between them.
Vallon returned very late from his appointment with the governor. The meeting had been cordial. The governor knew that the Normans were mustering on the border, and he was grateful for the intelligence that Vallon was able to provide about Norman tactics.
‘Will the Scots fight?’ Hero asked.
‘The governor doubts it. They’re too busy fighting each other.’
Vallon gave reassuring news about the state of affairs in the earldom of Orkney. After generations of blood feuding, the title had passed to two brothers called Thorfinnson. They’d been captured at Stamford Bridge, but had been well treated and harboured no animosity against the English or foreigners in general.
When he’d finished, Vallon looked around the company. ‘Where’s Raul?’
Wayland kept his eyes down.
‘I asked a question.’
‘We parted in the town at sunset.’
Vallon’s expression darkened but he said nothing more.
In the small hours Wayland was woken by drunken shouts. He raised himself on to his elbows. He heard a thud, followed by slurred oaths. Cursing, he got up and felt his way down to the street. Raul lay on his back outside the door. His drinking companions lurched away down the waterfront, their discordant song fading into the night. Wayland dragged Raul inside and propped him against the wall.
‘Ish’at you, Wayland? Why don’t you come and have a little drink with Raul?’
‘Vallon will skin you.’
Raul squinted up. ‘Fuck him.’
Wayland left him there and went back to bed. Next morning he woke him by hurling a bucket of water into his face. Raul lunged at the falconer, spluttering. Wayland stood his ground.
‘Vallon’s waiting for you on board.’
Raul tottered to the ship. Vallon stood on deck, his face stony, the rest of the company arraigned to hear his verdict. Raul, still besotted, brought himself to attention, chest out, head up, glazed and blood-veined eyes staring into space. Swaying slightly.
Vallon stepped up to him. ‘I’d flog you if your hide wasn’t thicker than your wits.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘Shut up. Now I know why you’ve served in half the armies of Europe. You’re a disgrace. Shut up and listen because I won’t tell you again. One more lapse and I’ll discharge you without a penny. You can find your own way home.’ Vallon stepped back. ‘That’s a solemn oath. Understood?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘You can sweat off your hangover at the sawmill. Now get out of my sight.’
As Raul weaved away, Vallon took Wayland’s arm. ‘Look out for him. Make sure he’s back by sunset.’
Out at the timberyard, Raul seized the top handle of the pit saw and set to like a man possessed, sawing away until the woodman in the pit cried mercy and another replaced him. Raul bared his gap-toothed grin at Wayland. ‘Work hard, live hard. You’re a long time dead.’
The day had started warm and grew increasingly oppressive. The air stilled and the trees fell motionless to the tips of their branches. The loch settled into a sheet as flat as tin and not a single fish rose to kiss its surface. Southwards, the sky dulled and took on a coppery tinge.
Raul came over, wiping his brow on his sleeve. ‘We’d better knock off. If it storms like it’s fixing to storm, the road will be a mire by dark.’
Lightning quaked over the southern horizon as they lashed down the load. Thunder rolled, spooking the bullocks. Their driver had to goad them to keep them headed down the track. Wayland and Raul rode on top of the wagon, estimating their progress against the stain creeping across the sky. By the time the town came in sight, everything had taken on the spectral tones of a world in eclipse.
They’d reached the outskirts when a bolt of lightning blinded Wayland and a crash of thunder jangled his senses. The skies opened, the deluge falling plumb and the downpour so heavy that it obliterated the ground under a carpet of spray. The bullocks went mad and bucked off the road, dragging the cart into a field already turning into a lake. The waggoner jumped off to disentangle the traces. Wayland slid down to give a hand. The lightning was almost continuous, everything searing white between blinks of darkness.
The bullocks had made a cat’s cradle of their harness. Raul appeared at Wayland’s side and cut the beasts loose with half a dozen slashes of his knife. Off they careered, bucking into the storm with the waggoner in hopeless pursuit.
Raul laughed like a madman. ‘I know the place for us,’ he shouted, and ran sloshing through the flooded alleys.
Wayland caught up with him outside a hall hung with a taverner’s sign. ‘Don’t you ever learn?’
Raul held up both palms as a pledge of good behaviour. Runoff from the thatch cascaded onto their heads. Water swilled around their ankles. ‘We’ll leave as soon as the rain stops. My oath.’
He dived through the door. Another barb sparked to earth with an ear-splitting crackle. Wayland dashed water from his eyes and crossed the step into a dark and tranquil dive. An elderly dogsbody seated by the door rose and took their weapons, down to the knife in Raul’s hat. ‘Rules of the house,’ the German said. ‘Some rough customers cross this threshold.’ Wayland followed him closely, looking out for possible trouble. The devil’s chapels — that’s what his mother called ale houses. This den was large and reeked with peat smoke from a huge central hearth. By the light of tallow candles, Wayland made out a surprisingly large number of drinkers.
They called out greetings and grinned as Raul bellied up to the counter. The taverner was already setting up drinks with an expression of resignation. ‘I’ll say one thing for the Scots,’ Raul said. ‘They brew a good ale.’
They took their drinks to a bench by the fire. Wayland heeled off his shoes and stretched out his feet. His leggings began to steam. He felt pleasantly tired. The dog stretched out to toast its flanks.
‘That fire burns all year round,’ said Raul. ‘Ain’t gone out for a hundred years.’
‘I suppose this is where you got sozzled last night.’
Raul looked about to refresh his memory. He raised his cup to a group playing dice over by the wall. ‘See that Pictish galoot with the red hair? Goes by the name of Malcolm.’
Wayland saw a wild-looking individual who responded to Raul’s gesture by placing a protective hand over his drinking vessel. His companions laughed and slapped the table.
‘I wouldn’t want to cross that one,’ said Wayland.
‘I did just that. Him and me had a fearful stramash. He insulted me dreadful, called me a son of a whore, dog breath, pig’s pizzle. On and on, scarcely drawing breath and never repeating himself. Oh, he’s a fine bletherskate. Not that I understood his words exactly, but I got his meaning. Especially at the end when he hiked up his skirt and waggled his filthy hairy arse at me.’
Wayland goggled. ‘What did you do to upset him?’
‘A bet, and one that I won. You’d have been proud of me.’
Wayland blinked. ‘It’s a miracle we didn’t find you on a midden with your throat cut.’
‘I’d taken just enough ale to give my tongue wings. Every insult and slight that he dealt, I topped it. I won’t give you my speech word by word because I’ve forgotten it, but you’d have admired the way I capped my performance.’
‘How?’
‘I walked over, undid my breeks and pissed into his ale cup.’
‘Oh lord,’ Wayland groaned. He stole a look at Malcolm and his cronies. ‘What did he do? What did his friends do?’
‘Bought me drinks. Clapped me on the back and said I was a champion slanderer.’ Raul spluttered with laughter. ‘See your face,’ he said, his head sinking to the table. He cocked his eyes up like an evil toad. ‘Don’t you see? It was a game. Insulting people is a sport around here. Flyting, they call it.’ Raul drained his ale and pointed at Wayland’s cup. ‘Same again?’
‘No,’ Wayland said faintly. He jumped up with his hands clenched by his side. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘It’s still pissing down.’
‘We’re out of here.’
But as Wayland turned to go, the door wrenched open to a peal of thunder and three laughing gallants
