XI
The expedition to track down Snorri started in a muddle. When Hero arrived at the inn by dawn’s first light, Raul couldn’t be found. Wayland had last seen him reeling into the night with a jug of mead clutched in one hand and a nervous-looking whore in the other. On the road from Norwich, Hero’s mule cast a shoe and it was midday before a smith sent them on their way again. Trying to make up for lost time, they took directions from a peasant and ended up back at the crossroads they’d started from. Nightfall caught them miles short of Lynn, forcing them to take shelter in a rat-infested barn, where they discovered that neither of them had brought any food. Wayland stalked out in disgust and spent the rest of the night under a wrecked cart.
Tempers were still frayed when they reached Lynn, a fledgling port straddling a lagoon where the Great Ouse flowed into the Wash. Here they faced another problem. Hero couldn’t speak English and Way — land couldn’t speak at all. Eventually, Hero went into the settlement to make such enquiries as he could, leaving Wayland by a ferry upstream.
The day was calm and warm. Wayland sat hugging his knees, watching wildfowl rise and fall over distant mud flats. This was his first close view of the sea and it was nothing like the tempestuous ocean his grandfather’s tales had painted on his imagination. Yet something about the brilliant monotony entranced him. His mind dissolved into it, transporting him across horizons to a land where dwelt white falcons as big as eagles.
Hero flung himself down. ‘I knew this was a fool’s errand.’ He rolled over and doled out biscuits. ‘Snorri was here on Tuesday, selling fish at the market. But you can forget about the ship. None of the locals has seen it. They say he’s a crackbrain.’ Hero waved across the river. ‘He lives up the coast, a day’s journey there and back. We’d need a guide to find our way through the marshes, but we can’t risk anyone finding out what we’re up to.’
Wayland could see where this was leading.
Hero sat up. ‘If it was up to me, I’d say the hell with it. By now Vallon will have the money. He can take his pick of ships. If we go chasing around in the marshes, we won’t get back to Norwich until tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘What do
Wayland stood and set off towards the ferry.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’
Wayland waved his hand.
Hero hurried after him and held out a purse. ‘You’d better take this. In case there is a ship. To show that we’re serious.’
Paths made with bundles of withies ran through the marsh, diverting Wayland to peat cuttings or salt pans or little islands whose residents — all strangely alike in feature — shook their fists and hurled clods until he retreated. Other trails followed some logic lost on Wayland, ending in reed-choked culs-de-sac or petering out in sludgy wallows. He set his own course, jumping fleets and ditches, until he reached a mere too deep to wade and too boggy to bypass. Balked, he headed for the coast and followed the shoreline, negotiating saltings where the tides had hollowed out holes big enough to swallow a horse and cart. The terrain was too flat to offer a view of the way ahead and several times he detoured on to peninsulas that dead-ended in mud flats or sandspits.
It was well past noon when he reached the mouth of a deep, sluggish creek. He wiped sweat from his eyes. Upriver, reed beds stretched across the horizon. In their shade stood a squalid dwelling thrown together from driftwood and hides. He slaked his thirst with rainwater from a barrel next to the hovel and then looked about. The rustling of the reeds sounded like scandalised whispering.
He walked out on to a sand bar and faced the salty breeze. Sunlight on the water dazzled like broken glass. Something hissed overhead and he looked up to see a flock of waders flare round and bunch together like smoke sucked back to its source. A falcon threw up from its stoop, glanced over its shoulder and flicked over in another dive. Again the flock jinked and closed up with a soft whoosh of wings. The falcon jabbed and probed for an opening, the waders twisting and turning, one moment black against the sky, the next almost invisible in the sea glare.
The falcon spread its wings and sailed down to a bleached horn of driftwood where it preened and roused before flying away low across the sea.
When Wayland turned there was a girl standing on the grass, her long blonde hair backlit by the sun. His insides cartwheeled. He shielded his eyes and saw the dog galloping towards her.
‘No!’
The dog stopped, astonished. It looked back, tail wagging uncertainly. Wayland ran up and caught hold of it. His heart pounded. The girl watched him with eyes as pale as water.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she said.
Wayland passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Nothing. I thought you were … It doesn’t matter.’
‘That’s the biggest dog I’ve ever seen. Can I stroke him?’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you. He isn’t safe with strangers.’
The dog broke free and reared up, planting its front paws on her shoulders, knocking her backwards. She laughed and pushed it off. It flopped on its side and wriggled like a puppy. She knelt and tickled its chest. She looked up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Some — thing broke inside Wayland.
‘He likes me.’
‘You remind him of somebody.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘He doesn’t have a name. I never got round to choosing one.’
‘That’s silly. All dogs have names. Like people. Mine’s Syth. What’s yours?’
‘Wayland.’
‘You talk funny. Where do you live?’
‘Nowhere. I came from Northumbria.’
‘Is that a long way?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lynn’s as far as I know. Except for heaven. Are you looking for Snorri?’
‘That depends. Does he have a ship?’
‘No, only a little punt.’
Apart from her colouring and wide, luminous eyes, the girl didn’t really resemble his sister. She was so thin that he’d taken her for a starveling child, but she couldn’t have been much younger than him. Her threadbare tunic hung torn at the collar, exposing most of one pale and grubby breast.
She crossed her arms and gripped her bony white shoulders. ‘You keep staring at me. It’s rude.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I forgive you.’
‘What?’
‘I forgive you.’
Sadness overwhelmed him. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘What’s the shortest way back to Lynn?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Never mind. I’ll find my own path.’ He scuffed the ground with his toe. ‘Well, then.’
‘I’ve never seen the ship. He’s hidden it in the fen.’
Wayland looked at the swaying reeds. ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘Soon. He’s fishing. He’s been gone since dawn.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s disgusting.’
Wayland sank down. The girl sank down, too. They watched each other. Wayland broke a biscuit in half. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Syth. I told you. You should pay more attention.’
He hid a smile. That really did sound like his sister.
She clutched the biscuit in both hands and devoured it like an animal, darting glances up at him. She was so skinny that he fancied he could see her bones through her skin. He handed her his own share. ‘I already ate,’ he
