Hawk Quest

Lachlan put on a brave face. ‘You’ll be Wayland’s master. Stay and share a cup before parting.’

Vallon spurned the handshake. ‘We have a long day ahead of us. I’ll bid you goodnight.’

Outside, he grabbed Wayland and Raul by their thrapples and hoisted them on tiptoe.

‘It wasn’t our fault,’ Raul wheezed. ‘The Irishman was determined to see a fight.’

Vallon glared at Wayland for corroboration.

‘It’s true. The man wanted revenge because I wouldn’t sell him my dog.’

Vallon growled, then dropped them and strode off towards the harbour. Raul rubbed his throat and grinned at Wayland.

‘Ain’t you glad I fixed things the way I did?’

Wayland punched him so hard that he trotted several steps backwards before falling flat in the mud. He lay dabbing his pulpy nose.

‘God’s teeth, there wasn’t no cause for that.’

Wayland stood over him. ‘I could kill you.’

Raul wrenched himself out of the quagmire with a great sucking sound and fished around for his hat. He pulled it on, mud and all, and blinked at Wayland.

‘You’re the only man I’d take that from,’ he said, and went sploshing down the street.

Someone laughed softly. Syth was standing on the other side of the lane. He managed a wan smile and she came towards him. They looked at each other without speaking and then walked side by side to the harbour, their glances never quite coinciding. She put her hand around his waist. By chance, her hand slipped under the hem of his tunic and she rubbed her fingers quickly up and down his back, and then withdrew her hand as if she hoped he hadn’t noticed. Wayland stopped, rooted by the sensation of her warm hand on his bare skin. He reached for her but she dodged aside.

‘Oh,’ she cried. ‘The dog’s hurt.’

The dog licked her once, its attention fixed on the empty street behind them. The storm growled far to the north. She looked up at Wayland.

‘It’s not right that he doesn’t have a name.’

‘You choose one.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

XX

Lachlan’s ship had left harbour by the time the company was up. They went on with their business. Vallon hired a pilot to steer them to Orkney, overriding Snorri’s furious protests. It was the governor who’d insisted that they engage a navigator familiar with the treacherous currents around the islands. David was the pilot’s name — a dark and melancholy Pict who spoke English and Norse, having plied his trade at every port between Lowestoft and the Faroes. The governor also gave them introductions to local traders. By the third day following the dogfight, the hold was half full with their purchases. As well as timber, Shearwater was carrying malt, salt, a ton of pig iron and dozens of clay cooking vessels.

That evening the governor’s French-speaking secretary called at the lodgings and asked for a private audience. Vallon took him up to his room and closed the door. The emissary refused the offer of refreshments and remained standing.

‘This afternoon,’ he said, ‘information arrived from the king’s seat in Edinburgh concerning a gang of outlaws who, having wreaked havoc in England, fled by ship to Scotland. Since the King wishes to maintain cordial relations with his neighbour, he’s sent orders to his governors that they detain all arrivals from the south. If there’s any suspicion that they match the description of the felons, they’re to be transported to the capital for interrogation, pending their despatch into Norman custody.’

Vallon crossed to the casement and looked down at the empty quayside. ‘What do they look like?’

‘Their leader is a Frankish mercenary who commands a crew drawn from several countries. There’s even a Norman traitor with them. And a savage dog of uncommon size.’

Vallon turned. ‘Not easily overlooked.’

‘No. It so happens that the governor was called away on business before the letters arrived and therefore wasn’t able to give the matter his immediate attention. He won’t be back until morning when, of course, he’ll attend to the King’s commands with all the urgency that they deserve.’

Vallon clicked his tongue. ‘What a pity I won’t be able to say farewell to his Excellency and thank him for all his kindness. You see, we’ve concluded our dealings here and will be sailing tonight. Only our personal effects have to be loaded.’

The secretary nodded and went to the door. He paused with one hand on the latch. ‘The weather is set fair from the south. Two days’ sailing should carry you beyond the King’s writ. If I were you, I wouldn’t land before then.’

They exchanged bows and the secretary left. Vallon waited at the window until his footsteps died away on the cobbles, then hurried to the top of the stairs. ‘Raul! Wayland! All of you! Look lively! We’re sailing tonight!’

When the governor’s men-at-arms marched down the quay early next morning, they found the hostel deserted and Shearwater’s berth empty. Fingers fanned against the rising sun, the commander of the militia could just make out a fleck of sail bearing north.

Back at sea, the company spent the day re-establishing routines. A week ashore had restored their vigour and put them in good heart for the journey ahead. They were handy at their duties now, willing team members who were also confident enough to act on their own initiative. Watching Garrick lash the end of a shroud around a cleat, Vallon found it hard to believe that less than a month ago he’d never set foot on a ship. All in all, Vallon was content. April had given way to the lingering twilights of May. Shearwater was covering eighty miles a day. By this time tomorrow they’d be beyond Drogo’s reach.

Only one cloud darkened the outlook. Everyone was aware of it, but no one drew attention to it until the next evening, when Hero and Richard approached Vallon as he stood at the bow in an ocean reverie. They were nervous, neither wanting to be the first to speak. Richard held a bundle of documents. Vallon invited them to sit.

‘I see you’ve spent the day bringing our accounts up to date. How do they stand?’

‘After all our expenses, we’re left with little more than sixty pounds. I can itemise the outgoings if you want.’

‘No need,’ said Vallon. Sixty pounds was less than he’d expected. ‘How much do you think our cargo will fetch in Iceland?’

‘I’m sure we’ll make a profit in kind.’

‘That’s the problem,’ Hero said. ‘The Icelanders don’t deal in specie. We won’t be able to sell for silver until we reach Norway or Rus. Before then, we might have emptied our exchequer. We’ll have to hire a ship for the crossing to Iceland, and then charter another vessel to take us south. Raul thinks we’ll be lucky to find a captain willing to take us on either voyage for less than thirty pounds. There’s our money gone on transport alone.’

Syth was cooking on the stern deck and savoury smells reached Vallon. ‘I know you wouldn’t have brought the problem to me if you hadn’t thought of a solution.’

Hero glanced at Richard. ‘We were sure you’d anticipated it yourself when you took on David.’

Vallon pretended not to understand. ‘I hired David to pilot us only as far as Orkney.’

Another look passed between the youths. ‘He’d be willing to stay until we reach the Faroes,’ Hero said. ‘With David navigating, we can give Orkney a miss.’

Vallon dropped his pretence. ‘You’re suggesting we steal Snorri’s ship.’

Richard’s birthmark coloured. ‘Unless we hang on to Shearwater, we’ll run out of money before completing our journey.’

‘Where does that leave Snorri?’

Hero moved closer. ‘Put him ashore with what’s due to him. Pay him compensation if you wish. Twenty pounds would give him a comfortable start back in Norway.’