‘So you still intend to free Sir Walter.’
‘Why not? The hard part’s done.’
‘What did Lady Margaret offer you in return?’
‘Profits from trade.’
‘There must have been more.’
Vallon set off towards the door. ‘Whatever my reasons for completing the journey, they’re more honourable than your reasons for stopping me.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘Do you need anything?’
Drogo winced. ‘I’d die before accepting charity from you.’
‘As you wish.’
XXVII
Hero and Richard finished their trade mission in Skalholt. There they bartered their remaining clay pots for half a dozen sacks of sulphur and bales of woollens. They dined that night with the bishop. Since it was a fast day they ate fermented shark and boiled seal, which counted for fish. The bishop asked his guests about their trading activities and told them that they could have struck much harder terms. Cooking vessels were in such short supply that even well-to-do households rented them, and the bishop had recently pronounced an anathema on a villain who’d used the baptismal font to make a stew.
The bishop was called Isleifur, son of Gissur the White, one of the first Icelandic chieftains to have been baptised. Isleifur confided that pagan practices hadn’t been entirely eradicated in the remoter parts. In times of hunger parents still exposed infants to the elements and made blood sacrifices. Education was the dew that would help water the tender shoots of Christianity, he told Hero. To this end he’d founded a school where pupils were taught the Roman script. He himself had been educated in Germany and was deeply interested in Hero’s medical studies and impressed by his facility in languages and knowledge of the classics.
They talked long into the night and next morning the bishop lent them two of his men to escort their pack train back to Reykjavik. Their journey took them through heathland ablaze with shades of russet and ochre. The pair hadn’t covered many miles when they saw two horsemen riding towards them.
‘It’s Vallon and Garrick,’ Richard said.
‘The ship must have returned. What perfect timing.’
Richard’s eyes were sharper than Hero’s. ‘No. It’s bad news. I can see it from here.’
Vallon reined in. He didn’t even greet them.
‘
Vallon shook his head. ‘Drogo’s here.’
Hero almost fell off his horse. Richard’s face drained.
Vallon’s manner was distracted. ‘He was on the ship that was wrecked in the south. He’s not an immediate danger. He’s broken his ribs and his surviving company are still on the Westman Isles.’ Vallon nodded towards the armed escorts. ‘Who are those men?’
‘Servants of the bishop. He thought we should have protection on the road.’
‘Why? Has anyone threatened you?’
Hero and Richard looked at each other. ‘No, sir. Everyone has treated us with kindness. What’s wrong?’
‘I crossed swords with a chieftain’s son.’ Vallon looked back down the road. ‘I was concerned for your safety.’
First thing most mornings, Hero and Richard rode to a headland overlooking the harbour and scanned the Atlantic for a ship sailing from the west. Days passed and the horizon remained empty. The nights grew longer and the air crisper, with frost at dawn. In the harbour three ships were being prepared for the voyage to Norway. One of them was the vessel that would carry Caitlin to her arranged marriage. Drogo had left the farm that had taken him in and that’s all anyone knew. His appearance out of the blue had knocked the stuffing out of Richard.
Hero tried to reassure him. ‘Drogo can’t harm us once Helgi’s left Iceland. It won’t be long. The fleet is just waiting for a favourable wind.’
‘Vallon’s stupid if he believes Drogo isn’t a threat. I don’t understand why he didn’t kill him when he had the chance.’
‘Richard, you’re talking about your own brother.’
‘Do you think Drogo would spare me if he had me at his mercy? Or you? Any of us?’
‘Your brother was helpless.’
‘So was Vallon’s wife.’
When they climbed to their lookout next morning they saw a fourth ship moored in the harbour. The convoy was complete and ready to sail. The morning following Hero woke to thick fog and a gale lashing from the north- east. For three days the storm howled around the house. When it eased the wind turned to the west, bottling up the convoy. Two days later a boy rode to the hall after dark with news that a Greenland ship had limped into harbour. Everyone threw on their clothes and rode pell-mell to the coast.
They found the skipper supervising the unloading of cargo from his battered vessel. Vallon pelted him with questions and received terse answers. They’d set sail from the Eastern Settlement more than two weeks ago. The storm had blown them far to the south-west. No,
‘They have a navigator.’
The captain regarded Vallon with eyes slitted by exhaustion. ‘Your pilot’s dead. He sickened during his stay at the settlement. One eye swelled up as though it would burst. He took to his bed and gave up his ghost inside a week. Without a pilot your men would find it hard to follow the correct course even in fair weather. If your men sailed through that storm, they don’t stand a chance of reaching Iceland. You’d better look for them in Ireland.’ He started towards one of the longshoremen. ‘Hey. Careful with that.’ He turned back to Vallon. ‘I’m sorry about your ship, but I’m busy.’
It was a sober party that rode back to the farm for breakfast. Vallon ignored his food.
‘What date is it?’
Richard kept the calendar.’ By my reckoning, today’s the twenty-second of August.’
‘When did
‘The last week of May.’
‘Almost three months.’ Vallon sucked in his cheeks and stared at the wall. ‘We can’t wait any longer. The sailing season will soon be over. Remember the ships stuck in harbour since last autumn.’
‘We can’t leave Iceland without Wayland and Raul,’ Hero said.
‘I gave them instructions to return no later than the first week of August.’
‘The storm will have delayed them.’
‘By a week at most. If they’re not back by the end of the month, we have to assume that they’re lost or dead.’
‘What will we do?’ Richard asked.
‘How much money is left?’
‘About fifty pounds.’
‘More than enough to pay for our passage. We’ll have to arrange it soon, though.’
‘So that’s it,’ said Hero. ‘Our quest is over.’
‘Listen, I’ve ridden off to fight for kings who were dead or deposed before my orders reached me. I’ve fought in battles where neither side knew that their rulers had signed a peace treaty that same morning. If we can’t keep track of the affairs of men, we can’t expect to command the wind and weather.’
Vallon was wrong about finding a ship to take them to Norway. He and Garrick were gone for days, enquiring up and down the coast. When they returned, he sat in his place with such a grim expression that no one dared speak.
