Hawk Quest

‘Here comes the wind,’ Raul said, facing astern.

Shearwater dipped. The sail filled and the mast groaned. Wayland was fitting a bowstring. The old one must have slackened in the sodden atmosphere. Shearwater got under way, trailing a gurgling wake. The fog drifted past like slow rain. Gaps opened in the murk and Vallon’s eyes darted in expectation of more Norman ships. Ahead of them the fog thinned and brightened to a rosy pink. A slant of late evening sunlight threw Shearwater’s shadow on to the screen, and then, as though a door had swung open, they were in the clear.

It was sunset, the sea molten between gleaming black mudflats.

‘Hell fire!’

In the channel dead ahead, not more than quarter of a mile off, a fishing boat freighted to the gunwales with Normans lay idle in the small waves. Some of the soldiers lounged at their oars. Others were raising the sail. A soldier spotted Shearwater and shouted.

‘There are more coming out of Lynn,’ Wayland called.

Vallon saw sails breaking the horizon miles to the south. ‘Forget them for now.’

Their predicament looked hopeless. The Normans were directly downwind, blocking the middle of the channel, mudflats on both sides. No room to outflank them. Even if they could have got to leeward, in this light breeze the Normans could row faster than Shearwater could sail. She was bearing down on the boat at no more than walking speed. Soon they’d be within crossbow range. Vallon cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Snorri, hold your course. You hear me? Straight ahead.’

Raul sucked air through his teeth. ‘Captain, they outnumber us five to one.’

‘I know it. Thirty men in a boat half the size of ours. Look how they’re getting in each other’s way. And they won’t be feeling too lively after rowing from Lynn.’

The soldiers were tripping over each other as they scrambled to get underway. Their movements rocked the boat so violently that they threatened to swamp it. Some of them had taken up oars and were flailing the water. Others were struggling into their hauberks. The boat nosed about uncertainly.

‘They’ll have smartened up by the time we reach them,’ said Raul.

Vallon shielded his eyes. ‘I don’t see any archers.’

‘No, they’re infantry. Swords and lances.’

Shearwater heeled as the bow came round.

‘What the …!’ Vallon charged aft. ‘I told you to hold your course.’

‘I can get round,’ Snorri cried, leaning against the tiller.

‘They’ll catch us before we’ve gone a furlong.’ Vallon wrenched the tiller from him. ‘Ram them.’

‘I ain’t wrecking my ship.’

‘It’s twice the size of that cockleshell. We’ll crack it like a nut.’

Whang went Raul’s crossbow. Vallon raised his sword. ‘Do … as … I … say.’

Snorri shook his fist. ‘Ye’ll pay fer any damage.’

Vallon ran back to the bow. Raul pulled a face to show that he’d missed.

Features began to form on the faces of the enemy. An officer had set half the soldiers to rowing. In the bow, half a dozen spearmen jostled to make space for each other. The rest of the force lined the sides, banging their swords against their kite-shaped shields and chanting ‘Dex aie, Dex aie.’

Wayland in one fluent movement bent his bow and loosed. Vallon watched the arrow arc up, lost it as it descended, then heard a cry that showed it had hit its mark.

‘Fluky devil,’ said Raul, still reloading his weapon. Wayland had already strung another arrow and was aiming again.

The vessels were less than a hundred yards apart and the Normans had realised that Shearwater was on a collision course. The superiority in numbers that had seemed irresistible from afar didn’t look so overwhelming as they contemplated a ship four times their weight bearing down on them. Their war cries petered out. Some of the men in the bow jerked their heads from side to side, searching for avenues of escape.

‘Starboard stop!’ the officer shouted.

‘Too late,’ Vallon murmured as the boat began to swing to port. The strange silence that preceded battle descended. Strange because it magnified ordinary sounds — the crying of gulls, water burbling under the bow, the rustling of the sail.

‘After the spears, prepare for boarders.’

Raul snuggled his crossbow tiller into his shoulder and triggered a bolt that spun one of the soldiers on his axis.

The change of course and the lethal darts had thrown the spearmen into disorder and only four of them launched their lances. Neither their aim nor footing was sure, and the three men on Shearwater’s foredeck easily avoided the missiles.

‘Brace yourselves,’ Vallon said.

Shearwater’s stem collided with the boat, stoving in its hull just behind the bow and shearing off a few oars. Men tumbled. Stays parted with brittle pops and the mast lolled. Of the half dozen Normans who’d been prepared to board, only two made it, the others either knocked over or falling short. Wayland shot one of the boarders in mid-jump. Raul charged the other, lifted him as if he weighed no more than straw and pitched him overboard.

‘Behind you!’

Vallon whirled to see another soldier milling on to the deck, his helmet spilling off. Before Vallon could reach him, he was on his feet again. ‘To me!’ he called, and took one step forward and then stopped, spitted by a spear launched by his own side. Vallon caught him as he pitched forward, the two locked together for a moment like lovers.

‘Brave lad,’ Vallon said, and shoved the corpse away.

The collision hadn’t checked Shearwater’s momentum. Vallon glimpsed a gallery of howling faces sliding past. Another spear just missed him. One soldier in a fit of fury hurled his sword end over end.

Then the boat was behind them, already awash, its company crying out in terror of drowning.

‘Anyone hurt?’ Vallon called. ‘Hero? Richard?’

They climbed out of the hold, knuckling their mouths when they saw the two corpses. Vallon glanced round. ‘Raul, put those men over the side.’

He went to the stern and rested both hands on the post. The fishing boat had rolled on its side and the Normans were clinging to the hull. The breeze had blown away the fog and he could see the ship that had passed them heading back out to sea.

Hero was watching him in horror when he turned. Vallon ran his sword into its scabbard. ‘I sent you away because I wanted to spare you such sights.’ He stepped past and then stopped. ‘If there’s a providence that looks after rats, why shouldn’t it bestow a kindly glance on us?’

The sun’s lidded eye slid below the land. The ship in their wake had halted to pick up the survivors of the wreck. Snorri came bustling out the hold. ‘I told ye yer madness would wreck us. We’ve sprung planks. We’re shipping water. We’re like to founder.’

Vallon waved tiredly at Raul. ‘Take a look.’

Raul spat with deliberation. ‘I reckon I died without anyone telling me and now I’m working my way through hell.’

‘Hell wouldn’t have you.’

Raul grinned as if Vallon had paid him a compliment.

Shearwater sailed on with Vallon manning the rudder. He kept watch on the ships to the south. There were five of them, sailing parallel with Shearwater, making no attempt to close. They were racing to block the mouth of the Wash, where sandbanks constricted the exit. If they reached it first and formed a blockade, Shearwater would have to slip between vessels stationed no more than half a mile apart. Colour drained from the sky and the night came down. The enemy ships receded from sight as the sea darkened and stars began to prick the sky. The darkness wouldn’t last long. Soon the