by Hilary Green
'In years, perhaps. But up here...' Piet tapped his forehead, 'I think you are a lot older. Anyway, I'm not sure Dirk is suited to a life at sea. He likes his comforts, does Dirk. I may have to find him an apprenticeship here, one day. But meanwhile I want him to go on with his studies – not that that pleases him much.'
'He doesn't like learning?'
'He can't see the point, at the moment. That's one reason why I told him you know things that I don't, useful things. I hope he might get the hint that education has its uses.'
Back at the house, they found Mariella spinning while Beatrix sat on a stool nearby, sewing. Catelina was sitting on the floor, with some strange objects around her. Seeing Ranulph she jumped up and held one out to him. 'See? See? You like her?'
Ranulph started back in horror. The object was a simulacrum of a woman, dressed in a red robe, with a face of cloth embroidered to look like eyes and lips.
'What is it?'he gasped. 'Is it witchcraft?'
'Witchcraft?' Mariella repeated. 'It is a... a …' she sought for the word in French, 'a doll. A toy, that is all.'
Piet said, 'I don't suppose the monks gave you toys to play with, did they?'
'Toys?' Ranulph frowned. 'I don't understand.'
Piet sighed. 'Tell me, did you never pluck a switch from a bush and pretend that it was a sword and you were a great warrior about to meet your foe?'
Ranulph shrugged. It was something he had imagined many times, but he had not needed a stick to prompt the thought. Then something stirred a memory. 'I had a horse once – not a real one. It was just a horse's head carved out of wood and fixed to a long stick. You could get astride it …' Without his conscious volition his legs moved in demonstration … 'and pretend you were riding.'
'Well, there you are!' Piet exclaimed. 'All boys like to pretend they are knights, mounted on great horses with swords at their sides. Girls like to imagine themselves as great ladies in fine robes, like this one.' He took the doll from Catelina and showed it to him.'It is quite harmless. See?'
He held the doll out to Ranulph and he took it gingerly. It was no more than a collection of rags with an attempt to imitate a face. He looked at it for a moment and then held it out to Catelina. 'Please tell her I'm sorry. I didn't understand.'
Piet said something in Flemish and Catelina gazed up at him with sad eyes. Mariella said, 'Poor boy! You never had a toy?' and Ranulph saw pity in her eyes. It made him angry. He straightened his shoulders and said gruffly, 'Toys are for children. I'm not a child.'
Mariella wound her spun thread onto the spindle and put it aside. 'Come along. It's time to eat.'
After the meal he was wondering what he should do next when Beatrix came to his side and said shyly, 'I teach you more words. Come.'
She led him out into the yard and before long he knew the words for 'pig' and 'chicken' and 'bucket' and 'broom' and a dozen others. Catelina followed them around but after a while she grew bored and complained to her sister in their own language.
Beatrix turned to him. 'We show you a game, yes?'
With some use of mime she conveyed to him that she was going to hide and he and Catelina must look for her. It seemed a pointless exercise, but it clearly pleased the girls so he complied. Then Catelina hid and he looked for her with Beatrix. They were just explaining that he had to hide next when Dirk came into the yard carrying two wooden swords.
He held one out to Ranulph and produced the first words of French he had spoken. 'We play now. Boys' games, not stupid girls'.
Ranulph looked at the sword. 'How?'
'Fight! Come!' He prodded Ranulph in the chest with his own sword.
Ranulph took the weapon he was offered, but he was confused. He understood fighting well enough, but how could you play at it? Another sharp jab in his middle prompted him to action. He swung the sword sharply and knocked Dirk's aside, but he failed to guard against the riposte and was rewarded with a crack to his left wrist. That hurt. He began to see that this was more than just playing. He thwacked his opponent across the ribs with the flat of his blade and received a sharp blow on the shoulder. That hurt more and he began to be angry. He retaliated with three quick jabs to Dirk's midriff. He heard the other boy give a sharp yelp of pain and surprise. Again, something happened inside Ranulph; something primitive that overrode conscience and common sense. Dirk gave ground and he forced him back further, jabbing and swiping, until his back was up against the wall of the pigsty, and then, suddenly, the other boy was crouching on the ground whimpering and there was blood on his cheek. Beatrix was shouting and Catelina was crying and Piet strode between him and Dirk and wrenched the swords from both their hands.
Ranulph stepped back. He was shaking. Piet pulled Dirk to his feet and examined his face. One ear was swollen and a small cut above it oozed blood to mix with the snot and tears. Piet spoke sharply to him and he stopped snivelling and rubbed the back of his sleeve across his nose. Then he asked a question of Beatrix and received an answer. He turned to Ranulph, who took a step back.
'I will go now.'
Piet grabbed him by the shoulder. 'No, you won't.' Ranulph tried to shrug him off, but his grip was too strong. Piet went on, 'I've told Dirk that he has only himself to blame. He shouldn't have provoked the fight in the first place. He doesn't understand that the whole idea of play fighting is new to you, but I think he wanted to show off.' He beckoned his son closer and put a hand on his shoulder as well. 'This has put me in mind of something I should have thought of sooner. It's time you both learned how to defend yourselves, and how to keep your heads in a real fight. Alberik is a good swordsman and he lacks occupation when we are not at sea. I shall ask him to give you both some basic instruction while we are here. I'm sure he will be happy to give up an hour a day to teach you. Does that please you?' He had spoken in French and had to repeat it in Flemish for Dirk. Dirk's grin left no doubt about his reaction to the offer. Piet turned back to Ranulph. 'Well?'
'Yes! Yes, thank you Thank you!'
'Good.' He looked from one to the other. 'You two should be friends, not enemies. Dirk, give Ranulph your hand in sign that there are no hard feelings.' He had to repeat the instruction in Flemish, but then the boy sniffed and offered his hand. Ranulph took it and tried to smile but there was no answering smile in Dirk's eyes. He let go and stepped back.
'Sir, I should go.'
'I've told you,' Piet responded. 'You are not going anywhere.' He took a step and seized him by the shoulder again, then pulled Dirk towards him and enveloped them both in an embrace. 'You are going to stay here and learn how to live in a family.'
7.
The English Channel. 1082
'Get to your oars! Someone cut those lines and get the sail overboard! For the love of God, keep her head into the wind!'
Ranulph's voice, several tones lower, shouting orders – orders that were being obeyed. For four years the Waverider had plied her course to Bordeaux, then London, then home to Bruges. In those four years he had grown and put on muscle, which he now employed as he threw himself against the steering oar to help the helmsman hold it steady. In front of him, the crew grabbed their oars, while Alberik and one of his men drew their swords and slashed through the ropes holding the boom which had supported the tattered sail, and which now hung half in, half out of the ship and threatened to capsize her.
'Pull!' Ranulph yelled. 'If you value your lives, pull!'
The sail and the boom, now freed, were shoved overboard and the Waverider righted herself, just in time to present her bows to the next huge wave as it swept down on them. She clawed her way to the top of it, hovered a moment, then plunged sickeningly into the next trough. Ranulph clung to the rearing, bucking oar and tried to see ahead through the flung spume, but saw only the next advancing wave. There was no time, now, to look down at the prone figure lying at his feet – Piet, felled by the falling spar and now motionless – unconscious – or dead?
They had been uneasy about the weather before they left the London docks; but
it was already late in the season and Piet had been afraid that if they did not sail while they had the chance it might be weeks, or months, before they got home. They had clung to the coast as long as they could, until they cleared the North Foreland and had to head out into the open sea. Soon after that Piet had looked up and said, 'I don't like the look of that sky.'
Ranulph had followed his gaze and seen the clouds building like the ramparts of a gigantic castle to the north, and very soon after that the first squall had struck them. Even then, they had had hopes of reaching the shelter of the Zwin estuary before the storm began in earnest. It had still seemed possible, until a violent gust had ripped the sail from the mast and sent it crashing to the deck, with Piet underneath it. They had dragged him out and laid him on the afterdeck, but since then he had not moved. With a shock, Ranulph had realised that the men were expecting him to take charge. In the four years his status with the crew had slowly changed, from the scrawny boy tolerated because the captain had taken a fancy to him, to a young man whose seamanship was never in dispute and who had shown himself equal to most emergencies. Ranulph had taken to the challenge of learning to sail with the same eagerness that he felt when given the opportunity to learn anything new, whether it was a language or a practical skill. He had soaked up sailors' lore about weather and wind, about how to navigate by the sun and stars, about the dangers of rocks and shoals, and the men had come to trust him, as Piet trusted him. Now, he had to earn that trust.
He saw that they were being steadily forced off course by the wind and that they must now be well south of where they should be. He knew that their only hope was to find some shelter, a harbour or at least somewhere they could lie up in the lee of an island or a promontory. As each wave lifted them he scanned the wilderness of churning water, in the hope of seeing some landmark that would give him a clue as to where they were. Time lost any meaning. There was only the unending struggle to master the oar, which seemed like a live thing, determined to wrest itself from his grasp. At length it seemed to him that the wind had veered more to the east and lost a little of its force. He strove to calculate what their position might be and guessed that the south coast of England must be somewhere to the west. He turned his head towards Jan, the helmsman.
'Can you hold her steady for a moment?'
Jan nodded grimly and changed his grip on the oar. Ranulph twisted around and seized hold of the stern post. As the next wave lifted them he stared away to the west but saw nothing but the white heads of the waves; but on the next he caught a glimpse of what he was looking for and the one after that showed him a long line of white cliffs, stretching north to south, apparently without a break, and much closer than he had expected. Desperately, he scanned them in search of a landmark of some sort. At first he could see nothing but the flung spume of waves breaking at the foot of the cliffs, then at last he made out a shape he recognised. Ghostly through the wrack, he saw the outline of a castle perched on top of the cliff; a mound topped by the broken silhouette of a half-finished keep. He knew that beneath it there was a safe harbour, but he could see, too, that if they held their present course the wind and waves would sweep them past it.
He flung himself back to where Jan still clung to the steering oar. 'We have to bring her about and steer to the west. That's Dover over there, and if we can reach it we're saved.'
In the next trough they swung the ship broadside on to the waves and for a moment it seemed she must be swamped, but with the last of their strength they managed to bring her round so that she took the next wave stern on. Now, running before the wind instead of struggling against it, they flew towards the coast, each wave picking them up and hurling them forward. It seemed for a while that they were heading for certain destruction on the rocks; then, as the castle towered above them, a gap opened up in the cliffs and they were swept forward and found themselves suddenly in quiet waters.
The Waverider lost weigh and lay, rocking gently, in the centre of a wide pool. Ahead of them was a jetty, with ships moored against it, and a small town huddled under the cliffs. The men sagged against their oars and Ranulph dropped to his knees beside Piet. He was icy cold, and his face was without colour except for his lips, which were tinged with blue. Ranulph bent close, hoping to feel breath on his cheek, but there was nothing. He swallowed back a sob and laid his ear against the captain's chest, and to his joy detected a faint, uneven throb. He called Piet's name and chaffed his hands and suddenly he rolled over and vomited onto the deck.
Alberik called him. 'We've got company.'
Ranulph got up and peered towards the jetty. A small boat had put out and was rowing towards them. In the stern he could see a man in a dark cloak, and beside him two men at arms in helmets and mail. Normans! He clenched his fists and then forced himself to relax them again. This was no time to show antagonism. Beneath the all-consuming weariness he felt a grim, ironic humour. 'Out of the frying pan, into the fire!'
The boat came alongside and the man in the cloak climbed aboard. 'Who is in charge here? Where is the captain?'
'Here,' Ranulph responded. 'And in dire need of the care of a physician. Please can we take him ashore and have him looked after?'
The man bent briefly and scrutinised Piet. Then he straightened. 'So who brought you into harbour here?'
'I did,' Ranulph said. 'But only by the Grace of God.'
'His Grace, indeed,' the Norman said, 'but with good seamanship to aid it. Where are you from?'
'Our home port is Bruges. Our last call was London. We were heading for home when the storm struck.' They were speaking French, of course, but Ranulph deliberately gave his voice a hint of a Flemish accent. The Normans had no quarrel with the Flemings, but he had no idea how they might react if they knew he was English. In theory, he was, he supposed, a serf of whoever had taken over his father's lands. At best, he had absconded without leave from the monastery. As a masterless man, the Norman might feel it his duty to detain him.
The Norman looked down at the tightly wrapped bundles in the hold. 'What is your cargo?'
'Wool. Bound for the looms of Flanders.'
The man frowned. 'Wool? Has the tax been paid on it?'
'Yes.'
'Can you prove that?'
'I can. I will show you the documents. But first, can you arrange for my captain to be taken ashore to somewhere where he can find a warm bed and proper care?'
The Norman looked from him to Piet, who still lay with his eyes closed, then he nodded. 'Tie up to the jetty. Your men can take him ashore, while you show me the necessary papers.'
The men took their oars again and rowed the Waverider to the point indicated by the officer. Ropes were thrown and tied off, and Piet was lifted onto the quay.
'There's an inn, there, at the end of the jetty,' the Norman said. 'The ale wife will find him a bed.'
Ranulph ducked down into the space under the afterdeck and pulled the required parchments out of his sea chest. He knew they were in order. He had drawn them up himself and they were duly signed and sealed. The officer looked them over, nodded and handed them back.
'All in order. By the way, what is your name?'
Ranulph hesitated. His was not a Flemish name. 'Dirk,' he said.
'How long will you be in port here?'
'I don't know. Until the captain is well enough to travel – and until we can get repairs done to the ship.'
For the first time the Norman smiled. 'You did well to bring your ship safely through that storm. I congratulate you. I will send our physician to look at your captain, and I shall pray for his swift recovery.'
He turned away and jumped onto the jetty. Ranulph watched as he and his men set off up the twisting pathway to the castle. He was experiencing a strange conflict of emotions. The Norman's admiration and concern seemed genuine. He did not know how to react to being congratulated by the enemy.
At the inn, he found Piet lying on a straw palliasse close to the central hearth. Alberik had pulled off his wet clothes and was wrapping
him in blankets. To Ranulph's immense relief, the captain's eyes were open and a little colour had returned to his face. The ale wife was hovering nearby with a steaming beaker in her hand and a frown on her lined, brown face.
'She wants to give him hot mead,' Alberik said. 'I've tried to explain that it would be better not to. I've noticed that strong drink doesn't help a man in this condition. But I can't make her understand.'
The woman broke in and for the first time in years Ranulph heard his native language, though spoken in an accent that made it almost unintelligible even to him. He responded, and the woman first frowned, then opened her lips in a gap-toothed grin and thrust the beaker into his hands.
'Praise God for someone who speaks like a Christian! Drink, lad. I'd rather see you have it than any of these heathen bastards.'
Ranulph explained, with some difficulty, that his companions were not Normans. It was obvious that, to her, all foreigners were the same, but she grudgingly accepted his word that the men with him were not part of the occupying force. The inn was already crowded with local fishermen but trestles were set up and benches brought out and the weary seamen were soon tucking into bowls of pottage.
Ranulph knelt beside Piet. 'How are you? Can you speak?'
Piet passed his tongue over dry lips and Alberik handed Ranulph a mug of water. 'Give him this. A sip or two only for now.'
Ranulph slipped his arm under Piet's shoulders and raised him. The intimacy of the touch felt strange. In all the years he had worked and lived with him, Piet had respected the fact that he shied away from physical contact. None of that mattered now. He held the cup to Piet's lips and he sipped and spluttered, and managed a weak smile.
'They say you brought the Waverider safe to harbour.'
'We did it, between us. All the crew did their part.'
'Under your orders. I knew I was right to trust you. You proved yourself this day.'
Ranulph felt a glow of warmth. This was praise he could accept at its face value, and treasure.
