37

So, our long trip home began, the weather at the start was mainly good and it was a fairly uneventful beginning. I found that I could mentally picture the three dimensional problems of navigation quite easily and I seemed to have a natural gift for piloting the ship. Where my sailing experience showed thin, which at first was often, Gort corrected and explained my errors. Considering our position, I got on very well with the old steersman. Who knows, by now our nations could even be tentative allies.

But I doubted it. After all, our ancestors, the old Britons, fresh from Roman misrule, had eventually allied with the Saxons in an attempt to secure their coastal boundaries, and everyone knows the outcome of that enterprise. Indeed, the King of Portugal had done something similar with the Moors, with much the same result. Alfred had thunderously promised in council that he’d never go down that road of action. He had tried buying peace with vast sums known as Danegeld but it hadn’t worked. The Vikings had reneged on the agreement and demanded more and more against renewed threats of violence. So he was very unlikely to have allied with them I thought.

At times, we were becalmed and had to use the oars to keep ourselves a safe distance from the shore. At others, when the fury of the winds tried to break us, we scurried off to find shelter. Because our man power was limited, we couldn’t have the crew spend too long over the oars, and the slaves, the few that were left, were not really up to it, although they tried.

So most of our voyage was made under sail. When the wind was contrary, we made for the shore and found a bay or an estuary to lie-up in to await the whim of fortune and nature. Most times it was only a matter of a few days before the sweet south westerly breezes came back for us, but a few times it ran into periods of a week or more. It was then that the warrior crew became restless and argumentative amongst themselves. We thought of endless evolutions to keep them busy, such as cleaning the ship’s bottom from the festoons of weed that grew there and survey trips inland to gather information for my records and sketch maps. There was also the odd time when a party went off to find riches in raiding skirmishes. But these were mainly fruitless and strove only to sate the passions of their warrior’s spirit.

As we slipped past the grey-blue line of land, we could often see pillars of smoke from the beacon fires that had been lit by coastal lookouts. So, I thought, our reputation precedes us and that severely limited our choice of harbour.

Although they were all friendly enough towards me and were happy to do my bidding with regard to the navigation of the voyage, I was not so sure how they would be after I had shown them where to look for the treasure. I spent many of my spare moments of that long voyage trying to plan for that moment. After the news from the Spanish trader, it would be unlikely if they all wanted to go home to the western shores of Britain, where they would probably be called on to surrender. Of course, nobody spoke to me of that problem, but I thought they would be likely to head for their settlements around York, in the north of the island, or set out to return to the bleak, icy homes of their roots. In either of these destinations I’d not be needed, indeed my very presence would be an embarrassment.

Over the course of our passage, just about all of them, individually sidled up to ask details of the horde of gems. How big were they? How many?...and so on. I could see that there would be a deal of greed and jealousy in play when we arrived, or should I say, when I found Sark. I fervently hoped that I would recognise the landfall on the mainland that would give me the setting off point to find the tiny, rocky lump of an island. If I missed it in a storm, or at night, there would be murder. No doubt. And I’d be the subject.

In the meantime, the warm days of the summer turned towards those of autumn and we began to see the temper of the early winter storms. I made myself a passable shelter beneath the upturned merchant’s boat, but whenever we could, we ran to shelter when a storm threatened. The prisoners did not fare very well, several died of a mysterious fever and most of those that remained starved themselves to the brink of collapse and eventually succumbed to the cold and rigours of the life at sea. Soon there were only three of the stronger ones remaining.

We were all glad of the clothing that had been taken from the Spaniard’s cargo, after the comfortable warmth of the southern sunshine, everyone felt the bite of the colder weather. The sea had become a cold green-grey in its depths and the waves were higher and sharper. More and more frequently a wave would burst on our plunging bow and shower everyone in cold spray. The area of ocean was known to most of them, and renowned for its atrocious weather. Those that tended to suffer badly from the sickness were miserable and huddled beneath the deck tent on the leeward side, completely useless with regard to running the ship.

I became very nervous and began to doubt my ability to find this rocky dot of an island in the vastness of water. Fearfully, I studied my sketches of the coastline and tried to recognise any feature and serious doubt crept up on me. At times, nothing fitted, while at others it all seemed familiar. There were many false sightings, most of them off of the western coast of Lesser Britain or Brittany as it had become known. One morning, after rounding a cape, I had the feeling, and that’s the best way to describe it, that we may be close. So even though there looked like storm clouds gathering in the south and west behind us, I gave an order to put the helm up and steer a course that would take us farther from the comforting line of coast and across the lines of waves. Nobody openly questioned me, but some of the faces looked a little incredulous, as though perhaps, I had taken leave of my senses.

It must have been about midday, although the sky was as dark as a winter’s evening, that I glimpsed the lizard shaped tail of the island that I had prayed not to miss. It seemed to rise out of the sea like a phantom as a lashing squall cleared away to the north. The sea was far too rough to attempt a landing in the bay we had used before so, to find some shelter, I had the sail lowered and we crept under the short cliffs on the island’s north-east side, carefully avoiding the sharp, dagger-like tongues of hard black rock that jagged towards us. Successfully, after several tense moments, we reached some relatively sheltered water and dropped an anchor. The wind tugged at the ship and, at first, the anchor dragged across the rocky bottom before it held. The wind tormented the mast and the rigging lines until they sang like harp strings. The rain was torrential, almost solid as it was hurled against us. The island became a darker cloud against a black sky as night fell. The men found what shelter they could and some rations of hard biscuit, dried meat and watered wine were passed around. There wasn’t very much food left and we needed freshwater.

Gort, a shaded lantern beneath his cloak, pulled himself through the gap into my shelter under the boat and chuckled.

‘Seems like you upset the gods by finding the place again.’ he said through the gloom. ‘But the men think you’re pretty clever.’

I was tired and nervous of my situation, I shrugged and muttered. ‘Hope the gods can sleep tomorrow.’

‘Ah yes, tomorrow.’ he said.

Here we go I thought. Under my damp sleeping rug, my hand fell to the handle of the razor-like knife that I kept in my boot top and I eased it free of its clasp.

‘I’ve been thinking of tomorrow.’ he continued, adding in a low voice. ‘The men are all excited and nobody trusts anyone else. The only way to forestall any treachery, as I see it, will be for them all to come with us. And I’ll share it out there and then. On the spot. Equal parts for all.’

‘You know your men best.’ I said replacing the clasp on the knife, realising that I was still safe.

‘But what I wanted to say was, that the men, in gratitude I suppose, want you to have a share too.’

Again he gave that odd, unnerving chuckle, which I suddenly realised was embarrassment. The tough warrior leader was embarrassed, having to pass on his message of kindness.

‘Well, thank them very much. I am very flattered.’ I said.

‘Aye...well. I’d better go and see to the anchor watch, we don’t want to be dragging in this weather. I think we made shelter just in time.’ he said.

And he wriggled out, his shouted orders torn from his lips by the shrieking wind. From my position near the ship’s bow I could hear the tortured creaking of the heavy anchor rope as the storm tried to wrench us free. If we were all to go ashore tomorrow, the ship would be safer moored where she is in the deeper water. So shivering with the damp and cold, I busied my mind to think. The three slaves would be hog-tied again and the ship would need some kind of line to the shore, where she could be drawn in to let us off and then back out again. The seed of an idea grew in my tired mind where it gleamed like a pearl with its possibilities. This time tomorrow, I could be halfway to my home shores.

As tired as I was, the chance of sleep eluded me until the early hours of the morning when I was awakened by a knocking on my hollow wooden roof.

‘We’re all ready Pilot. Come and have some of this porridge, the cook’s found some honey to sweeten it a mite.’ came a cheerful call from outside.

I stretched, and with aching joints, shuffled out of my refuge with a dull head and the sore eyes that come of sleeping too heavily, too late. I peered around at the ship and the horizon beyond. The weather had moderated slightly and the wind, still brisk, was loaded with a misty rain that swirled in the early dawn light like a lady’s veil. The men, unkempt ruffians that they were, smiled and joked in their excitement and anticipation. Toothless grins shone through the gloom surrounding us, as a steaming wooden bowl of medium-lumpy porridge was handed to me from the cook’s blackened cauldron. Under the deck tent it was passably warm with the press of eager men and the glowing brazier.

Beyond the men I saw the slaves, miserable, fearful and half-starved. They deserved better, I grabbed a cleaning cloth and heaved the still-hot cooking pot down to where they were huddled. With a ripple of what I took to be muttered thanks, they dug into the sticky mess with their fingers and finished it in moments, scraping the pot clean.

Turning from them and their sorry plight, I found Gort and told him of my thoughts for manoeuvring the ship and keeping it safe. He jumped up and scanned the shore of the island and, after a moment’s thought, he smiled and nodded. Then, with a shouted string of orders, had some men put the boat into the water with a coil of rope in its bottom.

‘Afraid we’ll have to borrow you’re roof for a few minutes.’ he said. ‘I’ll take it ashore myself to choose the strong-point.’ and amid a flurry of orders, he was over the side and gone. I packed up my few possessions into a bundle and carefully hid a short handled war-axe beneath a piece of decking near the bow.

The slaves were gagged and bound, wrist and ankle, to their thwarts and men scurried about preparing the ship and its anchor cable for winding. I drew a bucket of water and, stripped to my boots, washed myself thoroughly. The cold water refreshed me where sleep had failed and it removed the few creatures that had crept onto my body during the night. I drew some clean clothes from my bundle and, to the amusement of those who had the leisure to watch, combed my hair and beard with a rough comb that I had whittled from a piece of wood.

Moving the ship in and then easing it back out on the wind was an easy enough evolution that went according to plan. The cook came ashore, he’d cut one of the slaves free and loaded him with all his pots and our remaining food stores, enough for a small, celebration banquet.

‘Me legs won’t carry me up no mountains!’ he announced, nodding at the island’s central hill.

So he set himself up on the shore to prepare our dinner and await our return. The last two men, who’d stayed aboard to make fast, came ashore to join us using the small rowing boat, or the pilot’s knarr, as it had become known. Once everything had finally been made secure on shore, I stepped up onto a rock and, gathering the men before me, I told them the story of the time I had fought Brosnan and overheard Brent-one-hand’s treachery. Mention of his deeds produced growls of anger from many of the simple warriors, but all of them blessed my luck and cheerfully called on me to start out without anymore delay.

And so we did, I led them along the beach and pointed out the slope, high above us, where the cavern lay. The rain had been driven away by the rising sun but the wind still resolutely tore at us out of the south, tugging at our clothing and our breath. The men in close single file, laughed and joked about what they would do with their share as they started the climb up the narrow rocky path from the beach. Gort and I followed along behind and the enthusiastic tramping of the men soon had them separated from us.

How should I say it, I thought furiously, an icy sweat broke on my neck and face.

Now it came to the moment, it seemed like the lamest excuse ever. He’ll never let me go on my own. Just do it. I decided.

‘Damn me.’ I blurted, unrolling my chronicle pages. ‘But I’ve brought the wrong page.’

‘What!’ said Gort, peering over my shoulder. ‘Can’t you remember where to go?’

‘Hmm...Probably, but it could take all morning. And by then the storm will be back.’ I said, pointing to the gathering pack of dark clouds that had begun to line the southern horizon. ‘You go on with the men and keep them on the cliff top above us. We don’t want any chance discoveries, there’d be mayhem. I’ll go back and get the right roll. I’ll use the Pilot’s knarr.’ before he could think or say too much, I feigned anger with myself and, cursing roundly, hurried off.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can. I know exactly where I left it.’ I called over my shoulder as I crossed the narrow beach.

With annoyed surprise, I realised that I was trembling. My hands shook as I put the oars over their thole pins. I must be swift, I could still be overtaken and stopped. I sat on the thwart and pulled on the oars, I could see Gort, hesitantly trailing along behind the sinuous, brown line of men as they made their way up the cliff path. He looked back once or twice, seemingly thoughtful, hesitating, but it was too far for me to see his expression. Doubtless, he assumed that the drive of greed held me as fast as it did his own men and himself.

Before long I was alongside the ship and carefully tied the small boat to a post on the stern section of the vessel. The two remaining slaves moaned in fear but that changed to a pitiful, muffled pleading through their gags when they recognised me. I strode past them, picked up the short handled axe from its hiding place and with a few hefty swings I severed both the mooring line to the shore and the anchor cable. The wind immediately plucked at us and swung the ship about to face the northern skyline.

For the first time in a year I was free. Furious yells from the watching men on the cliff-top came to me on the wind as I struggled to raise the boom with its fully reefed sail. The shortened sail lifted and snapped out straight in the wind, quickly, I made fast the haul rope and pulled in on the sail’s two control lines. Everything was happening very quickly, as it does in a stormy sea. I dashed back to the steering board and pushed the helm down to bring the ship’s head north easterly.

With our untrimmed sail flapping wildly, but still driving, we flew past the black, rocky teeth of the island’s northerly reef. The nearest jagged tooth swept by so close that I could see the weed and the shellfish clinging on its edges. I turned towards the island’s shore and, with a clenched fist punching the air, I saluted my erstwhile gaolers.

Spray burst over the bow as the ship was driven into the steep sided waves of the short sea. I now had a little more time to consider my actions, if the weather worsened, I would have to take the sail down before its power drove us under. Or it became torn to shreds. But for the present, I thought we would make it away from the coast of Sark in the right direction. I needed to make a sighting of the Gaulish Coast, which would, I was sure, be not far away to the north and east. From there I would set our course due north for home. Even if I had to sit for a week to wait for the right winds.

My immediate concern was for the unfortunate prisoners, the slaves. What was I to do with them? They looked in a sad state, cold and fearful, but one seemed to have a knowing expression, as if he had an idea of what might be afoot. I lashed the steering board in position to go down to them and, with some inventive sign language and a few commonly understood words, I made them understand that I would set them free if the two of them agreed to do as I ordered. If they misbehaved then they would go to the bottom of the sea, and I would leave them. This ultimatum, once understood, was enthusiastically agreed to and I cut their bonds. It gave me some small satisfaction to give them their first chore, baling. One of them filling the bucket, the other reaching down to empty it overboard. A half a day at that job would tire them and make them more easily controlled. I shrugged into the shelter of a waxed cape as another squall of cold rain swept across us.

Back on the master’s deck, I took the lashing from the helm. We were sailing at a reasonable rate, the wind had moderated a little and the ship wasn’t plunging quite so violently. I checked through my collection of sketches and notes. With the aid of a swinging lodestone, I corrected the course to go a little more northerly. The heavy cloud was breaking up and patches of a cool, pale blue showed through the wind torn streaks. I lashed the steering board in position again and went down onto the deck to adjust the trim of the sail.

Then the inevitable happened, the prisoner at work on the deck, whirled around and threw the heavy bucket at my face. I stumbled backwards, groping for my sword and fell flat on my back on the slippery, wet deck. My blade was still only halfway out when he hurled himself onto me. He knelt astride me and his nimble fingers swiftly plucked my dagger from its sheath. It all seemed to be happening in slow motion. I stared death full in the face. With an immense effort I burst my muscles from their spellbound, shocked paralysis and drove my good knee, as hard as I could, into his groin. The force of the blow carried him somersaulting over my head. I swung over onto my knee and, as I rose to my feet drew the polished sword-blade to its full length. The Moor, his face twisted by his hate and his pain, rushed blindly at me. The dagger, grasped tightly in his bony fingers, was raised to strike downwards at my chest. I shuffled clumsily to one side and swept off the cape, snagging the dagger and spoiling his agile balance. With the next moment, his rush carried him so far onto the blade of my sword that it stuck fast and was dragged out of my hand as he fell, stone dead to the deck.

A movement behind me caught my glance and, with a swing of my boot into his face as he clambered out of the hatch, I stopped the other prisoner’s attempt to attack. Quickly, I retrieved the dagger and, standing on the corpse, dragged my sword from his body. That was that, I thought. There’d be no more help from them.