Caitlin put her arms around Syth. ‘What time of day does the sickness come?’
‘It’s worst in the morning.’
Caitlin looked up at the men. ‘Leave us alone.’
Hero watched Wayland pacing and rubbing his mouth. ‘She’ll be fine. All she needs is rest.’
‘Where’s Syth going to find rest? Ahead of us is the Black Sea and behind us there are two hundred miles of steppe infested by Cumans.’
‘Blockheads.’
Hero turned. Caitlin stood with her hands on her hips, smiling.
‘I can understand why Wayland didn’t recognise Syth’s condition, but as for you …’
Hero reddened. ‘I admit my medical knowledge isn’t perfect.’
‘You don’t have to be a physician to know what’s troubling Syth. The girl isn’t ill. She’s pregnant.’
Vallon held counsel over their midday meal. ‘I didn’t want to discuss our predicament while Richard was alive. We’re in a mess. The question is, how do we get out of it?’
‘We have to follow the galley,’ said Drogo. ‘Head west, keeping to the coast. The Russians don’t sail directly to Constantinople. They stop at trading posts along the way.’
‘Is that your advice?’ Vallon asked Hero.
‘I’m not sure. The nearest haven is at the mouth of the Danube. It might take a week to reach it and we’d have to land each night. The nomads occupy the coast and sooner or later we’ll run into them. It might be safer to go east. Igor told me there’s a Greek colony on the Krym peninsula.’
‘How far?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How much food do we have?’
‘Enough for four or five days.’
‘Wayland? Any thoughts?’
The falconer looked at Syth before answering. ‘Have we given up our plan to reach Anatolia?’
‘Forget Anatolia. Our survival is the only thing that matters.’
Wayland looked at Syth again. ‘I don’t know what direction to take.’
Vallon stroked his lips.
‘East or West,’ said Drogo. ‘Which is it to be?’
‘Neither.’ Vallon pointed out to sea, at the boat carrying Richard’s corpse. ‘We’ll follow the course set by your brother.’
‘What! We won’t cross the sea in our little boat.’
‘The Greeks have colonies throughout the Black Sea. That means maritime traffic. We’ll sail south until we reach a shipping lane and wait for a vessel to pick us up.’ Vallon looked around. ‘Anyone got a better idea?’ He slapped his knees. ‘That’s settled then.’
XLV
On the eve of departure, the three sick falcons had taken a turn for the worse. Two of them wouldn’t eat. The other took a small crop and cast up its meal undigested, standing flat-footed with its plumage loose and its eyes narrowed to ovals. When Wayland checked in the morning, the falcons lay stiff in their cages with their feet clenched and lice scurrying on their feathers.
They left under a cold and overcast sky. Where the colour of the water changed from muddy yellow to grey they came upon Richard’s funeral boat. Four vultures perched on the gunwales and gulls and kites hovered above the shrouded corpse. The travellers crossed themselves and raised the sail and headed into the open sea.
By nightfall they were out of sight of land and hadn’t seen a single ship. In the dark the wind strengthened and waves broke over the boat, making it necessary to bail. A sleepless night gave way to another cold grey day. They sailed on, not sure what course they were following. Towards evening Wayland thought he saw a sail miles to starboard. No one else could see it and soon darkness fell.
Morning on the third day broke clear and sunny, the sea still choppy, still empty. The wind was carrying them west and they looked at each other with bloodshot eyes, aware that they were too far from land to turn back.
Before noon Wayland spotted a sail approaching from the east. They mended their course to intercept it. Hero recognised the ship as a Venetian merchantman. It passed close enough for the frantically waving company to see its crew pointing at them. It sailed on without altering direction, carrying the curses of the castaways.
Not long after it sank from sight another ship appeared, also westward bound. This vessel was much larger, running under two lateen sales.
‘It’s a
Vallon studied it. ‘Lower the sail. Don’t signal.’
Drogo sprang from his seat. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘Calm yourself. There’s only one reason why they’d pick us up. I’ve no wish to work out my days as a galley slave.’
They watched the galley glide past. ‘Don’t be downhearted,’ said Vallon. ‘We’ve seen two ships already. We’re in the right place.’
No more ships appeared that day or the next morning. In the afternoon Wayland opened the cages to feed the two surviving falcons. The white haggard still had a healthy appetite and alert eyes. The eyas tiercel crouched in the corner of its cage. When Wayland placed it on his fist, it stood unsteadily and paid no attention to the food. He put it back.
He didn’t tell the company about its imminent death. They sat slumped in their own private miseries, their hair stiff with brine, faces masked by salt, crusts of dried vomit at the corners of their mouths.
The sun was dipping into the sea when Wayland’s last sweep of the horizons registered another sail. A tiny silhouette on the reddening sky. Everyone watched it in silence, not daring to put hopes into words. It grew larger.
‘Heading our way,’ said Wayland.
‘East,’ said Drogo. ‘The wrong direction.’
‘There isn’t a wrong direction,’ Vallon said.
The ship was hugging the wind, making slow progress. The evening star was shining when its hull cleared the horizon.
Drogo stopped waving. ‘It’s too dark. They can’t see us.’
‘Light a torch,’ said Vallon.
The ship was lost in darkness by the time they kindled the damp tow into flame. Wayland held it above his head.
‘They won’t stop for a torch,’ Drogo said.
‘Shout,’ Vallon said.
They waved the torch and called into the darkness until their voices grew hoarse.
Hero pointed. ‘Over there!’
A spark shone somewhere to port. The light grew and another joined it. Then a third. The torches drew closer until at last Hero could see by their light the faces of the men who held them. He could make out the ship’s profile. An oddly shaped vessel with a very high stem, broad in the beam and broadest aft. One of the torch-bearers stood on the foredeck and when the wind fanned his flame, Hero glimpsed an eye painted on the bow and a name in Greek.
‘Who are you?’ a voice called. ‘What happened?’
‘Shipwrecked merchants,’ Hero shouted. ‘We were on our way from Kiev to Constantinople when our ship sank. We’ve been adrift for five days and our food and water are almost gone. There are women with us. For love of the Queen of Heaven, save us.’
The torches clumped together. From the mariners’ gestures, it was clear that some of them were for leaving
