‘That’s Bamburgh,’ Richard said. ‘It used to be the stronghold of the Northumbrian kings. My father told me the Normans plan to rebuild it.’
‘Anyone see if it’s manned?’ Vallon asked.
Hero’s eyes were too sticky with brine to see clearly.
‘There’s scaffolding on one of the walls,’ Wayland said.
‘Well, if anyone’s there, they’ve seen us. Keep rowing.’
Even with six oars manned, they struggled to make headway. They’d spotted the castle not long after midday and it was still in sight behind them by late afternoon.
Raul pointed. ‘Ship to starboard!’
A fishing boat carrying four men bore down on them out of the mizzle and cut across their stern almost within hailing distance. Vallon and some of the others raised their hands. The crew of the other vessel stared hard and none of them lifted a finger in greeting.
‘Don’t like the look of that,’ Raul said.
With the wind filling its sail, the boat rapidly made shore and disappeared into the mouth of a lagoon. Shearwater crept on. Directly ahead, an indeterminate smear hardened into a low headland poking a mile out to sea.
‘We ain’t going to get round that,’ said Raul.
Vallon dug in with his oar. ‘Keep at it. We’ll try to row into the lee before dark.’
On they struggled, their progress slowing the closer they came to the headland.
‘We’re caught in a tidal rip,’ Raul shouted. ‘It’s carrying us backwards.’
Vallon couldn’t work it out. Under the cliffs towards the point of the headland, the sea was as flat as pewter. Close inshore, the sea was combed into ragged lines of foam cutting across the waves. He pointed at the headland. ‘I think it might be an island.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Raul shouted. ‘We ain’t going to reach it on this tide.’
Vallon growled with frustration. ‘Drop anchor. We’ll wait for the tide to turn.’
The anchor dragged through the sandy bottom and then held, tethering Shearwater close to a long and lonely beach backed by high dunes. Vallon issued orders. ‘Raul, Brant, row Wayland ashore.’ He turned to the falconer. ‘Make your way up the beach and see what’s ahead.’
‘Can we go ashore, too?’ Hero asked. After four days at sea he yearned to feel solid ground underfoot.
Vallon glanced back towards the inlet where the fishing boat had disappeared. ‘We’re not safe here. Keep watch from the dunes. Don’t wander off.’
Hero stepped on to a strand that had been swept clear of all human traces except for the weathered ribs of a ship half buried in the sand. He and Richard scrambled up a steep dune capped with marram grass. A miniature desert spread inland. Some of the dunes were aligned to the prevailing wind, others arranged as chaotically as the waves chopping at Shearwater. Looking back, Hero saw the anchored knarr straining against the current. Wayland and his dog were tiny outlines running up the beach. The sun was a pale blister in the overcast. Hero shivered.
He was run down. All of them were. Never really warm, never really dry, never a full night’s sleep. They’d eaten all the fresh food and their diet was a monotony of stale bread, salted herrings and porridge. Even the drinking water had run so short that Vallon had imposed rationing. Hero had noticed that cuts and scratches were slow to heal.
Beside him, Richard echoed his dejection with a sigh.
‘Don’t lose heart,’ Hero said. ‘We’ll soon be in Scottish waters.’
‘So much time and effort, and we’re only back where we started from. If I had a good horse, I could be home by daybreak tomorrow.’ Richard’s mouth twisted. ‘Imagine the reception I’d receive.’
Hero realised just how much Richard had sacrificed. ‘Do you regret your decision to come with us?’
Richard’s face grew still. ‘No. I could have borne my father’s contempt and Drogo’s blows if Margaret had shown me any affection. Even the hardiest plant shrivels in barren soil.’ He traced a pattern in the sand. ‘The only thing I regret is the blood that’s been spilled. I never imagined that Drogo would pursue his grudge so violently.’ Richard swept away his tracing.
‘There’s no stain on your hands.’
‘That’s not how my family will see it. I’ll never be able to return to England. Perhaps I could come to Italy with you. I was wondering about taking Holy Orders. Do you think I might be accepted?’
Hero smiled. ‘I’m sure that any monastery would be delighted to receive you.’
‘If I practise my writing, perhaps they would let me work in the scriptorium.’
‘Writing all day can be drudgery. It will make your sight grow dim and your back crooked.’
‘But think how much I’ll learn.’
‘Richard, if we complete this journey, you’ll have learned more than any book scholar.’
‘Hey! Are you two deaf?’
Raul stood on the beach, hands on hips. Wayland was jogging back towards the ship. The tide had begun to go out and Shearwater rode more easily at anchor.
Raul came puffing up the dune. ‘Vallon wants us back on board.’ He reached the crest and swept his eyes about. ‘Where’s Brant?’
Hero frowned. ‘How would I know?’
‘I thought he was with you.’
‘We haven’t seen him since we landed.’
Raul thumped his forehead with his hand. ‘Shit!’
‘He’s probably just stretching his legs,’ Hero said. ‘Do you want us to take a look?’
Raul glared around. ‘Make it quick. If he ain’t shown up by the time Wayland gets here, we’re leaving.’
Hero and Richard clambered over the dunes, clawing up the steep windward faces and scampering down the lee slopes. The sandhills formed a maze as convoluted as the ruins of a city. Each time Hero reached a crest, he called Brant’s name in a voice that fell muffled into the labyrinth.
‘Look,’ Richard said, pointing at a scattering of bones in the next hollow.
Hero prodded a human skull with his foot. The chalky cranium had been smashed in. Judging by the number of other bones scattered about, a massacre had been committed here. ‘They look very old,’ he said. ‘I wonder if the victims were from the ship we saw on the beach.’
Richard looked behind him. ‘Perhaps we should go back.’
‘Let’s climb one more ridge.’
From the top they scanned the waste. Grasses flickered in the wind. The sand crawled around their feet. Gulls hung stacked in the sky for as high as the eye could see. The glaucous shapes drifted slowly backwards on the wind, uttering woeful cries.
‘We’re wasting time,’ Hero said. ‘Brant’s deserted.’
‘Wait. I thought I heard a voice.’
‘Only the gulls.’
‘No. Listen.’
Hero raised his head. ‘You’re imagining it.’
‘There it comes again. Listen.’
‘It’s nothing. Let’s go.’
But as Hero turned into the wind he caught the tailend of movement over to his left. He picked it up again and thought it was an animal scuttling along a dune. It stopped and he saw that it was Brant, only his head showing. Arms flailing with effort, Brant gained the crest and threw a desperate glance behind him before flinging himself into the next hollow. Hero knew that he was fleeing for his life, yet his own reactions were strangely sluggish. It was as if he were spectating an event in some parallel world. When Brant appeared again, he was close enough for Hero to see the terror on his face. He must have noticed them because he seemed to shake his head in despair before floundering down into the next gully.
He was still hidden when the warhorses came rearing up out of the sand-sea behind him, swinging their heads like mallets, their hooves smashing breaches in the crest.
‘Run!’
Arms windmilling, they raced down the face. The Normans rode in different directions, weaving across each other, the horses galloping haywire though the warren of gullies.
Sliding down the next scarp,
Richard tore his shoe and stumbled on with one sole flapping. They reached another summit and risked a backward glance. By some quirk of timing, all the Normans were hidden in the depressions. Then suddenly, like marionettes jerked on a string, up they rose, whipping their horses, bracing back in their saddles for the next crashing descent. Richard’s breaths came in wheezing gasps. Hero was so winded that he scrabbled up the last slope on all fours.
Raul and Wayland were waiting by the boat. Hero gave a feeble shout and they looked up, idly curious for an instant before springing into action. Hero launched into space, lost his footing and somersaulted down to the beach. Head spinning, he looked up at Wayland and found enough breath to speak.
‘Normans. Chasing Brant.’
Wayland lugged them down the beach. Raul was pushing the boat into the surf.
Wayland dragged them through the waves. Raul seized them one in each hand and plucked them aboard. They grabbed oars. Hero squirmed round to see Brant stagger on to the last dune. He covered his face with his hands at the awful sight of the boat rowing away. A spear flew past him and he plunged off the crest.
‘We can’t just leave him,’ Hero cried.
‘He left us,’ Raul panted, not breaking rhythm.
Brant fell down the dune as if part of him were broken. When he gained his feet, he seemed disoriented, limping away up the beach before turning towards the boat. His right leg had an arrow in the thigh and dragged behind him. He was halfway down the strand when the first Normans rode on to the sand ridge. They saw that he couldn’t escape and halted while the rest of the force gathered. Upwards of twenty crested the skyline by the time Brant staggered to the water’s edge. He spread his arms, his mouth gaping in a howl of outrage.
Some of the Normans dismounted and left their horses and descended on foot. Others led their mounts sideways down the face, while the bolder cavaliers kicked with their spurs, their steeds sliding down the dune on their hindquarters. One soldier drew a bow and aimed at Brant, but an officer shouted and the archer slackened off.
Raul grabbed his crossbow. ‘Stop rowing!’
‘He’s a dead man,’ said Wayland. ‘Don’t waste your bolts.’
Raul backhanded him across the chest. ‘Stop rowing.’
He knelt, resting one elbow on the thwart to steady his aim.
Brant turned to face his hunters and held up his hands in a gesture so abject that Hero groaned for pity.
‘Everyone keep still,’ Raul ordered.
The boat slopped up and down. Raul muttered something and froze into greater concentration. Hero heard a small explosion as the pent-up energy of the bolt was released. Brant arched back, hands fluttering, took a couple of steps sideways and pitched into the shallows.
Raul picked up his oar. ‘I had to kill him. He’d have told them our course and destination.’
Two soldiers ran into the sea to recover the body. The rest gathered around their commander. Hero could see him giving directions. The force split, half a dozen men riding back up on to the dunes, the rest galloping hard up the beach.
‘What are they up to?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Raul, ‘but they ain’t given up on us.’
*
On board Shearwater, Wayland reported that the island was cut off from the mainland by a shallow bay riddled with banks and bars.
‘Is there a way out?’ Vallon asked.
‘There’s a narrow channel at the other end.’
‘That’s probably where the cavalry are making for,’ said Raul.
‘Any shipping in the bay?’
Wayland shook his head.
‘What about the island? Is it inhabited?’
‘I saw only ruins.’
Vallon studied the dunes. Against the gloomy evening sky, the Norman soldiers waited in menacing silhouette. The detachment that had galloped north was out of sight. The tidal current had eased and the wind had fallen. ‘We’ll take a look at the bay,’ he said.
They rowed parallel with the beach, the soldiers on the dunes reining in their horses to keep pace with them. The fugitives reached the point at the end of the beach. The bay was draining to mud, veined by dozens of channels gleaming in the gathering dark. ‘We won’t cross it without stranding,’ said Vallon. He studied the island and pointed at its rocky southern point less than a mile away. ‘Make for the shelter of the cliffs.’
Night caught up with them before they reached the lee. They felt their way in and dropped anchor when they heard the sound of waves sucking among rocks. Hero tried to conjecture some form in the darkness. Seals moaned out on the flats. Surf boomed on the cliffs around the headland.
‘Do you want me to go ashore and explore?’ Wayland asked Vallon.
‘Wait a while.’
Just then a light appeared high above them.
‘The Normans must have crossed on to the island,’ Raul muttered.
‘They wouldn’t wave a lantern. Everybody stay quiet.’
Hero watched the lantern bobbing down the black face of night. The light reached sea level and stopped. A voice called.
‘Anyone catch that?’
‘Sounded like English,’ said Wayland. ‘English and then another language.’
‘Don’t you go answering,’ Raul hissed. ‘They could be wreckers.’
The voice called again and the lantern swung like a censer.
‘He’s speaking Latin,’ said Hero. ‘Pax vobiscum. Peace be with you. Venite in ripam. Nolite timere. Come ashore. Don’t be afraid.’
Raul spat. ‘Not likely. Wreckers try all sorts of tricks to lure sailors into their clutches.’
Vallon snorted. ‘How many wreckers do you know who speak Latin? Maybe there’s a monastery on the island. Hero, ask him who he is.’
Hero made a trumpet with his hands. ‘Quis es tu?’
Laughter in the dark. ‘Brother Cuthbert, erimetes sum.’
‘He says he’s a hermit monk.’
‘Ask him if there are any Normans on the island.’
Hero turned to Wayland. ‘You ask. I think English is his native tongue.’
Wayland called out. An answer came from the night. ‘He says there aren’t any Normans. The island’s been deserted for many years. He’s the only man left on it.’
Vallon tapped his mouth. ‘Hero, go ashore with Raul and question the hermit. Find out if the Normans can reach the island. Learn as much as you can about the coast.’
‘Can I go, too?’ said Richard.
‘I suppose so. But don’t take all night. Tell the hermit to snuff out his lamp. The Normans will be able to see it from the mainland.’
Raul rowed towards the light. Hero gathered himself in the bow and sprang on to a boulder slippery with sea wrack.
‘Salvete amici,’ called the hermit. ‘Are you monks? Have my brothers sent you?’
His head was cowled and the glow from his lantern threw his face into shadow.
‘Put the light out,’ Raul growled.
‘But the night is dark and you don’t know the path.’
Raul whisked the lamp away and extinguished the flame. ‘I ain’t following you up any path. What is this place?’
The hermit gave a bronchial laugh. ‘You must have travelled from far away. This is the holy island of Lindisfarne, the place where Christianity first reached England.’
‘Deserted, you said.’
Another phlegmy laugh. ‘Nobody has lived on Lindisfarne since Vikings destroyed the monastery two centuries ago.’
‘Can anyone sail to it across the bay?’
‘Not on an ebbing tide and the night so dark.’
‘That’s all we need to know,’ said Raul. ‘Let’s go back.’
‘Not just yet,’ said Hero. ‘I’d like to hear the history of the place.’
‘Me, too,’ said Richard.
‘Well, I’m staying right here,’ said Raul. ‘If you hear me yell, don’t stop to wonder why.’
Hero could just about descry the hermit’s shape. ‘Sir, pleas
e take us to your shelter. Duc nos in cellam tuam, domine, quaeso.’
Brother Cuthbert led them up a gully, guiding them around invisible hazards. It was so dark that Richard had to cling to Hero’s sleeve. They negotiated pillars of rock and then Cuthbert stopped.
‘Here we are. Intrate. Come in, come in.’
Hero worked out that the hermit’s retreat was a cave with a patch of sailcloth for a weather-shield. When he put his head inside, the stench made him gag. Like rats rotting under a sack.
Richard clapped a hand to his mouth. ‘Urgh!’
‘Ssh. Think of the purity of his soul.’
Dying coals reddened fitfully on the ground. Hero and Richard sat on one side of the fire, Cuthbert on the other.
‘You’re the first visitors I’ve received since Easter,’ Cuthbert said across the gulf. ‘Which one of you speaks such polished Latin? Have you come to Lindisfarne on pilgrimage?’
‘We’re pilgrims of a sort. We’re voyaging to the far north.’
‘Carrying the word of Christ?’
‘No, we’re on a trading mission.’
Hero spoke in Latin and had to translate for Richard’s benefit. The young Norman was uneasy.
‘Ask him to light the lamp.’
Cuthbert met the request with an apology. ‘I have little fuel to spare. There is light in this place, though — a light bright enough to illuminate the darkest of nights.’
‘Tell us about your island,’ Hero said.
Cuthbert related how, in the seventh century, St Aidan had brought Christianity to Northumbria and founded the monastery on Lindis — farne. In that same year, Cuthbert’s sainted namesake was born. After ten years of missionary work, Cuthbert retreated to a hermitage on Inner Farne — one of the sea-swept islands they’d sailed past earlier. Asked by pope and king to become the second bishop, Cuthbert reluctantly agreed, but after two years he retired to his hermitage to die. Eleven years later, at the ceremony of Cuthbert’s Elevation, the monks opened his coffin to find his body complete and uncorrupt. News of the miracle brought pilgrims flocking to the shrine. Then Vikings sacked the monastery and the surviving brothers took St Cuthbert’s body to the mainland and enshrined it in their monastery at Durham.
Several times during his narrative, Cuthbert broke off, coughing. His breathing had a stertorous quality that Hero found as disturbing as the stink.
Hawk Quest Page 25
