Ulfr was up early, and he knew it; he was probably the first one awake. Silence lay like a blanket across the beach, broken only by the lap and hiss of waves, and the gentle aural tapestry of many people sleeping. He opened his eyes, half expecting to see sky, but, of course, they had tents, so all he saw was thick, off-white fabric. He rolled to the other side, and could see through the tent door out into the early morning. It was still dark. Very early, then.
On the other side of the tent, Farlof rasped quietly in his sleep. The tents were all makeshift, pulled together from canvas sheets and rough-hewn poles, the ones used by the workers shared by anywhere between five and a dozen men, even three to each tent for the Wolves, though by general consent, no one had expected Ulfr – as their leader – to share a tent. He’d offered Farlof, though.
The sound out there was faintly hypnotic, and he almost found himself drifting off again. But that would be a waste of such an early rise. Instead, he lay, comfortable and warm, the blankets insulating him, the sand beneath moulded to his shape, and let his mind drift back.
It had been a productive week. The ship was properly under way, and they should have everything they need on the beach to complete it, barring oars and sail, and he was content they could source those by the time they were ready. The local harbours had a sort of network of gossip, spread by local traders and fishermen, and he’d put out a call for what he needed. There were tantalising messages of a sail available somewhere in the north of the peninsula, and a local sailmaker who already had a backlog had given them the option that he would have a spare ready in roughly two months. That might be a little late for Ulfr, and so he kept searching, but it was a good fall-back to have. In the perfect world he’d have had the sail made on site, too, but the shipyard workers from Fulquerville were not trained in such things, for they always bought from local craftsmen, which explained the backlog – at least that and the fact that every ship of war in the region had been refitted over the past half year in anticipation of trouble.
The oars were another issue. There were actually sufficient oars of good quality at the local harbour, but they were already spoken for, and since the speaker was a captain of Hauteville’s, Ulfr was not ready to try and argue that one yet. But there were rumours reaching him of others.
Certainly work was going at a satisfying pace, and if everything continued the way it was, they would hit their two-month target, and possibly even complete early.
Which might be a good thing; he had a distinct feeling that they had begun to outstay their welcome. Serlo de Hauteville remained polite and courteous, and still came through when Ulfr needed anything, but there was something in the man’s manner that suggested he would pay money for the Wolves and their work to be gone from his land. Of course, Serlo was probably trying to prepare for the coming trouble, and that would be made more difficult by the fact that all the farms and craftsmen in his fief were busy working for Ulfr.
At least, as something of a relief, Hauteville’s riders had returned two days earlier with word from Falaise. William and the Wolves had made it to the ducal fortress and safety in good time, and though there were rumours that the whole of Cotentin and Bessin lands, as well as mercenaries from Burgundy and a number of lesser lords, were mobilising to move against William, there was no need to worry yet. The duke had not been idle. He had sent out messengers to loyal lords, calling them to his banner, and had sent overtures and offers to the King of France, whose own army was gathered not too far from the border. War was coming, but for now, the messengers said that Halfdan was safe, and if Halfdan was safe, the others would be, too.
There was one odd thing there, though. The duke had sent plenty of information and instructions to Hauteville, yet the jarl had sent nothing to Ulfr, not even a ‘hurry up with the ship’. It seemed odd for Halfdan not to have contacted him. Still, there was little Ulfr could do from here.
He had managed to speak to Geoffroi, at least.
He liked the quiet-spoken knight. The man was a little lost at the moment, for his original fief, a rather small one, had been in Cotentin’s lands. The larger fief he had been granted by the duke during some incident the previous week was also of Cotentin’s. Yet that lord had rebelled and shown himself a traitor to the duke, while Geoffroi remained loyal. He could hardly go home and rouse any man in either land, right under the nose of Cotentin, and so he remained a refugee in Serlo’s house at Pirou. At least his wounds were healing, and he was about ready for the world again, though his companion would be some months before he could comfortably fight or ride a horse again. Still, for now, Geoffroi and his man were safe.
Beatrix was oddly silent. Ulfr had only secured permission to visit her once, and had expected her to be railing against her imprisonment, throwing things and shouting. Instead, she was quiet.
‘My brother will not send me to Eu at the moment, not with the land in such turmoil,’ she said. ‘So I am saved the pillory of matrimony for a time.’
‘Can he not send you by ship?’ Ulfr had frowned. ‘Or with sufficient escort around the south? He sent riders to Falaise that way.’
‘Serlo is no sailor. He will not commit something as valuable as me to the sea, as he does not know what is happening further along the coast. And by horse? Falaise is but sixty miles distant. Eu is almost three times that, at the very eastern edge of our lands. No. I am too useful as a bargaining piece, so Serlo will hold on to me until he can use me without risking my loss.’
And that had been more or less that. He’d stayed with her for a time and listened to her woes, but in the end he had left and returned to his work.
Ulfr rolled over again. For some reason, moving had changed the lie of the sand beneath him, and something was uncomfortable, digging into him just under his left shoulder blade. With a sigh, knowing that he was done with sleep, he pulled away his blankets, folded them, and dropped them onto the locked chest of Byzantine coins that he was currently using to pay various bills. He stretched, changed tunics for his favourite mustard yellow one, and retrieved his belt. No armour, just clothes. Pulling on his boots, he spent a moment with his bone comb, raking it through his hair and then his beard before tying a bead into the bottom. Finally presentable, he took a quick look at Farlof, considering whether to wake him, but decided to let him sleep and, stretching once more, crossed the tent and emerged into the night.
It was true dark, without that first pre-dawn glow. The camp was completely still.
He looked about. His makeshift shipyard was perfectly organised; he had divided the camp into two sections. The local levy workers varied in habit, some sleeping in their own homes with their families within a few miles of the camp and coming to work at first light, others preferring to stay on site and live a life with late evening camaraderie. The latter occupied six tents to one side of the work area, bounded by piles of timber. The part-built ship lay between them and the Wolves.
Three tents occupied the Wolves’ area on the other side of the ship: one for the two leaders; one for the three Apulians; and one for the three Varangians. Each night, two of those tents would each supply two shifts of watchmen, the third having a full uninterrupted night’s sleep. In some ways it was not the best arrangement; mixing the two groups, Wolves and locals, would have made for more of a sense of community and equality in the work, and would improve both morale and work speed.
But the decision had been made for expediency and safety. They had a small fortune in gold to keep secure, and while Ulfr felt he could trust any man on this side of the yard, the local levies were not even aware of the vast treasure that lay so close by. The Wolves had carefully secured the gold from the wagons without being observed.
Ulfr stretched. No one else was up.
The fire from the previous night had died, and the only light was that strange silver shimmer that the sea seemed to offer up from its heart. The ship stood in the middle of the camp, the one thing that rose proud and immediately visible. The frame was solid and complete and sat sturdy in the sand, with the keel atop it. The work so far was excellent, and even Ulfr was satisfied. The timber was smooth and well worked, the joins barely visible, so neat were they. The bow and stern rose to challenge the night sky. The first strakes were in place, too, and soon the whole ship would start to properly take shape.
He spotted the figure of the man on watch up there, seated on the keel below the prow, the highest point in the camp with the best view, leaning back against the timber, wrapped in his cloak. He gave the man a nod.
Nothing.
Frowning, Ulfr moved toward the ship. As he closed, he realised something was wrong. He could see it – the glistening on the timbers from all the blood. Hurrying, sensing disaster, he reached the work and clambered up the frame toward the watchman. It surprised him not at all when he saw the arrow. The shaft jutted from the man’s chest, driven so deep that only a couple of inches showed before the flights. The arrow had come at short range, and from an expert. An instant kill, for the man had not been wearing a chain byrnie. It had happened maybe an hour before at most, for the blood was fresh enough to glisten, but the man was grey and cold.
Alert, Ulfr dropped back to the sand. If one watchman was dead, there was every chance that the other had gone, too. His mind raced as he dodged this way and that, making for the edge of the camp, where the other man would be watching the beach.
An arrow. That meant a professional. A soldier. Or potentially a hunter, true, but what hunter would risk such an attack? No, this was the work of a soldier. And a soldier would not do such a thing without good reason. After the bollocking Ulfr had given them all following that incident in the castle sheds, there was no way any Wolf was going to let anyone sneak up on them. And so the only way anyone was going to overcome Ulfr’s watchmen was silently and from a distance. The whole thing did suggest that this was a repeat of the wagon house incident, probably by the same man or men.
Clambering across a pile of wrapped lengths of pine, he found the other watchman, an arrow in his throat. He cursed. He could not afford to lose men at such a rate. There had only been eight Wolves staying here in the first place, and they’d dropped by a quarter in one night. Fuck it, but this was why he never wanted to be a jarl. He was happy with his ships. Responsibility only on the water.
Swearing loud enough that he could hear men in the other tents starting to rouse, he climbed to the top of the pile of planks and looked about carefully, with an eye to random disturbance. And he could see it. Whoever had taken out the watchmen had been here, but only for a short while. Once the dying eyes had glazed over, someone had searched the camp for maybe a quarter of an hour, as quietly as they could.
There were signs. Plenty of footprints in the sand, things overturned, others moved. One of the Varangians appeared at his tent flap, frowning at Ulfr.
‘Help me,’ the shipwright hissed.
Though he’d no idea what had happened, the other man was out in a moment, his tent mate following on swiftly. They soon took in the man slumped at the prow of the ship and seriousness infused their expressions.
Careful that they were not being observed by either the ordinary workers on the other side of the camp or by anyone lurking at the periphery, Ulfr scurried across to the boxes of treenails they had managed to source from Fulquerville, heavy wooden pegs used to hold the timbers together. Normally Ulfr would have his men make such things during the work, but buying them in saved so much time, and it was hard to get treenails wrong, really. They were only sporadically needed for the work, and so Ulfr and his men supplied them a box at a time as required, while the rest remained in a corner of the camp, out of the way.
Perfectly out of the way. Reaching down, the three men moved one of the big boxes with heavy grunts. The footprints of strangers circled around the area, but there was no sign that they’d made an astounding discovery.
Ulfr felt huge relief as he reached a hand deep into the sand under where the box had stood and found the canvas sheet. He peeled it back and scraped into the sand beneath. There, a moment later, he found the lid of the chest of gold coins… undisturbed.
Good. It seemed hard to imagine that their latest incursion had been about anything other than the gold. They’d drawn attention on first arrival at Coutances by the heavy wagons they so jealously guarded, and clearly the same had happened in the castle at Pirou, leading to an attempt to gain access. This time, though, the would-be thieves had gone a step further, far enough to actually kill two of the Wolves in an attempt to search the camp and find the gold.
Ulfr had been too smart for them, though. Apart from the one chest of coins in his own tent, for which the only key was at his waist, all the rest of the gold was so hidden. Upon arrival they had buried it three feet down in the sand, covered it with canvas, scattered fresh sand atop, and then placed heavy boxes there to discourage easy searches.
It had worked. The thieves had scoured the camp, but only the bits they could do easily without rousing the other sleepers.
He looked across at the two Varangians.
‘All right, bury the dead, and then rouse everyone, Wolf or craftsman or peasant. I want them all ready to listen to me when I get back.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To have a word with the lord of Pirou.’
He helped them move everything back into place and scatter fresh sand, then left them to it, sure that there would be no further attempts to infiltrate and search the camp so soon. In mere moments, still in the dark, he was mounted and riding across the dunes, making for the castle. Even the farmers were yet to put in an appearance, so early was it, and when he arrived at the castle gate, a tired and bored-looking Hauteville guard frowned down at him.
‘You? The Swede? It’s the middle of the night.’
Ulfr looked over his shoulder. There was a noticeable change in the tone of the sky toward the eastern horizon.
‘The morning is upon bakers, and shipwrights, and murderers.’
The guard seemed completely nonplussed by this, but Ulfr was a familiar enough sight that he gestured down to the gate below, which was opened moments later.
‘Sveinsson?’ the guard there said, surprising Ulfr by remembering his name.
‘I need to see your master.’
‘I suppose it’s possible he’s awake,’ the guard began. ‘Sometimes he—’
‘I don’t care if he’s balls deep in his favourite woman,’ Ulfr spat, surprising himself with his tone. He was not given to such Bjorn-like outbursts, but he was angry. The man looked to argue, but Ulfr rode his horse past and into the castle, dismounting not far from the gate and leaving the animal to wander.
Two guards overtook him, one motioning at him to stop and counselling patience, while the other ran ahead into the keep. Ulfr allowed himself to be brought to a halt at the keep’s door. He wasn’t sure it would improve his standing if he stormed into Hauteville’s bedroom in a fit of rage, and so he allowed the man to keep him there while his friend roused the lord.
Serlo de Hauteville did not look at all happy as he appeared in the stairway five minutes later. His tunic was freshly thrown on, and he had the look of a man not yet ready to greet the world.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he snapped, gesturing at Ulfr.
‘You gave us permission to use the beach to build a ship,’ Ulfr replied.
‘Yes. In retrospect I might have made a different decision, but yes, I did. And I hope you are working well and fast, for the sooner you are off the beach and out of my lands, the better for everyone.’
‘It will go smoother if you can keep your chain-shirted villains inside your walls.’
‘What?’ snarled Serlo, and there was a new anger in his voice, as well as uncertainty.
‘One or more of your men searched my camp last night and killed two of mine.’
‘Utter tripe.’
‘It is not. An archer of some skill took my watchmen down before searching my camp.’
‘Bandits. Or desperate locals.’
‘No. This was the work of trained soldiers.’
Serlo’s lip twitched. ‘The castle gates are shut at dusk and not opened until dawn, and that is under normal circumstances. At the moment, they are shut most of the time. How do you suggest my men came to your camp? A climb and a swim, perhaps? Shall I have their armour checked for the smell of pond weed to locate the criminal?’
It was said with light words, but the meaning was anything but. Hauteville was furious. So, too, was Ulfr.
‘You know as well as I that there are men of your garrison outside the walls. Some live in the village. Some guard the harbours, others in watchtowers on the roads. And I’ll wager they rotate on a daily basis. No, this was the work of your men, Hauteville. It gives me no joy to level such an accusation, but I will not lose good men to opportunistic greed.’
‘What are they after, Northman?’ snapped Serlo. ‘Caulk fibre or split timbers?’
‘I am here to tell you one thing, Hauteville. We must stay now until our work is done, and then we will be gone without delay. But in the meantime, speak to your men. Tell them to stay away from the beach until we are gone. The next man I find skulking around the work site and prying into our business, I will nail to a fucking post like your White Christ and stand him upright on the beach for all to see.’
Hauteville’s eyes veritably bulged with anger and shock, but before he could bluster into a reply, Ulfr turned and walked away, reaching his horse and pulling himself up into the saddle.
‘It is in their blood,’ the shipwright called across to the angry nobleman. ‘You are only five generations down from sons of Odin like us. Their blood – your blood – sings songs of battle, of beach raids, of taking slaves and chests of Hacksilver. But the difference is that we of the old ways follow our jarl, and when he tells us no, we do not. Tell your men no, Serlo de Hauteville, if you be a jarl yourself.’
He turned and rode away, ignoring the tirade of haranguing that followed him from the angry nobleman. He seethed all the way back. He’d had a plan to speak to the men on the beach and bring them all together, making it more secure, suggesting better pay for the labourers if they were willing to start standing watches, but as he left, he decided that was simply not going to be enough. They were one week into an eight-week build, and in those seven days alone, they had gone from having a reasonable working relationship with the lord of Pirou and his people, to being cold and distant, with levelled threats. It might not take much more to push them into conflict, and that would be bad, especially with most of the Wolves gone east with the duke.
He passed the farm to see Mariot, still tired, barely risen, yawning as she did her first rounds of the property for the day, and gave her a half-hearted wave. She returned it, but he was gone already, bearing down on the beach and the work site there. As he rode, he could feel determination hardening in his heart, and when he reached the edge of the dunes and looked down across the long slope of sand at the construction site and all the Wolves and workers, he had three new ideas ready.
He rode his horse to the edge of the camp and vaulted from it, leaving the animal to go about its own business while he strode purposefully into the thick of it, where every man was gathered, waiting, many with bleak or angry faces, aware of what had happened. He ignored many halted questions and barged his way through the crowd like a ship through a high wave, until he reached the cradle in which lay the keel and its first few strakes.
‘We have a problem,’ he announced, as he clambered up to the viewpoint high on the new ship’s keel.
There was a general murmur of acceptance of this fact. It was hard to deny. He gritted his teeth and asked Odin for wisdom in this. These were people from the lands of Pirou, but none were specifically Serlo de Hauteville’s men, in that any street hawker or coppersmith in Miklagarðr was a Byzantine, but few were really the emperor’s men. He had to hope he could buy more loyalty from them than they felt they owed their own lord.
‘There are men hereabouts who do not trust us, who think we are carrying treasures, or who are working for enemies. I believe that all of you, from Wolves who have been with us since the revolt of Maniakes, all the way to workers from Fulquerville who have taken our coin for two months’ labour, are aware that we are no enemies of the lord de Hauteville, and that we are no hoarders of secret wealth. We have gold, but we have enough simply to survive and to build the ship we need to move on. Once we have this ship built, we will be gone from this place, and there will be no more trouble.’
This was greeted by generally affirmative sounds. The light was starting to change, the sun influencing the colour of the sky at last. Dawn was on its way.
‘I have three proposals. Were Halfdan Loki-born here, it would be his place to make such decisions, for he is our jarl, but without him, it must come to me. So I have plans. The first is for our defence, and to prevent a repeat of what happened last night.’
He let this sink in. No one, he was sure, was keen on the idea that enemies might pick off their watchmen and ransack the camp. He had their attention, and he could more or less feel that they were on his side – for now.
‘I intend to take one day out from the work on this ship. Today. We have two score timbers, which are unsuitable for our work and are due to be collected and returned to the lumber yards of Coutances. I intend, instead, to keep them. Today, every hand in this camp, including my own, will dig trenches, cut timbers, bind ropes, and combine the three to pull a palisade into place all around this site. I want a strong timber wall around the shipyard, with walkways in the form of small fighting platforms. There will be one gate, facing inland. I have no intention of letting men steal into our camp again. If they wish to repeat their crime, they will have to do so as an army, not as thieves in the night. It is my belief that in one single day we can raise such a defence and protect ourselves, for I will also seek out fresh timbers. There are many I turned down for ship construction that would be more than adequate for a palisade.’
‘Who will man it?’ asked one of the Wolves, an Apulian. ‘There are six of us now, and that leaves little time for sleep or work.’
Ulfr nodded. ‘I will come to that. But first, my second point. We work now from sunrise to sunset, with a break for a meal. You are all paid well by shipwright standards. But I am willing to pay more. Much more. Speed becomes ever more important. A man needs eight hours of sleep, and thanks to the light this close to winter, twelve hours a day are in darkness. That means we are spending four hours a day when we could be working either waking up or eating dinner and trying to get to sleep. I realise that working sixteen hours a day, four of them in the dark, and eating on the job, is a harsh schedule. I know, for I have done it myself. But by my calculation, for every three days we work this new schedule, we have done an extra day for free. Two extra days a week. Think how fast the ship could rise.’
There was some consternation about this among the crowd, and so Ulfr, praying Halfdan would approve, and would see it from his point of view, held up his hands. ‘This is why I propose to double the wage of every man here. Think on it – double the pay for four extra hours a day? Now tell me this is not possible.’
This was greeted by a general surge of positivity. They were already being paid well, after all. Double their wages, and these men would make in two months what they could normally hope for in a year. He waited for the hubbub to die down once more. He had them. The last one was something of a gamble, but it was a neat solution, if it worked.
‘Lastly, we are the Wolves of Odin,’ he shouted.
This earned a rumble of distrust from the entirely Christian workforce.
‘We have your White Christ followers among us, including those around me now. But we are men of the North. Raiders and traders, sailors of the whale road. Yet until this vessel is finished we have no ship, and constant betrayal and war have robbed us of many of our fellows. So I say this.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I see many strong arms here. Strong arms that wield a tree axe or lift a timber. But such a strong arm just as easily guides an oar. I see men of fierce pride and men of action, whose strength would be lost among the armoured cattle of the lords of this land. Each of you carries the ice and rock of the North in your blood and bones. Each of you, but for an accident of birth, could have been Wolves.’
He’d laid the groundwork. Some of them were already thinking ahead, some with almost hungry expressions.
‘Our company has taken men on from Rus lands, from the great city of Miklagarðr in the south, from the Hauteville knights in Apulia. It matters not where they came from, they are now Wolves. Should any of you feel that, when this ship is complete, it would be better to sail away in it in search of fame and riches than to return to poor service of a rich, fat lord, I will find a place at an oar for every man who can pull it in time. And any man who signs on to the ship owns a piece of it. That is how it works.’
There was a mixed murmur. A little less positive than he’d hoped, but perhaps that was better. They wouldn’t have room for every man, after all. But those who felt moved to accept would work all the harder to achieve their goals, and could be taken into the watch rotas while construction continued.
‘Think upon it while we work today to protect our future.’
As he dropped down from the cradle once more, leaving them all to discuss their plans, Farlof hurried across.
‘These are shipwrights and labourers, not warriors. I doubt any among them has ever swung an axe or a sword.’
‘Then that is something else we will need to look at. I will source weapons for all our people, chain shirts and helms, too, if I can. And you and the others will train the new men to use them. Frankly, as long as they can row an oar without collision, that will do for me until we are free of this place.’
Farlof nodded, not entirely convinced, but Ulfr was content he had done what he could. Trouble was brewing, and fast, and if he could not only produce a ship in record time, but crew her as well, then he would have achieved the impossible, and even their jarl could have done no better.
Now, time to begin.