by Paul Watkins
We stopped before him, gasping for breath, caught off-guard by the fact that he could speak my language.
The man rose cautiously to his feet. Grey hair, like iron filings, flecked the darker strands around the edge of his half-shaved head. ‘I am your friend,’ he said. ‘I have lived among you as a missionary to the court of Harald Bluetooth. I converted many hundreds of your countrymen who had been blind to the mercy of God before I reached their shores.’ He pointed at the trunk. ‘The contents of this chest belong to God. Only to God.’
‘It belongs to us now.’ Cabal’s voice bounced off the walls, where crystals frothed like frog-spawn from the rock. ‘Do you not remember me, Ethelred?’
The priest stared at Cabal. Slowly, he narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you know my name? And remember you? From where?’
‘From the ground above our heads!’ snarled Cabal. ‘You do not remember me, who carried this cross for you so many times? The one you taught about your Christian hell and then forced him to live in it?’
‘Cabal?’ The man reached out, fingers pale and twitching.
Cabal slapped them aside. ‘That same hand beat me senseless more times than I can count. And worse! The things you did to me and called it love.’
Now I began to understand the source of Cabal’s hate, so terrible to him he could not even speak its name.
‘You ran away,’ said the priest.
‘Of course I ran away! A dog would have run away. And what do you have to say now?’
With careful movements, the old priest moved around to the other side of the trunk, fingers trailing over the cross. ‘Take the chest,’ he whispered, shrinking from the torch’s flame. ‘Take everything. It is yours.’ He turned and staggered away into the shadows.
Cabal walked after the old man. He did not need to run.
The priest shrieked when he heard the footsteps behind him. The sound sank into the walls.
After only a few paces, Cabal grabbed hold of the priest’s hood and hauled it back, knocking the old man off his feet. Then he bent down and set his knee on the man’s chest.
‘Let me live,’ the old man choked. ‘God will forgive you.’
‘It does not matter if he forgives me,’ said Cabal. ‘I do not forgive him.’
The old man clawed at Cabal, tearing at his clothes.
Cabal set his hands on either side of the priest’s head.
I turned away.
The darkness filled with screams.
When I looked back, Cabal was already on his feet, staring at the dead man. His whole body was trembling. Then he unhooked the latches of the trunk and swung it open.
I expected to be dazzled by the flash of coins, as I had been when I walked into the Emperor’s treasure room, so clumped with glittering wealth, heaped to overflowing from chests and strewn about so carelessly that the mosaics on the floor could hardly be seen. Instead, here, deep in the crystal-sweating earth, I saw only the dull brown lumps of leather bags.
Cabal fished one up, untied the leather lace which held the mouth closed and poured out a clattering stream of silver and gold coins onto the other bags. ‘Now we have what we came for.’
We dragged the chest back to the entrance of the tunnel. I climbed the steps and stuck my head up. The church was empty. I went to the doorway and looked out across the square, which was deserted except for copper pots, broken crockery and the up-ended tables of the merchants. I heard no voices, no footsteps, not even the barking of dogs. The whole town seemed deserted, but it would not be long now before they organised themselves and began to hunt us down.
I could see from the direction of the distant river weeds that the tide was turning. We had to hurry or we would be rowing against the current. Then the Cymry could stop us before we reached the sea.
An overturned cart blocked the alley that led to the square. I jumped down off the wall and turned the cart back onto its wheels. Picking up the two wooden arms for fastening the horse into its traces, I pulled the cart to the foot of the church steps. Cabal and I slid the chest down the steps and heaved it onto the cart. From the weight, we could tell that it contained much more than 120 pounds of silver.
We hauled the cart along the same road we had used to reach the town, its iron-strapped wheels clattering noisily over the hard-packed earth.
We had not gone far when Cabal stopped.
‘What is it?’ I asked, looking around in case he had seen someone approaching.
‘We forgot the cross,’ he said.
It was true. I remembered seeing it by the door. ‘Too late now,’ I told him, wiping the sweat from my face.
‘I am not leaving without it,’ he said.
‘Cabal,’ I began, but then I fell silent, knowing it was useless to reason with him. He had waited too long for this day. All that he had endured, and the pain of memories he had carried for so long in silence, were somehow contained in that cross.
‘I will catch up in a moment,’ he said. ‘You go on down the road.’
When I did not move, he gave me a gentle shove. ‘Go!’ Then he smiled. It was the smile of his old self. ‘I am untouchable. Remember?’
*
Then he ran back towards the town, and I kept moving in the other direction. Going down the slope, I found I could not stop the cart. It was all I could do to keep pace with it, and I was halfway up the other side before I felt again the drag of the cart’s weight on my arms.
It was hard to spot the turn-off down to the boat. Just when I was convinced I had passed it, I saw where our footprints had disturbed the tall grass. I ran the cart off the road and into the shade of the trees, then stopped to catch my breath. A warm breeze blew in off a field of barley, just across the road, cooling the sweat on my face. The barley swayed and changed colour, like the sea when clouds are passing overhead.
I pulled the cart down from the ridge, twisting it this way and that around the trees, until I reached the riverbank.
At first, I could not see the boat. Then I noticed it half-hidden by leafy branches which had been cut and thrown across the deck. There was no one on board. I was just about to call out Olaf’s name, when he rose from the weeds where he had been hiding up to his neck in the water, with river grass draped over his head.
‘What happened to Cabal?’ he asked, wiping the mud from his eyes as he climbed up onto the bank.
‘He went back for something,’ I said. ‘A cross.’
‘A cross?’ His jaw was shaking with cold.
‘Just help me get this silver on board.’
‘Is there enough?’ he asked.
‘More than enough.’
Olaf and I set to work loading the silver. Without Cabal, we were unable to lift the trunk from the cart, so we had to move the bags of silver one by one. After throwing them onto the deck of the boat, we moved the empty chest on board, refilled it with the coins and then wedged the chest under one of the rowing benches.
Afterwards, we decided to move the boat to the other side of the river, where it would be safer. We untied the ropes which held us to the willows and drifted across to the other bank, a short distance downstream. We cut some branches and laid them over the deck to hide us. From the shelter of the leafy shadows, I stared at the water sluicing past, dappled with pale green pollen dust. Already the current was growing slack. Soon the tide would ebb and turn against us.
The birds had begun to sing again. A river rat plopped into the water and swam to the other bank, pink paws scrabbling through the weeds. Far above, I saw a flock of small birds, thousands of them, swaying in one dappled mass in the sky.
Suddenly I caught sight of a movement in the trees on the other side. It was no more than a flickering of the leaves, but I knew something was there. I rose to my feet and peered through the screen of branches. The leaves shook again and then I heard a branch crack.
Olaf and I remained motionless, staring dry-eyed at the shadows on the opposite bank.
A shape was weaving its way down towards the water. A
bird screeched.
I took up the spear that lay beside me.
Then the shape stepped into view and we realised it was the bearded man’s horse. Its bridle trailed on the ground as it pulled up clumps of grass, grinding its teeth together.
We sat back and sighed, fists unclenching from weapons.
A breeze blew in from the ocean, rustling the willow branches.
‘The tide is changing. We cannot wait any longer,’ said Olaf. His soaked clothes clung to his shivering body. Water dripped from his sleeves.
‘He should be here by now,’ I replied. ‘I had better go and find him.’
‘That is too much of a risk,’ he said.
I took off my chain-mail vest and laid it in a rustling heap on the deck. My shirt was checkered with the dirty imprint of old iron. ‘We cannot leave him here,’ I said.
‘Then let me go.’
I looked at him in surprise.
‘If we do not stick together now,’ he said, ‘then we deserve whatever fate these people have in mind for us.’
‘If you have to,’ I told him, ‘you can sail home by yourself. That is why you have to stay with the boat. Wait as long as you can, but if we are not back by the time the tide has changed, then you will leave. Do you understand?’
Olaf nodded, his face pale with cold and fear.
I lowered myself into the water and struck out for the opposite bank. It was warm at the top but down below I felt the cool undercurrent, like a second river running underneath the first.
When I reached the muddy bank, I hauled myself up and looked back. The Drakkar was well hidden. Overhanging willow branches swayed in front of the boat. I set off along the river bank, heading for the town. The ground was carpeted with thick grass, glowing emerald in the shady light.
I began to run along the river bank, keeping in the shadow of the willows. Just ahead lay the body of the horseman. A fox was licking the blood from his face. As I passed by, it streaked away in a blur of black and dusty orange.
Through the trees ahead, I saw the rooftops of the town. When I reached the muddy place where people had crossed the river, I began to move up the slope, remaining hidden in the trees until I reached the wall of a house. There, I lay down and crawled to the edge of the building.
Peering around the corner, I saw that a crowd had gathered outside the church. The men in the group were armed, some with longbows taller than themselves and quivers stuffed with arrows. Others carried broadswords. One man carried a huge wooden mallet. It looked as if they were preparing to set out after us.
At the top of the church steps, a priest was shouting at the people who had gathered. I recognised him as the man Cabal had thrown through the window. He was shaking a hammer in the air. In amongst his own language, I heard him say a few words in Latin. ‘Libera nos, Domine, furore Normanorum!’ Deliver us, O Lord, he was saying, from the fury of the Northman.
Then I saw him lift a torn red blanket up to the door of the church. He held onto a nail and hammered the blanket into place. After several more nails, he stepped back so that the crowd could all see what he had done.
It was then, as the people moved forward, that I saw Cabal’s body lying at the base of the steps. He had been stripped and was lying face down. His back was a cloak of blood. He had been flayed, exposing the bones of his ribs and spine. The blanket on the door was his skin.
I crawled behind the wall again. My head was spinning. I had to force myself not to cry out. I pressed my hand against my mouth, muffling the moans which rose from deep inside my lungs.
Looking once more around the corner of the house, I saw that the crowd had begun to disperse. The armed men moved off down the road we had used to enter the village.
Two women took hold of Cabal’s feet and together they dragged his body across the square. His face raked on the gravel. Straining, they hauled him down towards the river. Cabal’s fingers seemed to claw at the grass, as if trying to stop them from what they were about to do.
They rolled Cabal’s body into the water, where it sank but then rose up again.
The women turned to walk back up the hill. Their dresses were splattered with blood.
Before they could spot me, I darted into the trees. Cutting down through the woods until I reached the river, I could hear the men as they advanced along the top of the ridge.
When I saw the boat, I dove into the water and swam across.
Olaf reached out to help me on board.
We glanced at each other. There was nothing to say.
Olaf lashed the tiller in place. It was no use to us now because we were, in effect, moving backwards. He took his place beside me at the rowing benches and we pulled out into the stream. Once we reached the estuary, we could bring the boat around, but there was not enough room here on the narrow river. We rowed hard through the slackening tide on our way towards the open sea.
Shadows of the trees passed over us. As we drew near to the river mouth, the water ran more swiftly. The smell of salt air reached our lungs.
I heard a dull clapping sound and looked up to see an arrow embedded in the mast. Then two more arrows landed in the water, just short of the boat. They sliced under us, trailing chains of silver bubbles.
Above us, on the ridge, men were silhouetted against the sky. Others appeared on the river bank. I saw the men on the ridge draw their bows, leaning back to give the arrows height, then jerk their bodies forward as they loosed the strings. The arrows seemed to wobble as they climbed, almost pausing as they reached the crest of their flight. Then I lost sight of them against the trees. The next thing I heard was a crack as one of the arrows smacked into my shield, scattering red chips of paint off the wood.
The men drew their bows again. A flock of arrows sailed above the water. With a loud clatter, three of them struck the deck. Others sliced into the water, passing under the boat before rising to the surface again.
The man with a huge wooden mallet emerged from the forest and stood on the bank, waving the strange weapon wildly over his head and bellowing insults.
We were moving quickly now. The men could not keep up with us. We slid around a bend and they fell out of sight. Now there was no sound except the grinding of the oars in the oarlocks.
As I turned my head to wipe the sweat from my face on my sleeve, I saw an arrow sticking out of Olaf’s back. But Olaf was still rowing as if nothing had happened to him.
‘Olaf,’ I said.
He turned to me, bleary-eyed.
‘You are hurt,’ I said.
He set his oar, then reached over his shoulder and broke off the arrow shaft, leaving a short stump protruding. He looked at the arrow, then flung it away over the side and began to row again.
We reached the muddy estuary, which had become a field of choppy surf now that the tide was changing. Quickly, we brought the ship about, so that Olaf would be steering from the stern again. Meanwhile, I struggled to raise the sail.
As I was doing this, I heard Olaf call to me. When I turned my head, I saw a boat beyond the line of surf. It was just lowering its sail, as if preparing to go up the same river we had just come down. At first, I was relieved to see the familiar dirty wool of the square sail and the overlapping planks which swooped down from the bow into the water and then rose again towards the stern. It was a Norse Drakkar and on board were a full crew, sixteen at the oars, one at the steerboard and another who stood at the bow, pointing towards us. This man’s face was broad and red and his long hair blew in the wind. Around his shoulders, he wore a cloak made from the shaggy brown pelt of a bear and, underneath it, a leather vest with perforated iron squares laced across his chest.
Their shields hung over the side. One was painted black with a blue star in the centre, another yellow with a red sun and rays spreading out to the corners of the shield. And closest to the stern, hung a red shield, flecked with white paint, the mark of a former Varangian.
The crew lowered their sail, since the wind was against them. They set their oars an
d began to row towards us.
Now my relief turned to fear. I had no doubt what they would do to us if they found out what we were carrying.
Olaf jibed the boat and our own sail filled with the wind. We began to move across the angry surf. Waves broke against our bow, sending arcs of spray across the deck.
The men in the other Drakkar had cleared the line of breakers. They were in the estuary now. The one at the bow shouted at us to draw alongside them.
He spoke the southern Norse of Danes. They had probably come from one of the Danish settlements across the water in Ireland, and were raiding the coast, as Cabal had said they did.
I tightened the sail lines to gather more speed as we made our way towards the open water.
The Danes brought their boat around, oar blades hacking the murky water. The bear-cloaked man stayed at the bow, chanting to keep them in time.
Olaf cried out in frustration. We were not moving fast enough. Between us and the sea, the current surged against itself, waves rolling under each other. On either side of the river mouth, white-bearded rollers crashed against the dunes.
The Danes changed course to cut us off and run our boat aground. Any moment now, they would pull in front. There was nothing to do but keep on towards the jagged surf.
The bear-skinned man swept back his cloak and took a long-handled war-axe from his belt. Its sharpened edge shone silver like a crescent moon. He moved the axe slowly back and forth in front of his face, staring past the blade, which was an old trick for setting the range.
We were so close that I could see his pock-marked skin, his rotten teeth and hawk-beak nose.
My palms were bloody from gripping the sail lines.
The Danes were about to overtake us. The strain of rowing showed in their windburned faces and clenched teeth. The man at the steerboard arched his body to hold the boat on course.
The patterns of their shields weaved before my sweat-stung eyes. With a shout from the bear-cloaked man, the Danes on the starboard side hauled in their square-tipped oars. Then they took up their shields and swords.
We were moving straight towards them. All the Danes had to do was to guide their boat onwards, propelled by the force of the current, and they would be able to walk from the deck of their boat onto ours.
