Raul leaned back and crossed his hands over his belly. ‘I knew a man who fell in love with a witch. Most beautiful creature he’d ever seen — fair like your Syth, but with a bit more flesh on her. Anyway, this gorgeous creature took the man to her bed and granted him every delight he could wish for. At last his pleasure was done and he lay back with his love in his arms. You know what happened then?’
‘What?’
Raul sat upright. ‘Right before his eyes, her face began to slide off her skull and her flesh fell away from her ribs. Instead of holding a beauty to his bosom, he was clutching a corpse full of worms and maggots.’
Wayland stared at him in horror.
Raul brushed crumbs from his mouth. ‘Yonder comes one.’
Wayland tore his gaze away. A pale and ragged urchin wandered in their direction, gazing around as if the world were full of wonders. He went into a strip of sprouting rye and clapped his hands. A few buntings flew into the nearest hedgerow. After several more desultory claps, the boy peeped furtively around before shifting a couple of boundary stones on his family’s strip. Then he wandered over to the hedge and began to work his way along it, peering into the branches for nests.
Raul stood impatiently. ‘Where are the rest of the sluggards?’
A bell began to chime.
Raul slapped his knee. ‘Fools that we are! It’s Sunday. Every one’s in church.’ He gave a wicked chuckle. ‘So much the better.’
They marched up a lane lined by cruck houses with garden plots in front and enclosures at the back. Milch cows eyed them dreamily, hanks of lush spring grass clamped in their jaws. Blossom-time had arrived and the apple trees and quinces were smothered in white and pink sprays. Children fetching water or fodder fled squealing from the raiders, stopping at a safe distance to watch them through splayed fingers. They fell in behind, the bolder youngsters throwing out their chests and swinging their limbs in parody of Raul’s gait. By the time Wayland and Raul reached the church, they had a sizeable following.
Through a screen of dark yews, Wayland saw a stone nave and a square tower with triangular arcades and pointed windows. Sheep grazed in the graveyard. The raiders leaned their weapons outside the heavy oak door.
‘Don’t you think we should wait until mass is over?’ Wayland said.
‘Leave it to me. Remember, we’re dealing with shit-shovellers who’ve never travelled further than the local market. No point puzzling their pates with talk of Iceland and the Road to the Greeks.’
Clawing off his cap, Raul stepped through the door. Wayland ducked in after him, sketching the sign of the cross. Sunbeams splaying through the windows lit a congregation divided each side of the aisle, some lounging against the pillars, a few standing upright, most squatting on the rush-covered floor. Many appeared to be asleep. Two rustics at the back observed the strangers’ entrance and nudged their neighbours, the warning rippling out until the whole congregation stood upright and staring. Raul put a finger to his lips. Only the priest at the altar remained unaware of their presence. Eyes closed, head tilted back, he continued reciting the mass in a barely audible murmur. Wayland’s gaze lifted towards the shadowed vault. His eyes drifted to a wall painting of the Last Judgement showing Christ on his throne, the righteous winged as angels to his right, the sinners naked and fearful on his left, below them the damned being pitched into the cauldron and everlasting fire. He thought of his family in their unmarked graves.
The droning stopped. The priest advanced to the door of the rood screen and contemplated his flock with irritation. ‘On his last visit,’ he said, ‘your temporal lord summoned me with a complaint about this parish. He’s sorely vexed by the sin of sloth into which many of you have fallen.’
Raul nudged Wayland. ‘Damned if he ain’t going to start preachify — ing. Keep an eye out.’ The German stomped up the aisle.
The priest started back in alarm. ‘Who are you?’
‘Step aside. I’ll deliver your sermon and save time as well as souls.’ Raul turned.
‘Sloth,’ he said, letting the word fill the nave. ‘Sloth is the enemy of enterprise and the leech of profit. Me and my comrade are delegated by our captain to recruit two or three fellows to join us on a voyage of enterprise. We’re looking for men of strength and resolution, preferably stalwarts who’ve seen battle and have crewed on a ship. We chose this parish because we heard it bred right brave men.’
Watching from the door, Wayland shook his head. With his outlandish sidelock, matted beard and rancid jerkin, Raul looked like the flotsam of some defeated barbarian horde. Close to, he smelled like a polecat.
Raul jingled coins. ‘A halfpenny for each day you serve, including rest days and holy days. Plus,’ he said, holding up a finger as if in benediction, ‘full keep. You won’t have to spend a penny of your wages on bed and board.’ He did his disappearing trick with a coin. ‘And even that ain’t all. Any gain we make by trade is divvied up. Fair shares for all. Ain’t that right, Wayland?’
The congregation turned and gawped.
‘You’ll be well paid and well treated.’
‘Hear that? The word of an Englishman.’ Raul gave a toothy smile. ‘Obviously, we ain’t taking just anyone. We’re picky. But for two or three who ain’t afraid of honest toil, here’s the chance to raise yourselves up.’
The congregation exchanged nods and conjectures. Wayland began to think that Raul might pull it off.
‘How far are you sailing?’ someone asked.
‘Like as not you’ll be home to help with the harvest. Not that you’ll have to toil in the fields again — not with your swags of silver.’
‘How far?’
‘North.’
‘Where north?’
Raul glared at the questioner. ‘Orkney.’
The worshippers stuck out their bottom lips and shrugged. ‘Is that on the other side of the river?’ one asked.
‘’Course it is, ye numpty,’ someone snorted. ‘There ain’t no Orkney this side of Humber.’
‘It’s north of the Humber,’ Raul conceded. ‘Not far.’
A swallow dived through the door, just missing Wayland’s head, and swooped up to its nest in the roof beams.
Raul trickled silver from palm to palm. ‘A halfpenny a day and all found.’
They thought about it like a convocation of philosophers. Not a man came forward.
‘Are you so content with your lives?’ Raul demanded. ‘Does your landlord treat you that well?’
‘He treats us like willows,’ came a cry from the back. ‘He thinks the more he crops us, the better we’ll sprout.’
Laughter was followed by other complaints. ‘He fines us when we marry. He fines us when we die.’
‘He forbids us to grind our corn at home and charges us to use his own mill.’
‘Where we have to wait three days for flour made from last year’s mouldy gleanings.’
Raul spread his arms in evangelical fervour. ‘Brethren, here’s the chance to throw off your yokes. Here’s the cure to your earthly miseries.’ He stepped up to one of the dissenters, a well-set man of about thirty. ‘You have a bold tongue. I like the cut of you. You’ve seen action if I ain’t mistook.’
‘I fought with the English king’s fyrd at Stamford.’
‘I knew it. You’re just the sort of stout-limbed fellow we’re looking for.’
The man shook his head. ‘I’m married with three bairns and an ailing mother.’
‘Ah, but think how richly you’ll be able to provide for them when you return.’
‘I can’t. I’m tied to my fields.’
‘No man’s tied. Come on, shake the mud off your feet.’
‘Leave him be,’ Wayland said.
Raul scowled at him and confronted another serf. ‘How about you?’
The man rubbed his knees and spoke inaudibly. Raul cocked a hand to his ear. ‘What’s that?’
Wayland turned. ‘He says, “Who’ll look after his bees?”’
Raul yanked his sidelock. ‘Sweet Jesus. It’s like plucking feathers off a toad.’
He went from man to man, receiving the same mumbled negatives. He craned back in amazement. ‘What!
