Hawk Quest

He was lucky not to have been killed a day earlier, just north of the Tyne river. The sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving the coastline contoured in crimson. Hero and the other students were seated around Wayland on the foredeck, having an English lesson. Syth was cooking supper below. A vicious snarling down in the hold shattered the peace. Wayland sprinted aft and the others ran after him. When Hero got there, Brant stood backed into a corner, swinging a bailing bucket in a flimsy effort to ward off the dog. Wayland must have given an order because the dog turned its head and leaped up on to the forward half-deck. Only then did Hero see Syth, crouched by the brazier.

Vallon seized Wayland as he made to jump down. He spoke into his ear, gripping so tightly that both men quaked. Whatever he said was enough to make Wayland back off and walk away, shooting murderous looks over his shoulder.

Vallon pretended to be surprised to find the rest of the crew spectating. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’

Snorri crowed as Vallon climbed into the hold. ‘I told ye the little mother would stir up trouble.’

When Vallon returned to continue his lesson, he acted as if nothing had happened.

‘So where were we?’

Next day a spitting easterly threatened to pin them to the coast. Only determined rowing kept them off the shore. On their seaward side, surf broke around a swarm of islets and reefs. To the west, a massive ruin commanded the coast.

‘That’s Bamburgh,’ Richard said. ‘It used to be the stronghold of the Northumbrian kings. My father told me the Normans plan to rebuild it.’

‘Anyone see if it’s manned?’ Vallon asked.

Hero’s eyes were too sticky with brine to see clearly.

‘There’s scaffolding on one of the walls,’ Wayland said.

‘Well, if anyone’s there, they’ve seen us. Keep rowing.’

Even with six oars manned, they struggled to make headway. They’d spotted the castle not long after midday and it was still in sight behind them by late afternoon.

Raul pointed. ‘Ship to starboard!’

A fishing boat carrying four men bore down on them out of the mizzle and cut across their stern almost within hailing distance. Vallon and some of the others raised their hands. The crew of the other vessel stared hard and none of them lifted a finger in greeting.

‘Don’t like the look of that,’ Raul said.

With the wind filling its sail, the boat rapidly made shore and disappeared into the mouth of a lagoon. Shearwater crept on. Directly ahead, an indeterminate smear hardened into a low headland poking a mile out to sea.

‘We ain’t going to get round that,’ said Raul.

Vallon dug in with his oar. ‘Keep at it. We’ll try to row into the lee before dark.’

On they struggled, their progress slowing the closer they came to the headland.

‘We’re caught in a tidal rip,’ Raul shouted. ‘It’s carrying us backwards.’

Vallon couldn’t work it out. Under the cliffs towards the point of the headland, the sea was as flat as pewter. Close inshore, the sea was combed into ragged lines of foam cutting across the waves. He pointed at the headland. ‘I think it might be an island.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Raul shouted. ‘We ain’t going to reach it on this tide.’

Vallon growled with frustration. ‘Drop anchor. We’ll wait for the tide to turn.’

The anchor dragged through the sandy bottom and then held, tethering Shearwater close to a long and lonely beach backed by high dunes. Vallon issued orders. ‘Raul, Brant, row Wayland ashore.’ He turned to the falconer. ‘Make your way up the beach and see what’s ahead.’

‘Can we go ashore, too?’ Hero asked. After four days at sea he yearned to feel solid ground underfoot.

Vallon glanced back towards the inlet where the fishing boat had disappeared. ‘We’re not safe here. Keep watch from the dunes. Don’t wander off.’

Hero stepped on to a strand that had been swept clear of all human traces except for the weathered ribs of a ship half buried in the sand. He and Richard scrambled up a steep dune capped with marram grass. A miniature desert spread inland. Some of the dunes were aligned to the prevailing wind, others arranged as chaotically as the waves chopping at Shearwater. Looking back, Hero saw the anchored knarr straining against the current. Wayland and his dog were tiny outlines running up the beach. The sun was a pale blister in the overcast. Hero shivered.

He was run down. All of them were. Never really warm, never really dry, never a full night’s sleep. They’d eaten all the fresh food and their diet was a monotony of stale bread, salted herrings and porridge. Even the drinking water had run so short that Vallon had imposed rationing. Hero had noticed that cuts and scratches were slow to heal.

Beside him, Richard echoed his dejection with a sigh.

‘Don’t lose heart,’ Hero said. ‘We’ll soon be in Scottish waters.’

‘So much time and effort, and we’re only back where we started from. If I had a good horse, I could be home by daybreak tomorrow.’ Richard’s mouth twisted. ‘Imagine the reception I’d receive.’

Hero realised just how much Richard had sacrificed. ‘Do you regret your decision to come with us?’

Richard’s face grew still. ‘No. I could have borne my father’s contempt and Drogo’s blows if Margaret had shown me any affection. Even the hardiest plant shrivels in barren soil.’ He traced a pattern in the sand. ‘The only thing I regret is the blood that’s been spilled. I never imagined that Drogo would pursue his grudge so violently.’ Richard swept away his tracing.

‘There’s no stain on your hands.’

‘That’s not how my family will see it. I’ll never be able to return to England. Perhaps I could come to Italy with you. I was wondering about taking Holy Orders. Do you think I might be accepted?’

Hero smiled. ‘I’m sure that any monastery would be delighted to receive you.’

‘If I practise my writing, perhaps they would let me work in the scriptorium.’

‘Writing all day can be drudgery. It will make your sight grow dim and your back crooked.’

‘But think how much I’ll learn.’

‘Richard, if we complete this journey, you’ll have learned more than any book scholar.’

‘Hey! Are you two deaf?’

Raul stood on the beach, hands on hips. Wayland was jogging back towards the ship. The tide had begun to go out and Shearwater rode more easily at anchor.

Raul came puffing up the dune. ‘Vallon wants us back on board.’ He reached the crest and swept his eyes about. ‘Where’s Brant?’

Hero frowned. ‘How would I know?’

‘I thought he was with you.’

‘We haven’t seen him since we landed.’

Raul thumped his forehead with his hand. ‘Shit!’

‘He’s probably just stretching his legs,’ Hero said. ‘Do you want us to take a look?’

Raul glared around. ‘Make it quick. If he ain’t shown up by the time Wayland gets here, we’re leaving.’

Hero and Richard clambered over the dunes, clawing up the steep windward faces and scampering down the lee slopes. The sandhills formed a maze as convoluted as the ruins of a city. Each time Hero reached a crest, he called Brant’s name in a voice that fell muffled into the labyrinth.

‘Look,’ Richard said, pointing at a scattering of bones in the next hollow.

Hero prodded a human skull with his foot. The chalky cranium had been smashed in. Judging by the number of other bones scattered about, a massacre had been committed here. ‘They look very old,’ he said. ‘I wonder if the victims were from the ship we saw on the beach.’

Richard looked behind him. ‘Perhaps we should go back.’

‘Let’s climb one more ridge.’

From the top they scanned the waste. Grasses flickered in the wind. The sand crawled around their feet. Gulls hung stacked in the sky for as high as the eye could see. The glaucous shapes drifted slowly backwards on the