and with a thud the big swordsman disappeared from sight. Someone in the subdued, quiet ring of watching witnesses handed me my sword and, holding it ready, I went to the edge of the opening.
Below me in the shadows, sprawled across boxes and empty water jars, was Brosnan. Dead from his own sword. Somehow the weapon had turned beneath him and he had fallen full onto it. The broad blade protruded from his back and all was silent in the stink of death. I backed away as others came to look, ready to do my best against a revenge attack.
A crewman came and stood in front of me, he handed me a beaker of wine from some precious horde and put his hand on my shoulder.
‘Put up your sword, Pilot. Rest, while we hold a council. I think you’ve no need to fear.’
Brosnan’s heavy body looked small in death as they lifted him from the hatch and laid him, wrapped in his cloak, on one of the rowing benches. He would need a ceremonial burial. The men gathered to look at the corpse and then passed by to group around Gort and two others in the foreparts of the Ship.
I stood on the master’s deck sipped my wine and swept my gaze around the empty horizon to the south and the rocky shore to our right, the sun was pleasantly hot. The wind direction was still of little use and, with the approach of midday, it had dropped away to murmur across the waves in little shadowy swirls. Just here and there it whipped the blue surface into a patch that glittering emerald and gold.
The shoreline stretched away into the distance with rocks like teeth in the jaws of a dragon. The Arab slaves, fear showing in their wide eyes, were still working at the heavy oars and had succeeded in keeping the ship’s head steady towards the west. As we moved slowly along, the entrance to a small cove opened up between two huge outcrops. The men were still talking, some sitting and listening others nursing their wounds, but all of them seemed generally earnest and peaceful. I eased the lashing off of the steering board and altered course towards the opening into the bay.
‘We’ve spoken amongst ourselves and we are all behind you to be the pilot. But you’ll not be commander.’ announced Gort. ‘The men have all agreed that our bounden duty is to return the ship, in as near one piece as we can, and to pick up the merchant’s treasure on the way. I will act as master, any orders you have, you must pass through me.’
‘I can agree with that.’ I answered him with relief. ‘I’ve altered the course to take us into the shelter of that cove.’ I nodded in the direction. ‘I think first on our list must be a place to safely rest and give Brosnan a fitting start to his journey into the spirit world.’
Gort looked at the bay opening up around us and nodded, then he strode across to the crewmen and got them busy with fore and aft anchors.
Behind the narrow opening, guarded by its strange, tall pinnacles of rocky sentinels, the cove opened into a curving lozenge shape almost completely enclosed by sheer cliffs. We set our anchors so that we rode the small swell a little way out from the steeply sloping, sandy beach that formed the back of the perfect little harbour. The water was as clear as spring-water and gazing into it, we could see an abundance of inquisitive fish come to look at us.
Brosnan’s body was prepared and, to get it ashore, we took the ship in under oars, paying out the stern anchor cable as we went to give us some purchase in the event of grounding. But all went well enough, most of the crewmen went ashore with Gort to do their best for the dead champion. With most of the men ashore, our few slaves were bound by their arms to the thwarts to keep them from temptation.
I took out the writing box and began another entry in the chronicle with a detailed sketch of the bay and a guess at its approximate location. I called it Brosnan’s cove, I imagine the local people had their own name, but the men were pleased.
Their ceremony didn’t take long and the men were soon back aboard leaving a pile of stones and pebbles to witness what had happened. Although there was an abundance of driftwood and other flotsam, there had been no fire for fear of attracting unwanted attention.
One of the men that stayed onboard had been the old, white bearded cook and we had decided to use as much of the remaining provisions as necessary to prepare a good meal for the men. The old man had lit and coaxed his brazier into life and busied himself cooking up a fish stew that smelled the best ever. His bandy old legs ensured that he didn’t get involved in raiding parties, but his skill as a simple chef would be hard to better. Even in a royal kitchen.
With the men back aboard, we rigged the deck tent to keep off the sun and each of us, including the slaves, had a share from the pot. With full stomachs many of the men fell asleep sitting where they were, while others curled themselves up under cloaks, but soon all were sleeping except for the handful of Moors, Gort and myself. We could hear the young Arab that had his knee savagely hacked moaning in a delirium as he fell in and out of a fever that filled his burning body. He’d probably not last much longer.
‘The men are happy enough now.’ observed Gort. ‘But they’ll be difficult tomorrow when they’re hungry again.’
‘Aye. I’ve just been thinking about it. We’ll need water and wine too. Do we have any money.’ I asked.
‘Water’s no problem. But Brent’s boxes of silver went off the ship back yonder, to the agent in Silves.’ said Gort with a sigh. He pointed along the beach. ‘There’s a small, freshwater stream coming over the cliff down yonder. We can fill our tubs in the morning.’
‘That’s good, gets rid of one problem. Perhaps we could find a way up the cliff, send out a party of men and see if there’s any likely settlements close to hand that would donate their early season’s food and drink.’ I suggested.
‘There’ll be a way up the cliff beside the stream. I’ll go myself.’ he said, then added. ‘As soon as I’ve caught up with some sleep. I’ll just set a couple of guards to keep deck watch and lookout.’
The chosen guards cursed their luck and, to keep awake amongst the snuffling and snores, walked up and down the deck, their faces pale from tiredness and their red-rimmed eyes struggling to stay open. I was going to have a wash first and reached for a bucket, on impulse I opened one of the side lockers beneath the steering board. There, carefully wrapped in lightly waxed cloth was Brent’s navigating equipment, and nestling in its soft, cloth lined box was the valuable lodestone. I put everything back carefully and closed the lid. At least that was going to be all right.
The tepid salt water stung in the cut on my cheek but I felt better afterwards. I washed my ragged clothes and laid them in the sun to dry, they’d be stiff as boards with the salt, but they’d be clean. The guards wore amused expressions as they looked on. Hygiene, personal or otherwise, was not a natural strong point. The hot sun and gentle onshore breeze quickly dried my naked body, and I settled down on the hard deck wrapped in a discarded lightweight cloak that, from its quality, must have belonged to Brent.
I was quickly asleep and, although my early dreams were vividly peopled by savage wild-men, to say that I slept like an abused horse at a coaching inn would be a gross understatement. I had no recollection of anything at all until the rough, urgent shaking of my shoulder brought me back to my cold aching body.
The darkness of night was melting into the grey of a cloud-filled dawn sky. Overhead I noticed that heavily pregnant, dark storm-clouds were moving quickly from a direction that was a little south of east. The wind, as it backed to the new direction, must have risen and by the looks of things heralded a storm.
‘Pilot sir.’ said a voice. I twisted around to see a grimy face with a worried expression peering at me.
‘Yes, you can stop shaking me now. I’m awake.’ I said irritably, sitting up and clutching the thin warmth of the cloak about me.
‘There’s a ship, sir.’ he said pointing beyond the seaward cliffs with their jumble of rocks. ‘It looks like it’s coming our way for the shelter.’
‘Call Gort then, he’ll organise the men.’ I said looking towards the bay’s entrance which was clearly marked by the foaming temper of the waves.
‘He’s gone sir. He left just before the dawn. Said to wake you if I needed help, he left me in charge, as the chief watchman.’
I struggled out of the tangling folds of the cloak and reached for my clothes, my mind racing.
‘Which way is the ship heading.’ I asked.
‘From the west.’ he answered confidently.
‘She’ll be making heavy going then.’ I muttered to myself and thought that I would probably have headed for deep water rather than risk being driven onto the rocky shore. It would seem likely that our visitor was a local vessel. Probably a merchant coaster I thought.
‘Can you see what sort of craft it is? Is it a warrior or a merchant’s scow?’ I prompted.
‘I don’t know sir. We sent a man up on to the seaward hill to keep watch and he shouted the warning. We’re just pulling the ship in to the shore to pick him up.’ his face was pale with worry.
‘Good man.’ I reassured him. ‘We’ll speak to him as soon as he’s aboard. In the meantime get the slaves gagged and into the hold out of sight.’
‘Right you are sir.’ he said, more cheerfully.
‘Oh, and when the ship reaches the shore, make fast the lines so that we are only just afloat.’ a plan was forming in my mind.
Gort had taken about a third of the men with him. We’d have to use every trick we could. I scanned the cliff top before us, its height seemed to loom over us. Just the spot for a couple of archers, quickly I gave my instructions to two men who were already preparing arrows and notching the strings to their bows. I pointed out the high cliff and told them to light a beacon, below the cliff’s rim, to attract the attention of Gort and his raiders.
‘Take the cook with you. He can light a fire anywhere.’ I said.
The chief watchman trotted up. ‘The lookout has just come aboard. He says it’s definitely a coaster, rolling heavily and running low in the water. The wind has got up and, with just a few scraps of sail, she’s making her way directly for the entrance to our bay.’
‘That’s good news.’ I answered. ‘Would you send me some of your very best seamen. I need a party that are good with the ropes.’
I gathered the small group of experienced sailors about me and explained what I had in mind, impressing on them that we had almost no time at all to do it in. My plan was to make the ship look like a beached wreck and therefore of no threat to what I hoped was a fat merchant ship.
Some empty casks and boxes were tossed over-side and, with the aid of a small rope from our masthead, we were given a realistic list. Two more casualties with the poison arrow wounds, hopefully the last, had died during the night and we lowered their stiffening bodies over the side where they tumbled amongst the choppy surf. A final finishing touch was to lower the main boom with its sail so it was half overboard, the sail draped across the exposed side and into the chop of the broken waves by the shore.
They had done well, but time had to be running out for us. I called them aft and, clutching at a back stay briefly explained what I wanted.
‘Right men, there’s not enough of us to give chase to a frightened merchantman, so we’ve disguised the ship to look like a wreck, albeit a recent one. So everyone must stay out of sight until the last moment. Then, at my signal, it’s all together and we’ll take her and her cargo.’
Faces beamed their answer as they made themselves comfortable in corners and under thwarts, tucking behind the side that was canted away from the harbour entrance.
I crouched behind a fold in the great sail where I could see the narrow entrance to the bay. Would they fall for it? Was it going to be a merchant or a warrior’s ship, low in the water because of the storm and flooding? The thoughts and doubts flashed through my mind as we waited. A shaft of sunlight pierced the curtain of cloud but it was quickly quenched by a swirling shower of cold rain.
The first thing I saw of her was the mast head as the ship came down the wind towards the slender channel. She must have sailed past the entrance, then turned and made her way towards us with the wind almost behind her. Like a bolting mare, the ship came through into the relative calm, riding on a wave. With relief, I saw that it was a weather beaten old scow. I could see a row of pale faces, peering over the side as they tried to get the measure of us.
Their sail rattled down and the old vessel stopped at the mouth of the bay, they sat there for some while looking at our predicament, no doubt watching for some sign of life. Eventually, decision made, the master had the oars put out and she moved cautiously towards us. We heard a splash as they dropped an anchor over their stern, I could see the men on her deck as they fed out the rope. She stopped in the water, just a short stone’s throw away. My knee ached, but I daren’t move. The person in charge, Spanish I thought, from the look of him with his trimmed and pointed black beard, stood on the gunwale and hailed us. I couldn’t understand a word, but it was obvious what he was asking. The Viking men kept their place, I heard a muttered oath from the chief watchman but that was all.
The Spaniard must have thought our situation was hopeless because he stepped back onto the deck giving orders that sent men back to the oars and some to ready iron grappling hooks. They pulled towards us, turning into the eddying wind to bring them side on to us. Two men, one forward and one aft, stood swinging the grapples in readiness. A nod from the master had them snaking towards us and when they bit into our timbers they pulled themselves alongside, amply aided by the fitful, gusts of wind.
‘Steady men. Not yet.’ I said in little more than a murmur.
An urgent shout came from the other ship as their gunwale ground against our planks, some way below the level of our raised side. Someone had spotted something, possibly the rope from the masthead. I gave the order that unleashed our men. They shot over the side and dropped onto the cargo deck of the Spaniard like a string of unrestrained hunting dogs.
There was no match. Our men were rested and the merchantman’s were tired, storm battered and taken almost completely by surprise. The Norsemen streamed onto the other ship and with an instinctive ferocity killed everything that came before them. The merchantman’s crew, there was only eight of them, were poorly armed and, despite my shouts for leniency, were soon reduced to bloody, ripped corpses. The master was still alive when I reached him, but mortally wounded by an axe blow.
‘Where are you from?’ I tried in the few languages that I could use.
I propped his head on a balled cloak and offered him some wine from a handy flask.
‘I recognise you.’ he spluttered in an accented English that shocked me. His eyes were wide with fear and pain. ‘So it is true. They said that you had turned traitor.’
I looked around at the remains of the vicious slaughter then down at myself. I even looked like one of them.
‘It’s not what it seems.’ I pleaded desperately. ‘I’m on my way home. I’ll sort it out.’
‘They’ll hang you. And good riddance.’ he spluttered through a dribble of dark blood. ‘Alfred has won a marvellous victory. Driven the barbarian plague from the Severn Sea and pushed him back to the east and the north.’
‘That’s good news.’ I said emptily.
‘Aye and they even baptised their heathen chieftain, whatsisname, Gunter...no, Guthrum. That’s it. Baptised at Aller church he was, right in front of everyone.’ he forced himself to sit up. ‘So now you’re all outlaws. Even you. Especially you. You stinking vermin.’ he flung the words across the deck and collapsed.
The anger of his last effort killed him, a last breath rattled in his throat and he was gone. The Viking that had been by my elbow heard it all and, understanding the thread of what was said, rushed off to tell the others.
I wrapped the merchant shipmaster in a clean cloak and silently promised him and all his crew a decent burial on the shore. I could vaguely remember him now. He used to be a popular salesman at all the big fairs and markets, the Don they called him and he could probably have sold a pair of boots to a man with one leg. He used to bring news, I remembered, tales of far off lands and people. As well as many others, I had always thought that they were imagined but, well, maybe they weren’t.
The news that he’d just given me was dreadful and I felt chilled to the core. I wondered how old it was. Roughly figuring, I guessed that a year would have passed by the time I returned. Alfred’s success must have carried on in the wake of our victorious attack at the river. I felt a mixture of anger and regret that I had not been there. I’d surely have been one of his commanders by now.
‘Damn it!’ I said angrily.
Wearily, I got heavily to my feet and began looking through the cargo. In one respect we were lucky, there seemed to be everything that we might need, including some clothing and pottery.
The business of the burial of the old Spaniard and his crew didn’t take over long. Gort returned, empty handed, and ordered some men to help. The graves were simple unmarked piles of pebbles, set apart from the mound that marked the resting place of Brosnan.
By late afternoon we had taken everything of use from the battered scow, including a small two-man boat which we lashed onto the deck in the bow. The storm had passed and we made ourselves ready for sea. It was done in relative silence, all of us had thoughts of a dubious reception that we would face on our return to our separate homes.