Forged in Blood Page 2
Hotfoot on Einar’s heels is Drafdrit, who has the King’s writ to run the slave market at Linn-dubh. Behind the slave-master, joining the bridge from the far bank, is a third man, an Erse-man. I recognise him as Drafdrit’s henchman, Brennan, an ironsmith who makes slave-shackles for neck and ankles. He makes good earnings from his forge-work and supplies gangs of local men to act as guards. Drafdrit and Brennan sicken me to the core. I wish Einar had nothing to do with them, but he has no choice but to trade with Drafdrit. Everything termed as the King’s ‘Erse cargo’ has to be negotiated through him.
*
Einar strides up the bank from the hurdles. He cannot hide his anger at seeing Dugi wounded. We are soon joined by Drafdrit and Brennan.
‘Looks like you had a busy morning, Dugfus. Well, you fecking half-blood, was it worth it?’
Finn answers. ‘We took on three Ostmen from the long-ships. Thanks to Dugfus, and your brother, we came out on top.’
‘And you paid the price,’ says Einar grimly. ‘I told you, Finn, to keep an eye on the crew. Is this what happens when my back is turned? Thanks to you, I will be a man down for the King’s campaign. I will have to replace an oarsman — a fore-sculls man at that.’
‘No need, skipper, no need,’ says Dugfus hurriedly. He tries to sound cheerful. ‘Only a scratch —no more; looks worse than it is. I will be up and about in no time.’
‘I will have to ditch you,’ returns my brother coldly. ‘Finn is putting to sea on next tide. He and the crew will be busy. You won’t be on-board. You know my rules. If the wound doesn’t heal quickly, you are finished on the Hrafentyr — you will be out for good!’
Dugfus eyes his wound ruefully.
‘Going to sea! Where to?’ asks Finn.
Slave-master Drafdrit provides the reply. The Hrafentyr, and three other ships, besides yours, are to collect ‘Erse cargo’ from the isles. You are to round up every last hostage — bring them all ashore.’
Finn turns questioningly to Einar. ‘Skip, there must be thousands on those islands.’
Einar nods in reply. ‘According to the count kept by Drafdrit — and it is his business to know — there are eleven hundred and ninety.’
‘Less any who have died over winter,’ adds Drafdrit officiously. He looks at Brennan, as if to read the tally of deaths on the iron-smith’s face. ‘Let’s say eleven-fifty, including women and families.’
‘How can that be?’ I ask. ‘Eleven-fifty! Have all their ransoms been paid all at once?’
‘That’s the point, Kregin,’ says Einar. ‘New orders from King Amlav. No more ransoms to be accepted for hostages. In future, all Erse captives, without exception, are to be shipped overseas.’
‘Why no ransoms?’ Finn scratches his head in puzzlement.
‘Returning hostages for silver is a thing of the past,’ returns Einar. ‘A fine way to raise quick loot. But, for keeping the Erse off our backs, it is a mistaken policy. Released men are life-blood of the cause against us.’
Finn persists. ‘But, Skip, most of our booty comes from ransoms.’
‘Yes, Finn, but ransomed men, once released, turn to arms. They fight and raid; give no end of problems. We bore the brunt of it last winter-fall. They came at us in hordes from the west. The King reckons that we must weaken the Erse once for all. We must reduce their numbers of fighting men. The surest way is by killing but no one earns a bean from that. Deportation is the answer. From now on, all Erse who are taken alive — and are fit to work as slaves — will be held on Inis-dubh.’
‘Inis-dubh is surrounded by a fine, watery bog.’ Brennan boasts as if he had flooded the creek single-handedly as a land-trap for the slaves. ‘Waterlogged even in summer. No getting on or off the isle except by causeway — and only at low tide. My guards will be on both sides of the causeway, blocking escape north and south. No one gets past them. The quick-sands at low-water are deadly. Only a fool would think of crossing them.’
Einar interrupts before Brennan’s last words are out. ‘Who gives a shit, Brennan? The black isle is what it is. Eh, Drafdrit? The swamp and the creek will keep the slaves where you want them.’
‘Let’s get down to it!’ says Drafdrit. ‘The first slave-ships of the season will soon be with us. They will be looking for crawlers — lean and wiry, not too tall — for tunnelling silver-mines in Brythuniog.’
‘Your job, Finn,’ says Einar, ‘is to round up captives from the outlying isles. Once Drafdrit has them on Inis-dubh, he will sort the able-bodied, and have them shipped out by summer-end.’
Chapter 3
Our oars thrust through the waves — fourteen pairs of oars on the Hrafentyr — smacking water against the hull. We pull steadily in mist, heading out of the estuary from Linn-dubh, three smaller craft in our wake. Finn, skippering in place of Einar, keeps us at the oars. The other ships follow suit, though we must be a league off the sandbanks where An-Ruirthech flows into the bay. A fresh wind sings in our ears, a wind nigh perfect for sail, but Finn is not tempted to show canvas. Without sight of land we cannot risk sail. We must keep rowing till we are clear of unseen headlands, north and south, which mark the entrance to the bay.
*
The mist in the estuary should have lifted — it is past noon — but no brightening over sky or wave. Some oarsmen, while they row backs to the prow, stare vacantly astern. Others have their eyes down. They follow the jerking movements of their knees, or gaze absently at their footholds rubbed smooth on the thwarts; or study their boots, puckered and cracked at the insteps by chafing against the thwarts. We heave to a regular beat, a hollow tapping of birch-wood on the oak deck. Finn, his hands free of the helm, taps time on the stern boards with a ship’s mallet. He has his tiller-arm withied in fixed position, rudder flush to steer-board.
We feel our hull move swiftly through the waves. We are ten ship-lengths ahead of the nearest ship. Had Einar been with us, he would be proud of our progress, though he’s not the kind of skipper to praise crew openly. He would expect his oarsmen to make the pace. The Hrafentyr has a keel-line sharper than other craft and sits lower in the water. It helps us thrust in hard and deep with the blades.
Einar is absent on King’s business — the business of war. His journey inland with Glun Amlavson was supposed to be a secret, but we all know where they have been sent — and why. My brother has not left us idle. He has put Finn in charge of the ship. For two weeks we have been collecting ‘Erse cargo’ for Drafdrit from hostage isles off the northeast coast.
Lymn’s Isle is our destination, a rugged isle topped by high heaths, surrounded by deep waters. The largest colony of captives is held there. We are told that a ‘cargo’ of a hundred and sixteen awaits us — men and women, servants and children — hence the need for four ships to transport them ashore. Our haul will be returned to Inis-dubh. Drafdrit has kept us busy — not a day in the last twelve spent at haven. The black marsh on Poddle creek is crammed with a thousand hostages soon to be sold overseas.
From helm-deck Finn calls out after every hundred taps of the mallet. At each hundred oar-strokes, he adds a tiny notch to the mallet-shaft with a flick of his knife. When he has slit enough notches to the shaft, he will know that the Hrafentyr has been rowed to a safe turning-point in open sea. We will stow oars and hoist canvas — the other craft will follow our lead — and if, as looks likely, the brisk south-easterly holds, it will drive our ships north through the mist to the shores of the hostage isle.
*
The ship immediately behind us is manned by Drafdrit and a crew of Ostmen. They have a plan of attack. As soon as they have beached on the isle’s eastern shore, the slave-master’s hired harriers, fisted with axe and blade, will leap into the shallows and raise a battle cry in pursuit of the hostages — a bullying onslaught intended to frighten the women and children out of their wits. To add to the mayhem, local men from two more ships will follow the warriors ashore. Three score strong, and led by Brennan, they will be armed to the teeth with cudgels and staves.
Finn and
the crew of the Hrafentyr will remain on the beach. Our task is to mind the four ships, and make ready with shackles and binding ropes, leaving the task of rounding up the captives to Drafdrit and Brennan. Erse families and their servants have been held hostage on the isle over winter. They are of high rank. They expect ransoms to be paid. They will be counting on their release to the mainland. When they see us arrive mob-handed in four ships, they will fear the worst. They may put up a fight. Drafdrit believes that a show of force will deter them. The last thing he wants is damaged cargo or ruined stock. Should it come to a pitched battle on the island, the Erse cannot hope to overpower the Ostmen, but Drafdrit hopes it won’t come to that. If hostages’ lives are needlessly squandered, then he will be the loser next month when the slave market opens at Linn-dubh — and he will have to answer for the loss to the King.
*
The hindmost ship of our small convoy has fallen back — about twenty ship-lengths off. Its mast and prow bob above the waves at the limit of our sight, and then recede back into the mist. We can’t see the headlands of Eadair — not that we want to; they will be somewhere off to larboard. If we could see their cliffs on a day like this, we would have strayed too close to the rocks. No one on board is fearful of rowing though the mist. Finn is a man to trust at sea. And we have Dugfus as look-out. Supported by his makeshift crutch, a length of knotted ash, he stands on skerry-watch at the prow. His eyes are peeled; he has the safety of our ship in his hands.
‘We will take Dugi with us,’ Finn had said before we cast off. ‘We have no need of a man spare, but what do you say? We will have him along, lads, for the sake of his weather eye and his knowledge of the tides at Lymn’s Isle.’
Finn’s words were greeted by Dugi’s shipmates with a grunt, a non-committal jabbing-out of the chin, no more than that: crewmen have little appetite, when sober, for displaying their feelings. Everyone knows that, had it not been a misty morning, when we caught the early tide out of the creek, wounded Dugi wouldn’t have made the voyage. For the sake of Dugi’s purse, some were glad to be wakened to a sky overcast with sea-harr — an excuse for Finn to bring him along: others were not.
*
Dugi, to make himself look useful, has taken it into his head to come abaft. He squeezes through a narrow gap amidships on either side of the keelson, where Ragni and I sit pulling on the oars. Dugi takes care, as any fellow oarsman would, not to touch our elbows or break our stroke. He steadies himself, leans against the mast, and peers out into the gloom to where Eadair stands hidden from us in mist. Suddenly he looks aft. A smile broadens on his screwed-up face.
‘Look at him!’ Ragni mutters grudgingly. ‘No wonder the big fella is smiling, lucky lubber; after a day lazing around on Lymn’s Isle, he will take full share of the divvies. What’s fair in that?’
From the thwarts at foredeck, another voice rasps out. ‘What’s happened to Einar? Has he gone soft on us? I thought he’d shunt Dugi out for good!’
As if in answer to the cruel snipe, Dugi gives out a ‘hola’ and points to larboard quarter of wake; Finn stops tapping, drops his mallet, and turns to look. ‘Back there, Finn,’ shouts Dugi excitedly. ‘Can’t you make it out? That’s the north cliff of Binn Eadair! We are past the headland.’
*
‘The shits have made it hard for us,’ says Drafdrit. He squeezes rain off his beard, and casts an angry scowl on the huddle of prisoners gathered beside our beached ships.
The Erse prisoners are sunken-eyed with fear. Young mothers clutch babes bundled in shawls. Other children able to walk are separated from their families. All are bound, wrist and ankle, in a skein of ropes and shackles, weighed down by anchors and hastily-filled bags of ballast from the ships.
Ragni and I have been away for two days seal-hunting — it is the season for nursing-seals and pups. We caught sight of Drafdrit’s captives this morning, when we came back to share seal-meat with the ship’s crew. We stood on a gorsey rise and surveyed the poor wretches tied up on the beach below. They looked, from a distance, like lumpy insects caught on a spider’s web.
*
‘Three days hunting for the feckers,’ says the slave-master. ‘And still we are a dozen short of tally. Would you believe it, Finn? Some had the gall to swim over to the rocks off the west coast, where the seal colonies are. They had covered up in grey skins, and were lying on the rocks — flat out, cold and naked as you like — as if they had turned into seals. Others — mostly old women and gaggles of young brood — have been hiding like rats in caves.’
Brennan snorts in disgust at the trouble he has been put to. ‘My men climbed down to where those old hags had hidden the children.’ The iron-smith chuckles, ‘Last night we lit fires in a blow-hole under the rocks and smoked them out of their lairs.’
Finn asks, ‘How long is it going to take, Drafdrit? You said it would be a simple round-up — an overnight beaching and we’d be off on the morning tide.’
Drafdrit doesn’t answer right away. ‘Brennan’s men have more caves to check beyond the bay. While they do that, my harriers will comb the heath one more time.’ He shakes his head in annoyance. ‘It would have been a damn sight easier if we had brought the hounds.’
Finn persists. ‘So, how much longer? Your tally on the beach is a hundred and four. I had Kregin count them. Let me load what we have, catch the tide, and get off this miserable isle. Forget the others. What does it matter if you are a handful short?’
‘Handful or not,’ the slave-master speaks through gritted teeth ‘I mean to have every fecking hostage before I leave.’
Dugfus chips in. ‘These people swear that the missing ones are dead.’
‘They will tell you anything,’ says Brennan. ‘Don’t be taken in by their stories.’
‘If any have died on the isle,’ says Drafdrit, ‘they will have had a Christian burial! There will be markings on the ground — soil disturbed by the digging. Show me the graves. I will dig up their fecking bodies and count them.’
‘Why would they show you their graves?’ Finn laughs. ‘They know you won’t hesitate to dig up their sacred ground.’
Ragni grins from ear to ear. ‘It’s not graves you are after, Drafdrit. Your missing ones are long gone. The hostages have been feeding on seals. But where are the seal-skins? They are not wearing them or using them to wrap the children. Can you see a single seal-skin on the isle?’
‘Not a one,’ replies Drafdrit.
‘I tell you,’ returns Ragni. ‘These people will have built a curach from osiers and seal-skins. They will have paddled a flimsy boat to the mainland. That’s what I would have done, or my name’s not Ragni Gislison — I’d have paddled away from here or drowned in the attempt.’
Ragni,’ says Dugfus with a grin. ‘‘You are a bigger fool than I took you for! No one in his right mind would cross that stretch of water in a skin boat. What with racing currents! Sucking tides! And besides, these folk were waiting for ransoms to be paid. Why risk a drowning, when you have hope of release?’
Drafdrit ponders Dugi’s words. ‘I am sure he’s right. The missing ones are still on the isle. There should be an Erse-man here, name of MacAirt: a clan chieftain from the north — family and servants too. Brennan will have him and his brood by nightfall.’
*
Night fires are built downwind of the beached ships to prevent our sails catching ablaze from flying sparks. The canvas on the Hrafentyr has been furled tight, doused with seawater and stowed at the foot of the mast.
At first there were three great fires on the beach, but now a fourth has been lit for Brennan and his men. They are expected to return soon from their search of the caves. Each ship’s crew sees to its own victuals. The captives have drinking water, but no food. When Dugi offered to trim off a bite-ful of seal-meat — a scant lick of blubber off the carcase for each of their hundred and four mouths — he was overruled by Drafdrit.
‘Starve them tonight,’ said the slave-master. ‘Keep them weak and biddable. Once they are on I
nis-dubh, they will have their fill of seafood broth.’
*
A wide sound separates us from the mainland; on the other side eastward open sea. Dawn breaks slowly over the water: an overcast dawn, no pale line of daylight between sky and offing. A haze of smoke fills the camp. Carcases of seal-meat were left roasting overnight, blubber-fat dripping from the spit. The fire simmers without flame, giving off an odour of singeing fat. After a spell on watch, I stretch out face-down on a ship’s rowing bench, with my arms hanging loose over the thwart. I wait for sleep. I can’t shut out the din: the nagging cries of the Erse captives.
A few infants — not many, only the very young and helpless — are too feeble with hunger to cry. The sight of them in the smoky air troubled me while I was on watch. It got me to thinking of Helga and our child at Twaindale.
I have no idea if my wife gave birth to son or daughter. The twelvemonth bond arranged by Einar was at an end a month before Helga’s child was due. My banishment began on mid-summer eve. I had to leave the ice-lands, working my passage on a kaupship, or fall foul of the law.
If Helga and her bairn made it through childbirth, she will have a toddler at her feet. I don’t know if mother and baby survived the pangs, or escaped fever during the long months of weaning, but if they did, our nipper will be two years old. I think of the child as a boy, but if a daughter was born, and she’s grown to a healthy little girl, she will fill me with as much joy as any son, when I see her, and her proud mama, on my return.
Here on Lymn’s isle, I have had to watch as starved nurselings suckle noiselessly at empty breasts. Mothers lull them to sleep with snatches of broken melodies, humming their haunting Erse songs of doom. For older infants the same age as Helga’s and mine would be, toddlers not long weaned off the breast, no lullaby on earth can comfort them. With throbbing lungs they summon defiance from the very pit of their guts; they give vent to shrieking baby cries — pitiful sobs of anger, hunger and pain.
*
Our prisoners become restless as daylight approaches. Men and women talk in hushed voices, lest they be harried by the guards. They know that men from the ships speak the Erse tongue. They are afraid of reprisals and punishment if they are overheard. They have cause. Better for their sake — and ours — that we don’t get wind of their filthy name-calling, their evil curses and death-mutterings against us. Erse demons have been known to swallow the courage of a man.