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  Shrugging off Baldr’s hand, shutting out Paperkali’s words, I push past the monk and hasten to the refectory door. Once there, I turn to face them. ‘M’lym is in Abban’s care, but she is not his captive. She can speak to whomever she wants.’

  I don’t wait for an answer from ship-mate or monk. I cross the threshold. A gust of wind and the refectory door slams shut behind me. I run along a passage to the cellar steps. The steps lead to the scribes’ underground chamber: the scriptorium. Darkness on the stair, smell of inks and glue, singeing goat-hides and tallows. I hear men’s voices below. Caught off guard — trying to catch their words — I miss a foothold on the stone steps, trip and stumble; fall half-way down. Light widens on the bottom step, bright candlelight from within the scriptorium, iron hinges swivel on their rusty pins, light lost instantly, door suddenly shut. Behind the door a bolt is drawn.

  *

  ‘Hakon’s runaway gelding was wiser than we gave him credit for.’

  The words from Halp are meant in jest but they hit the mark with the crew. Huddled beside the Meuris, jammed together for shelter under leaking rain-soaked tarps, the rest of us readily agree. Wind whistles along the beach. Spray blows off the sea. Grit off the shingle gusts in the air. We have begged a flask of lamp-oil from the monastery to keep our fire alight. If it weren’t for that, we would have no warmth in our faces. The flames smell of acrid pitch and pine.

  ‘A wise horse is a good companion,’ says Hakon.

  Dantzk agrees. ‘You have to hand it to him, Skip. The gelding had wind of something. Smelt salt in his nostrils before us. Couldn’t wait to get off the beach — as far away from the sea as he could.’

  Fjak wipes a drip off his nose. ‘Never seen weather like this. Almost a moon after Vali’s day! Sailed these coasts man and boy. Never seen the like in springtime: hail and thunder, biting wind.’

  ‘I did wonder about the horse,’ says Thrandt thoughtfully. ‘Didn’t I say it was strange? It couldn’t have been my ramp that spooked him — he came down the landing-boards just fine.’

  ‘Hm.’ Vermund grunts — whether the grunt is to agree with his father, or not, impossible to tell.

  Stein says not a word. He whittles a stump of driftwood, turns it in his hand to inspect the shape.

  Hrut Thrandtson has been playing at hand-signs with Kru. For a game — the silly game of a bored, restless child — Hrut ‘acts mute’, trying to guess which word or feeling is meant, when Kru gives him a sign. When he has guessed the answer, he nudges me to check, yes or no, if he has got it right, and raises his middle finger — an irritating habit — in whooping celebration when he does.

  Hakon is fed up with Hrut’s game of ‘acting mute’.

  ‘The gelding will make a fine “plough-and-harness”, says Skip gloomily. ‘I could kick myself — I should have asked more for the horse. I sold him too cheap.’

  ‘But Skip,’ says Baldr with a smile. ‘How can you complain? You made a killing on the mares.’

  Halp laughs coarsely. ‘That Father Abban is a fool. If he knew a horse from a pig — or a sire’s arse from a dame’s ─ he would never have paid Skip seven marks for the black stallion.’

  ‘Who said it was seven marks of silver?’ asks Hakon, not in the least put out by Halp’s comment. ‘Seven ounces of hack, more like! You better watch it, Halpin-me-old-sea-dog, or I will send you out in this gale — I will send you out with a pea-pod to bale rainwater from the hold!’

  *

  Stormy seas keep us stranded on Slaidh beach. We can’t risk sailing round Kildobhan point and into the estuary. The skies are unsettled, clouds racing, wet and thundery. We have to wait for a break in the weather before chancing it upriver to Vadrar-fiord. It has been three days of waiting.

  Yesterday, Hakon, seeing no improvement, and preparing to sit it out for as long as it takes, had us take the cargo tarp off the Meuris to make a rude shelter for the crew. The tarp has worked better than our overnight tilts. It has heavier nap and a thicker proofing of grease to resist the foul weather.

  We stretched the oily tarp between landing-ropes to make ridge and roof, and battened it down with heavy stones gathered from the beach. Behind the tarp, as a windbreak on the windward side, we have up-ended sections of Thrandt’s ramp and sunk them into the gravel — a makeshift timber wall against the howling south-westerly.

  *

  At intervals through the day, and throughout the night, Thrandt takes off his boots and climbs into the Meuris. He goes in to check the seven trunks of silver put in his custody by King Orm. The hold is water-logged with rain. He comes back, breeches wet to the waist, and announces that the chests are safely stowed. ‘Under water, lads, but safely stowed.’

  No need for the shipwright to be concerned for the treasure. We are camped at the bows of our beached ship, a fire fuelled by lamp-oil in front of the covers. No intruders could pass from landward without our seeing them. And from seaward, there is not a chance in hell of anyone approaching from that quarter. A gale blows against the rocks at Kildobhan point. In this weather no skipper will be out at sea, and if he were, he wouldn’t dare to surmount the high breakers and reach the beach. Thrandt’s precious silver is as safe on the flooded deck of the Meuris as it would be in Lodin’s treasury.

  ‘It is Lodin’s loot,’ says Thrandt. ‘Wouldn’t do to lose it! Have to keep my eye on it for peace of mind.’

  ‘Rich man, your Lord Lodin,’ says Dantzk. ‘Custodian of the Three Rivers? Custodian of the river-tolls more like! His treasury bursts at the seams; his forges rattle out new coin every day — not to mention the tame Erse-man Deasún at his beck and call — he has it made.’

  ‘It’s honest trading that makes Lodin’s wealth,’ says Hakon sharply. ‘Not tolls but sheep and hides, wool and tallow, horses and glue. On Inis-cáera he has hundreds of wool-backs in pasture on the isle, hundreds of them — enough to trade this season, and next; I have seen the tally.’

  ‘Not forgetting our shipyard too,’ says Vermund. ‘We turn out a new ship for him every year.’

  ‘Not bad, eh?’ says Stein Thrandtson suddenly. ‘Seven trunks of silver for a year’s work — it may be Lodin’s loot, father, but it was our labour!’ A long speech by Stein’s standards — more words in a single breath than we heard him speak all winter. In disgust he hurls his stick of whittled driftwood into the Meuris. The stick plops up a splash of rainwater from inside the hull

  Fjak chuckles. ‘Cheer up, Stein! Lodin may not be Custodian of the Three Rivers for much longer.’

  The rasping sound of Fjak’s voice and the nagging nonsense that he comes out with gets under my skin. ‘You are a blithering idiot, man! What are you on about?’

  He replies with a smug grin. ‘You of all people, Thralson, you should know the ins and outs of what I have said — seeing as, when the invasion comes, your brother will be in the thick of it!’

  Chapter 25

  An unruffled sea. Air tangy with salt and seaweed. Flat waters sparkle in spring sunshine from Slaidh beach all the way to the horizon. Waves retreat outwards from the shore with a gentle ripple. A light wind strengthens from the west — enough to fill our sail. Tide is almost out on the full. Sun a quarter up in the sky. We have time, if we don’t slacken, to make our ship fit for launch before noon.

  Early this morning, Gufa and three holy brothers took to the fishing-curachs on the ebb-tide. They rowed out of sight behind the rocks, followed by a host of circling gulls expecting to scavenge in their wake. The brothers will gather mussels on rocks along the shore and rake seaweed left behind by the tide. Later, moving farther up the coast, they will retrieve lobster pots that have survived the storms. It will be a long day for the monks — they won’t return till evening — by then we will be gone.

  Our crew, while they ‘go to’ on Skip’s orders, are whistling idly, singing and chattering; impatient to roll out into the waves. They can’t wait to give a hearty ‘aye-aye’ for the off — to haul dry canvas; pass the point; catch the tide;
ride the surge up the estuary; ‘turn the bluffs’, set our prow to an-Shuir and sail the brackish swell into haven at Vadrar-fiord.

  We each have jobs to do. Halp is on board with Dantzk, bailing the last swill of gritty rainwater from the Meuris; Kru is on his own, unfastening and coiling the beaching-ropes; Vermund is repairing a section of ramp damaged in the storm. Stein and Hrut are shouldering plinth by plinth over the gunnels into the waiting hands of their father. Even Fjak, partnered with Baldr, is cheerful — they are shaking off shingle from the cargo-tarp, rolling it into a tight bundle for stowing on the ship.

  Hakon has had me tightening withies on our steering-gear. After he tested it — tugging outboard and inboard with some force — he grumbled that the tension tiller-to-rudder was not to his liking. It looked sound enough to me but I’ve been asked to do it a second time.

  Skip’s shout of ‘Hell’s teeth, put more beef in it, Thralson,’ is hailed so that all the crew can hear. And worse than that, he makes a fuss of joining me by the hull to see the job done under his nose. Once hunkered down at my shoulder, with a groaning of his leg joints, he begins in hushed voice.

  ‘I thought, Thralson, that when you met Raffson on Glun’s ship, he might have told you something. Did your brother not mention how they got on with Lodin?’

  My reply is sharp. ‘When I saw Einar, he was not a happy man. That much I know.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Hakon has left me no elbow room to spool the rope. I shove him to one side — make more space for myself than is really needed — and strain my full weight on the withies.

  ‘I am as much in the dark as you, Skip. I know nothing of what was discussed at the fort. Glun Amlavson and my brother did not spend long in Lodin’s presence, I can tell you that — but I haven’t a clue what passed between them. My brother did not speak of it.’

  ‘Strange! You were with Raffson for ages. You were seen with him on Iron-knee’s ship!’

  ‘Is that gossip from Fjak?’

  ‘No, not from Fjak,’ replies Hakon, keeping his voice low. ‘If you must know, it was from Kru.’

  ‘Kru wouldn’t spy on me.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that — he wasn’t spying on you — he was worried for your sake — he saw you go onboard with Raffson. He hung around on the beaching ground, waiting and watching.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You had accompanied your brother to the stranger’s ship. Kru could see that you were upset.’

  ‘Kru wouldn’t know who my brother is. He has never met him!’

  Hakon hesitates. ‘Baldr was there too. He might have done signs for Kru, to explain who Raffson was; or it could have come from me — I can’t remember which of us might have told him.’

  I stare searchingly into Skip’s eyes. He knows that I doubt his words.

  He carries on. ‘Tide had turned on the river — Kru saw the crew on the long-ship making ready to sail. You were on board with your brother, and Kru was convinced that you would leave Vadrar-fiord — that you would go off with the men from Linn-dubh.’

  ‘He told you all that, Skip? That’s a long story for a mute!’

  ‘Not for a man like Kru — and not when he has something to say.’

  ‘How did he manage to find you? Or gain access to the fort? Back then, after the long-ships left, you were closed up for days in Lodin’s apartments, the Custodian and you, Deasún, Ingvar and Jötunn, all of you together.’

  ‘True, I took some finding! It so happens I was with Aghamora, but Kru wasn’t put off one bit by her presence. He signed the whole thing for us without help or hindrance. He had tears in his eyes, Thralson. The man loves you like a brother — he feels he owes you everything.’

  ‘He owes me nothing. I am the one who is in debt to him.’

  ‘He will never forget Inis-dubh.’

  ‘Nor will I, Skip.’

  Hakon mumbles — barely a whisper — it is clear that he doesn’t want my other shipmates to hear. ‘While you were with Raffson on the long-ship, did you shake hands like brothers? Did you make up with him before his departure?’

  ‘Little chance of that.’

  Skip tries to hide a smile of satisfaction. ‘Shouldn’t brother forgive brother?’

  ‘I can’t forgive him. Einar knows it — he didn’t waste his breath asking me to. And besides, he has not one shred of remorse for having sent me to Inis-dubh. All the shit meted out to me by Drafdrit and Brennan, he thinks I had it coming.’

  ‘How can a man punish his brother and not ask to be forgiven?’

  ‘Einar has asked for something more than forgiveness.’

  Hakon shakes his head. ‘When a man is guilty of wrongdoing, what more is there to ask than forgiveness?

  ‘My brother wants me to turn against you. To leave the Meuris. To turn my back on you and join his crew on the Hrafentyr.’

  ‘Did he, the bastard?’

  ‘He says that one day he will kill you! It has to be!’

  ‘Let him try, Thralson. I am ready.’

  ‘He believes that the bad blood between you can’t be settled any other way.’

  Hakon gets awkwardly to his feet.

  ‘On that score I won’t disagree!’

  ‘But, Skip, can’t you see what Einar is after? He wants me to be his ally with Glun Amlavson. He wants me to be with them — with the men of Linn-dubh — when they come to take control of the three rivers.’

  *

  A screeching cry from the end of the beach. ‘Help us, merciful God!’

  A monk on his own — one of Brother Gufa’s party — pulls his fishing-curach on the shingle and runs towards the ship. The man has no robe on, and no breeches — the monks often strip off when they are out fishing, and he has only a loincloth, soaking wet, to cover his groin. His neck, face and tonsured head glow hot with exhaustion, his lean body freckled and red with the sun.

  ‘What has happened, man?’ shouts Hakon.

  ‘Where’s your robe, Brother Eli?’ asks Baldr. ‘You had better not let Father Abban see you.’

  ‘Let the man be,’ growls Fjak. ‘How can he row without ditching that heavy brown cloth?’

  Brother Eli catches his breath. ‘It’s Brother Gufa. He has had a terrible fall. Slipped on seaweed, split his head on the rocks. Can’t move. Something wrong with his back. And oh! Poor Gufa! He wails and weeps from the pain.’ Seeing us stare at his naked body, Eli drops his hands to cover his groin. ‘Brother Gufa had the shivers,’ he explains. ‘I threw my robe over him to keep him warm.’

  ‘Halp and Stein,’ shouts Hakon. ‘Fetch a new deck-board! Make it two! Lift them off amidships.’

  The ‘aye-ayes’ are promptly returned.

  ‘Dantzk and Vermund, un-lash the skiff. Baldr and Fjak, an oar apiece.’

  Again a quick response, this time from four voices mingled and alert.

  Skip points to Brother Eli and makes mute signs for Kru — signs so snappy that I can’t follow.

  ‘Skiff on the shingle?’ Hakon turns abruptly. ‘All hands! To the water!

  Not you, young Hrut! You are my runner!’

  ‘Yes, Skip!’ returns the lad eagerly.

  ‘Take a message to Father Abban. Keep it simple, short, respectful, eh? “Injured brother — off Slaidh point — crew of the Meuris gone to fetch him.” Can you do that, lad?’

  ‘He will do fine.’ The reply on Hrut’s behalf comes from his father.

  ‘My friend, a word.’ Hakon drops his voice and speaks quietly to the shipwright. ‘Will you take charge of the skiff? Two men with you, Baldr and Fjak — they are all you need, those lads will row till they drop. No need for more than two men, eh? That will free enough space athwarts for you to bring back Brother Gufa — lay him flat on his back on the deck-boards.’

  ‘I know the drill!’ replies the shipwright. ‘Two boards, one at each side, to support the spine.’

  ‘Bring only the injured man, Thrandt,’ adds Skip. ‘Leave the other monks behind. Let them make their own way
back on the fishing-curachs.’ Then turning to me, ‘Thralson,’ he shouts, though I am right beside him.

  ‘Aye-aye, Skip!’

  ‘Look at Eli — shivering with fright, poor man. To the refectory with him — snappy, by the side gate — before he is plagued for being naked. Oengus will find a spare robe and a warm tincture to restore him.’

  During the fuss of off-loading the skiff, grabbing oars, pulling up deck-boards — and while Skip’s instructions were being given to Thrandt and Hrut — Kru has transferred his grubby serk to Eli. And now our shipmate has lifted the shivering monk to his shoulders — seated there as you would do with a little child — and carries him effortlessly, ahead of me, on the path that leads to the compound.

  *

  The monastery chapel is dimly lit. A single candle burns on the altar. Its flickering light shines like watery ripples on the tamped earth that leads from door to altar. To left and right of the aisle are praying-benches. The open floor between benches has sunk under the weight of monks, who kneel there during their devotions. The smoke of incense used for the morning rituals hangs in the air. Paperkali stands guard beside the iron-framed door. He has opened it ajar to spy through the crack. Kru and I look over his shoulder. The monk whispers from the corner of his mouth without taking his eye off the yard outside. I am standing next to Paperkali, but I can barely hear him. He whispers, not out of pious reverence for the holy place, but in a voice burdened with anxiety. ‘We must choose the right moment,’ says the bee-keeper. We must wait until all the scribes have swarmed from the scriptorium.’

  ‘Swarmed?’

  ‘Yes,’ replies Paperkali, with a hushed finger to his lips. ‘They will swarm like bees returning to the evening hive. They are a nosey bunch, the scribes — they will be bursting to hear the story of Brother Gufa’s accident. Brother Eli has been taken to Father Abban’s quarters. Poor man — he will be questioned, prodded and tormented until he gives a full account!’

  ‘And when the monks have come up out of the cellar, can we go down and see M’lym-kun?’