‘Dun Eidyn,’ I said, pointing to the smoke showing over the hills. ‘There was a time when my family ruled all the land up to Dun Eidyn.’
‘Done what?’ Egil asked.
‘It’s a fortress,’ I said, ‘and a sizeable settlement too.’
‘And they’ll be praying for a northern gale,’ Egil said grimly, ‘so they can plunder the wrecks. And they’ll get it!’
I shook my head. The fleet was anchoring in a wide bay and the wind was blowing from the south-west, coming off the land. ‘They’re sheltered there.’
‘Sheltered now,’ Egil said, ‘but this wind will turn. It’ll blow from the north.’ He looked up at the darkening clouds that raced towards the sea. ‘And by dawn it will be a killer. And where are the fishing boats?’
‘Hiding from us.’
‘No, they’ve taken shelter. Fishermen know!’
I looked at his hawk-nosed, weather-beaten face. I reckoned myself a good seaman, but I knew Egil was better. ‘Are you sure?’
‘You can never be sure. It’s the weather. But I wouldn’t anchor there. Get yourself under the northern shore.’ He saw my doubt. ‘Lord,’ he said earnestly, ‘take shelter to the north!’
I trusted him and so we rowed Spearhafoc close to Coenwulf’s ship, the Apostol, and hailed him to suggest that the fleet should cross the wide river mouth to shelter under the northern bank, but Coenwulf took the advice churlishly. He talked for a moment with another man, presumably the Apostol’s helmsman, then turned back to us and cupped his hands. ‘The wind will stay in the south-west,’ he bellowed, ‘and you’re to stay with us! And stay with the rearguard tomorrow!’
‘Is he a good seaman?’ Egil asked me.
‘Wouldn’t know a ship if it sailed up his arsehole,’ I said. ‘He only got the fleet because he’s a rich friend of Æthelstan’s.’
‘And he’s ordering you to stay here?’
‘He’s not my commander,’ I growled, ‘so we go there,’ I nodded towards the distant coast, ‘and we hope you’re right.’ We hoisted the sail and let Spearhafoc run north. We ran inshore of a rocky island and anchored close to the beach, a lone ship fretting in the freshening south-west breeze. The night fell and the wind rose, tugging at Spearhafoc. Waves broke on her cutwater, slinging spray down the deck. ‘Still blowing south-west,’ I said warningly. If the anchor rope broke we would be lucky to escape being driven ashore.
‘It will turn,’ Egil soothed me.
The wind did turn. It went to the west, blowing harder and bringing a stinging rain, and then it went north, just as Egil had predicted, and now it howled through our rigging and, though I could see nothing in the night’s darkness, I knew the wide river was being whipped into a welter of foam. We were in the lee of the land, but still Spearhafoc reared and shuddered, and I feared the anchor would drag. Lightning slashed the western sky. ‘The gods are angry!’ Egil called to me. He was sitting next to me on the steps of the steering platform, but had to shout to make himself heard.
‘With Æthelstan?’
‘Who knows? But Coenwulf is lucky.’
‘Lucky!’
‘It’s almost low tide. If they’re driven ashore they’ll float off on the flood.’
It was a long, wet night, though blessedly the wind was not cold. There was shelter in the prow, but Egil and I stayed in the stern, facing the wind and rain, sometimes taking our turn to bail the ship of the rainwater that flooded from the bilge. And in the night the rain slowly stopped and the wind slowly dropped. Sometimes a gust would lurch Spearhafoc as she turned in the strong tidal current, but as the dawn edged the sea with grey the wind became mild and the clouds raggedly cleared as the last stars faded.
And as we sailed Spearhafoc south we saw there was chaos on the Foirthe’s southern shore. Ships had been driven aground, including all the cargo ships. Most had been fortunate and were beached, but five had struck rocks and were now half sunk. Men struggled to remove the cargoes, while others dug under the hulls of the beached ships to help the flooding tide, and all of that work was being hampered by the Scots. There might have been a hundred men, some on horseback, who must have come from Dun Eidyn and who now jeered the stranded Saxons. They did more than jeer. Archers rained arrows on men struggling to free the ships, which made those men crouch behind shields or shelter behind the stranded vessels. Other men would try to drive the Scottish archers away and the bowmen, unencumbered by mail, simply retreated, only to reappear further down the beach to start loosing arrows again. There were also some thirty horsemen and they threatened to charge the working parties, which forced Coenwulf to make shield walls. ‘Do we help?’ Egil asked.
‘He’s got close to a thousand men,’ I said, ‘what difference would we make?’
We lowered Spearhafoc’s wolf-head sail as we neared the ships that were still anchored offshore. Apostol, Coenwulf’s ship, was one of them. We rowed close and I saw that most of his crewmen had been ordered ashore, leaving only a handful of men on board. ‘We’re going north!’ I shouted to them. ‘Tell Coenwulf we’re looking to see if the bastards have a
