One King's Way

and tools and I'll work at whatever you need.”

“Sounds fair enough,” called one voice. “I have a plowshare with its edge coming away, needs careful work.”

“He don't talk like a Viking,” called another. “More like a Frisian, only without the cold in his head.”

“Did you hear the bit about sharing out?” called a third.

Shef spat on his palm and waited. Slowly, with hate in his eyes, the burly Nikko spat too. They slapped palms perfunctorily. As the tension slackened, Shef turned and walked back to Karli.

“I want you to come to Hedeby too,” he said. “See the world. But we both have much to learn before we get there.”

Forty miles out to sea, within sight of the Holy Island, the English fleet rocked on the waves, sails furled, like a flock of giant sea-birds. At the center four ships were lashed together for conference: the Norfolk, escaped from the muddy channels of the Elber Gat, the Suffolk, commanded by the senior English skipper Hardred, Brand's Walrus and the Seamew of Guthmund the Greedy, to represent the Viking Waymen. Feelings were running high, and strong voices carried over the water to the listening fleet.

“I can't believe you just left him on the Thor-forsaken sandbank,” said Brand at a pitch just short of a bellow.

Ordlaf's face remained mulish. “Nothing else to do. He'd vanished out of sight, tide coming in, night coming on, no knowing if Sigurth and his picked champions weren't going to appear from the next sandbank. We had to get out of there.”

“Do you think he lived?” asked Thorvin, flanked on either side by fellow-priests of the Way called from their ships.

“I saw four men go after him. Three came back. They didn't look pleased. That's all I can say.”

“So the chances are he's stuck in the Ditmarsh somewhere,” concluded Brand. “All those bastards have webbed feet.”

“They tell me he's a fenman too,” said Ordlaf. “If he's there, he's probably all right. Why don't we just go after him? It's daylight now, and we can pick our tide.”

This time it was Brand's turn to look mulish. “Not a good idea. First off, no-one lands in the Ditmarsh, not even for water or an evening's strandhogg. Too many crews have vanished. Second, like I told you weeks ago, all this is pilot water. And you said you could find your way with lead and lookout! You got stranded, and you could again, maybe in a worse place next time.

“Third thing, though, is we still have the Ragnarssons around. They started off with a long hundred of ships, a hundred and twenty, the way you count. How many do you think we sank or captured?”

Hardred replied. “We captured six. The catapults sank at least a dozen more.”

“Which leaves them a hundred, to our fifty. Less than fifty, since they boarded the Buckinghamshire and cut a hole in her bottom, and I have half a dozen ships too weakly manned now to be useful. And we won't take them by surprise again.”

“So what do we do?” asked Ordlaf.

There was a long silence. Finally Hardred broke it, his careful Anglo-Saxon contrasting oddly with the camp- patois brewed from Norse and English of the others.

“If we are unable to rescue the king,” he said, “as I am told we are, then I see it as my duty to return the rest of the fleet to English waters, to take instructions from King Alfred. He is my master, but the agreement between himself and King Shef”—he hesitated before coming out with the words—“was that one should succeed to all the rights of the other, if the other should pre-decease him. As may now be the case.”

He waited for the storm of protests to die down, then went on, his voice gaining firmness. “After all, this fleet is now the main shield and protection of English shores. We know we can sink the pirates if they appear, and we will. That was the main aim and goal of King Shef, as of King Alfred: to have a peaceful coastline and a peaceful land behind it. If he were here he would tell us to do what I suggest.”

“You can go,” shouted Cwicca, the freed slave. “Go back to your master. Our master is the one who took the collars from our necks, and we won't leave him to have some webfoot half-breed put one on his.”

“How are you going to get there?” said Hardred. “Swim? Brand won't take you. Ordlaf daren't, not on his own.”

“We can't just sail away,” pleaded Cwicca.

Thorvin's deep voice broke in. “No. But it is in my mind that we can sail on. Or some of us can. Something tells me that it is not Shef Sigvarthsson's fate to die silently, or to vanish. Someone may have him for ransom. Or for sale. If we go to a major port, where news is gathered, we will hear something of him. I suggest we go on to Kaupang, some of us.”

“Kaupang,” said Brand. “To the College of the Way.”

“I have reasons of my own for going there, it's true,” said Thorvin. “But the Way has many followers, and many resources, and the college is deeply concerned about Shef. If we go there we will get help.”

“I won't,” declared Hardred flatly. “Too far, too risky, hostile waters all the way, and we know now the ‘Counties’ aren't fit for a deep-sea crossing.” Ordlaf nodded in glum agreement.

“Some go back, some go on,” said Thorvin.

“Most go back, I think,” said Brand. “Forty ships, even fifty ships, aren't enough to get through all the fleets of Norway and Denmark—the Ragnarssons, King Halvdan, the Hlathir jarls, King Gamli, King Hrorik, and all the others. They'd best turn back, to guard the Way in England. There are plenty who'd be glad to stamp it out.

“I'll take the Walrus. Go out deep sea, not hug the coast. I'll get through. I'll take you, Thorvin, and your fellows, to Kaupang and to the college. Who else? How about you, Guthmund?”

“Take us!” Cwicca was on his feet, face red with rage. “We aren't turning back. Take me and my mates, and our catapult too, we can unship it from the Norfolk if that Yorkshire fart won't risk his skin. Cowpang, Ditfen, we'll take them all if we got to.” A hubbub of agreement from the waist of the ship showed that the freed slaves of the catapult crews had been listening.

“Me too,” said an almost inaudible voice from a small figure lurking behind the mast. Brand looked in several directions till he realized it came from Udd, the steel-master, allowed on the cruise only in his former role of catapult crew spare hand.

“What do you want to go to Norway for?”

“For knowledge,” said Udd. “I have heard men speak of Jarnberaland. Iron-bearing Land,” he added, translating.

Another slight figure appeared to stand unspeaking by him. Hund, the leech, Shef's childhood friend, now with the silver apple of Ithun round his neck.

“Very well,” said Brand decisively. “I'll take my own crew and the Seamew as consort. I'll have space for no more than ten volunteers. You Hund, you Udd, and you, Cwicca. Cast lots for the rest.”

“And us as passengers,” said Thorvin, nodding to his two fellow-priests. “Till we reach the college.”

Chapter Seven

Shef stepped back a pace, his feet sinking into the soft mire. He twirled the peeled branch in his hand and eyed Karli carefully. The short man had lost his grin and gained a look of anxious determination. At least he had learnt to hold his sword right: edge and guard absolutely parallel with the line of his forearm, so that cut or parry would not be deflected. Shef moved in, swung forehand, backhand, thrust and sidestep, as Brand had taught him months before in the camps outside York. Karli parried easily, not quite managing to catch the light wood with his heavier blade, but well into line every time—the speed of his reactions was excellent. Still the same old problem, though.

Shef accelerated slightly, feinted low and rapped Karli briskly over the sword-arm. He stepped back and lowered his stick.