The rest of the Scottish spearmen had no choice but to turn and flee before the onrushing tide of cattle. Some jumped off the track and scrambled down the slope while others just ran as fast as they could back the way they had come. At the bottom of the mound they scattered in every direction down the hillside.
Reaching the bottom of the fort mound, the cows continued to run blindly down the hillside in a herd but the riders following them turned sharply towards the woods and rode as hard as they could, savagely driving their horses as they went.
Syr Thomas Randolph scrambled up to his feet just in time to see the last of the fort’s defenders escaping on horseback into the trees down the hill, pursued by nothing more than a couple of desultory crossbow shots that had no hope of hitting any of them.
‘Shit,’ Randolph commented, wondering how Edward Bruce would take this news.
Behind them the fort at the top of Donegore hill, its walls and ramparts carefully fuelled with pitch and oil, began to dissolve into a blaze of fire.
Part III
“How wretched is the man who sees the perfect opportunity but still waits for a better one.”
– Chrétien de Troyes, Perceval: The Story of the Grail.
Late 12th Century
48
Savage stood on the stern of the ship, near the steering board, watching the coast of Ireland recede behind him.
After the hectic ride from Donegore they had left the fort to burn and galloped hard west through woods. Finally they arrived at a fork in the path and the place of parting. MacHuylin, le Poer and the Ui Flainns were going to Antrim, while Savage would go north-east with Aengus Solmandarson, back towards the coast.
‘Good luck.’ Savage saluted le Poer and MacHuylin.
‘May the Big One look down on you,’ MacHuylin replied with the Irish version of the same sentiment.
As they rode back towards the coast, Savage could see the fire at Donegore fort blazing away on top of the hill, now to the south of them. By the time the sun was high in the sky they finally rode down a steep wooded valley that ended in a little natural harbour. Riding on the clear azure waters of the bay was the Hebridean galley of Aengus Solmandarson.
‘There are ships patrolling the crossing. They stop and sink anyone they don’t like,’ Aengus’s forecastleman told him as they boarded. ‘We will need to be careful.’
In no time they had cast off and were underway. Savage was pleased to find he experienced none of the terror of his former sea journeys. The tang of salt water was in his nose; the wind tugged at his hair. Beneath his feet the ship moved, above his head the sun shone and ahead lay uncertainty, mystery, even danger. He looked back at the shore of Ireland behind, recalling the countless times he had spent on the same shore as a boy, throwing stones into the sea while watching the ships leaving and aching to be going with them, not caring where they were destined, just wanting to go. Now here he was, for the second time in his life sailing away again. This time, however, he knew the meaning of leaving home.
Aengus Solmandarson was dangling precariously over the side between two sets of oars. After a moment’s hesitation he plunged his head into the icy sea, then wrenched his head from the water, sending showers of droplets everywhere and whooping with unbridled delight. Sweeping his sopping wet hair back from his face, he gave a satisfied sigh and commented, ‘That’s better! Gets rid of the cobwebs.’ He made his way through the arranged ranks of oarsmen to the back of the boat where Savage stood.
‘It’s a beautiful day, we have the tide with us and soon as we get out into the open sea we should have a good wind behind us,’ Aengus said. ‘We’ll be in Galloway by nightfall – at the latest.’
Savage nodded. ‘What if we run into those patrol boats? You don’t have many men here to fight anyone off.’
Aengus grinned. ‘This is a very fast ship, Syr Savage. I have no intention of putting up a fight.’
Savage surveyed the galley, noting just how sleek it was. Smaller and thinner than most ships, Aengus’s boat was shaped like a leaf-bladed spearhead, which scythed through the water with ease. At present it was propelled only by the oars, which were arranged in rows on port and steering board sides, but a big square sail could be unfurled on the mast when the wind was right. The oars themselves were manned by a motley, dangerous-looking band of islanders.
Once out into the open sea the youngest and nimblest member of the crew, Col, was sent up the mast to undo the lashings of the sail to catch the wind. With a creaking of wood the mast took the strain, the canvas filled with the stiff sea breeze and the galley surged forward. The crew pulled their oars aboard and almost to a man wrapped themselves in whatever they could find and curled up on the open deck to catch up on some sleep.
Aengus remained awake, standing on the platform at the stern with the handle to the great wooden steering oar grasped steadily in his hands. Col also had to stay awake to keep an eye on the sail.
Savage remained at the prow, watching the nose of ship slice through the emerald, opaque sea, churning the water to white froth. Behind him the land got further and further away as the ship sailed north-east towards Scotland. To the south were the little islands called the Maidens and far to the south-east were the scattered rocks of the islands owned by the Copeland family.
Turning away from the prow, Savage picked his way carefully through the sleeping crew to the stern where Aengus stood.
‘Where can you land me in Galloway?’ Savage asked.
‘That will depend on the wind, the tide, and the whim of Aegir,’ the Hebridean said. ‘There are only a few natural harbours and my preferred landing would be at a sea lough called Lough Ryan. However, if the wind carries us further south, then we’ll round the Mull of Galloway and land in Luce Bay. From there it’ll be up to you on your own. We’ll be sailing north to the islands.’
‘Do you know this “Noquetran” where the Grail is kept, is?’ Savage asked.
Aengus shook his head. ‘Never heard of it. You could try by asking some locals but the name sounds French to me. They probably have a different name for it.’
Savage nodded grimly. The prospect of having to fend for himself alone on foreign, hostile soil in an area famed throughout the world for the wildness of its natives was daunting.
‘There’s nothing much of interest to see after this, except sea,’ Aengus said. ‘If I were you I’d get some rest. I know I would if I didn’t have to steer this boat.’
Realising just how sound an idea this was, Savage made his way back to the prow and curled up on the deck, wrapping his cloak around himself and pulling his hood over his head to shut out the sun. As he lay awaiting sleep he tried to remember the story of a romance he had once heard about a knight’s adventures in Galloway, but all he could recall from it for definite was the often-repeated sentiment that Galloway was a wild, dangerous, inhospitable place peopled by barbaric savages, evil monsters, wicked knights and beautiful maidens. He finally slipped into unconsciousness smiling at the thought that the latter perhaps made up for all the other shortcomings of the place.
His, and the rest of the crew’s, awakening was a rude one.
Either by accident or carelessness, the top fastenings of the sail came loose. The great canvas sheet collapsed forward to envelop those slumbering at the front end of the boat. After a lot of general swearing and grumbling, Col was blamed for the usual reasons: he was youngest and smallest. Up the mast he was sent again to retie the sail, which was again hoisted by the rest of the crew.
Looking around him, Savage saw that the coast of Ulster had disappeared over the horizon behind them. Up ahead the dark coast of Galloway was just starting to ascend into view. The bright sun had been masked by clouds and the sea was no longer green but slate grey.
‘Make a better job of it this time!’ Aengus warned Col.
‘It wasn’t my fault!’ Col grumbled from the top of the mast as he finished tying the ropes. He was about to begin climbing down when he suddenly caught sight of somethin
g.
‘Ship!’ Col shouted down from aloft. ‘There’s a ship following us.’
‘Where?’ Aengus shouted up the mast.
‘One vessel. Dark sail. About the same size as us,’ Col said, smiling down at them, pleased at his own cleverness and the keenness of his eyesight.
Aengus and Savage looked astern. Sure enough, there was something just on the horizon, as yet just a fuzzy blob in the distance.
‘His eyes are the sharpest I’ve come across in my life,’ Aengus said aside to Savage. ‘If he says he can see a dark-sailed ship I believe him.’
‘It could be a fishing boat,’ Savage suggested. ‘Anyway, it’s not necessarily following us. People sail from Ulster to Scotland all the time.’
‘Not when there’s a war on,’ Aengus replied through gritted teeth. ‘I’m not taking any chances. I don’t like being followed by anyone.’
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Savage. Without his feet planted firmly on dry land and a sword in his hand he was starting to feel utterly helpless. Some of his old fear of sailing began to crawl in his gut.
‘We run,’ Aengus replied. ‘Right, you,’ he shouted up to Col. ‘Make sure that sail is fixed properly this time or you’re walking home. The rest of you,’ he addressed the crew, ‘it’s back to the oars. Let’s see if we can leave this bastard in our wake.’
49
The crew sprang into action. They grabbed their oars from the deck and slid them out through the rowlocks, cracking a few unfortunate heads during the process. The crew took their places on the rowing benches and to Savage’s amazement, Aengus began singing in a loud, clear voice.
The reason for this quickly became clear as the crew joined in. On the third line of the verse they all pulled together a mighty stroke of the oars and the galley surged forward. The singing continued, and the oars beat in time to the music. Col finished his job and descended the mast as Aengus returned to the steering oar at the stern. The ship powered on through the waves, now propelled by both wind and oars.
‘Look ahead,’ Col shouted over the rush of the water and wind.
Both Savage and Aengus did so. To Savage’s surprise the coast of Galloway seemed to have disappeared. Strangely, the tops of the mountains were still visible, but they seemed unnaturally high in the air.
‘Excellent!’ Aengus’s broad grin reinstalled itself on his face. ‘Sea mist. We’ll disappear into it. That lot behind us will never find us. Aegir the ale brewer is looking after us today.’
They raced on for a time towards the floating mountaintops and the thick mist, but all the while Savage could see that they were getting slower and slower. It was not that the rowers were tiring. They still pulled on their oars as resolutely as ever, but the canvas sail was getting looser and baggier by the minute. The wind was dying.
Aengus Solmandarson’s face became deadly serious. Savage joined him at the stern again.
‘This is bad,’ the Hebridean said.
‘Surely not? They need the wind as much as we do,’ Savage said, presuming Aengus referred to the ship chasing them.
‘I wasn’t talking about them,’ Aengus replied dismissively. ‘It’s not just that the wind has dropped. Haven’t you noticed how flat the waves are?’
‘Isn’t that a good thing? Easier for rowing.’
‘It would be, if we were a good few miles closer to the coast,’ Aengus said, his face grim. ‘Smell the air. Can’t you tell? There’s a storm coming. This is the calm before it.’
Savage’s jaw dropped a little. In a flimsy open boat miles from land, a storm was the sea traveller’s worst dread. His old fear of sailing surged once more through his guts.
‘Will we make it ashore before it breaks?’ he asked, his voice husky from the sudden tightness that gripped his throat.
‘It depends on that mist,’ Aengus said. ‘Once we enter it whoever is following us won’t be able to find us, but we won’t be able to see where we’re going. We’ll have to slow down in case we run into an island or rocks. We might get lost. I had planned sailing north towards Lough Ryan but now I reckon we’ll just go straight for the coast. Old Aegir isn’t on our side after all: a mist and a storm he’s decided to throw at us. He must be lonely today.’
Fingers of the mist were already reaching out to curl around the mast.
‘I want you and Col up at the prow,’ Aengus ordered. ‘One on each side. Keep a watch up ahead. I’ll need you to look out for rocks, reefs, islands – anything that could sink us. If you see anything ahead in the water then shout. Loud.’
Savage and Col took up their posts as directed. The galley slipped into the white oblivion of the mist. Perception reduced drastically and the wide, open seascape dissolved into the mist’s blankness. Vision was cut down to fifteen feet around the boat and even though they knew they were outdoors, the encroachment of a creepy feeling of claustrophobia was hard to shake off.
Aengus began singing a low, haunting song in words unintelligible to Savage. The oarsmen joined in and the tempo of their rowing changed accordingly. By now the sail hung limp and useless. The wind had died entirely.
‘Who is this Aegir he keeps talking about?’ Savage asked Col.
Col chuckled. ‘The old ale brewer? He’s the God of the sea our ancestors worshipped. Sailors from our part of the world still have a healthy respect for him. They say when the waves are frothy-topped and stormy it’s the froth from the ale Aegir is brewing for a feast. If you are caught out in the storm you’ll be joining Aegir’s feast in his hall.’
‘Where is his hall?’ Savage asked.
Col did not reply, but simply pointed downwards, beneath the sea.
Savage was unsure of exactly how much time they spent, creeping along through the fog’s strange closeness, but it was certainly a long time. All the while he and Col strained their eyes at the prow, gazing intently into the blankness in an effort to make out a sign or shadow of anything that could be of danger.
They saw nothing. Ever onwards the boat moved, for all they knew going round in circles.
All the time it grew ominously dark. Savage knew that it could only be afternoon so it must be the unseen gathering overhead of black storm clouds. The first stirring of a breeze began to tug at the sail but this time it was far from welcome. It was the herald of the approaching tempest.
Soon they felt the first kiss of raindrops and a stronger gust grasped the sail. All conversation aboard died except for muffled complaints about getting soaked. At first the rain was light; hardly warranting even pulling up their hoods but suddenly and without warning great gouts of water began to gush down from the heavens, soaking everyone to the skin in moments.
All around raindrops hissed into the sea, adding themselves to what there was already so much of. A swell was gathering on the sea and soon the boat was rising and falling in gentle rhythm with the waves.
The wind grew stronger and stronger.
‘At least this mist should be cleared by the wind. We will soon be able to see where we’re going,’ Aengus said. ‘Eric, Ewen,’ he addressed two of the oarsmen. ‘Start bailing, will you? It’s bad enough being rained on without the herrings playing tig between our toes as well.’
The two crewmen left their oars and picked up a couple of hide buckets and began using them to reduce the level of the rainwater that was gathering in the boat.
Despite Aengus’s hopes the mist remained thick as ever while the wind grew ever more ferocious and the waves got higher and higher.
‘Get that sail down before the wind rips it to pieces or it pulls down the mast!’ Aengus shouted over the rising tumult.
Four men left their oars to spring to the mast. Col left the prow and shinned up the mast to undo the sail tying. The great canvas sheet collapsed onto the deck; the sailors bundled it up and pushed it beneath the steering platform on which Aengus stood.
The men returned to their oars but as the elements took control their part was becoming increasingly redundant. Any attempt to power the
boat or influence its course was futile. Savage could see with a cold dread that their fate was no longer in their own hands. They were no longer masters of their own destiny.
At the prow Savage crouched, soaked and miserable, trying to quell the waves of fear that surged like the sea around him. With his feet on solid ground and his sword in his hand he had faced countless foes and dangers without experiencing terror but now the sheer helplessness of their predicament overwhelmed him.
The ship pitched and rolled between waves, which seemed to be growing to ever more impossible sizes. The high wind whipped the heavy rain so it lashed the sailors’ skins ’til they stung.
A new affliction struck Savage. The lurching of the boat suddenly began to be echoed by his stomach and nausea seized his jaw muscles. The rest of the crew, all experienced mariners, did not suffer with him. Despite their situation, a few even managed to smile as Savage violently vomited over the side.
Savage could not remember ever feeling more wretched. He was sick, soaked to the skin, cold, lashed by the wind and racked by the terror that at any moment the ship would roll over or break up and pitch them all into the dreadful, opaque sea where an inescapable watery death awaited.
If there was a Hell, then surely this was what it was like. Not fire and torture but this helpless misery, tossed about like a straw entirely at the mercy of heedless powers, which at any moment could smash the ship to pieces.
Despite Ewen and Eric’s best efforts, the level of water in the galley kept rising. Sea water foamed over the sides to add to the rain bucketing from the sky. Aengus, his voice barely audible over the howling wind, shouted orders for everyone to abandon their oars and start bailing.
Finally the wind began to have an effect on the mist and it started to thin out. This proved to be small comfort. By now the waves were massive and when rising up on one the ship was tilted backwards so all the mariners could see was the wave behind. When they came down the other side into the trough all they could see was the wave behind and the one in front. All they could hear was the screaming wind and the roaring sea.
Lions of the Grail Page 34
