Forged in Blood Read online

  *

  What is the girl up to? Why doesn’t the key turn for her? It must fit the lock! I have seen Brennan the guard use it at Linn-dubh market. He unlocks the irons for his master Drafdrit, after a poll-price is agreed with the traders. Irons are gathered and counted. The unshackled slaves are bound in line by rope and marched to a departing ship.

  ‘Keep on trying, M’lym. It will turn in the lock.’

  ‘Don’t pester me,’ replies the girl. She steps back; casts me a mean look. She dips her middle finger solemnly in black earth, licks it and does a sign of the cross at her breast, hoping by two holy gestures — showing reverence to gods old and new — that she will be helped to unlock the shackle.

  To spare her blushes, I turn and look at the flood sweeping over the causeway. The incoming tide is close to high water. As soon as the tide turns, I can take to the river and swim to the head of the creek. Once I have made it through the rapids, the flood-waters of an-Ruirthech — and a fast-ebbing sea — will carry me out into the estuary. From there, I can push for the northern shore of the bay; reach the coast as far up-country as strength and luck will take me.

  I had promised M’lym-kun that, if I made a run for it, I would take her with me, but escape by sea is a different matter to going on foot. At her age, and with her slight build and ill-formed limbs, she has no hope of making it. Even if she were able to swim, which I doubt, she would toil to keep her head above water. Estuary currents off the coast of Erinland are uncertain. In open water with a heavy swell a man could easily be pulled under. I’m not at my best. A looseness in my guts — from eating stale shell-fish — has made me listless; belly-ache has weakened me, and harsh daylight has stolen my resolve.

  M’lym-kun twists, fumbles with the key, mumbling as she tugs at my neck, but to no avail. The lock is jammed. The child leans across to get a better grip on the shackle. Her hair falls over my eyes, blanking out the daylight. I feel her soothing presence, hidden as I am in the brief darkness of her matted hair, lulled by the comforting smell of her rancid rags. A reek of shellfish and peat-smoke clings to her. M’lym-kun is never far from the fire, even in summer heat. She helps old Niamh tend the cauldron of sea-broth, a stir-about of barley, cockles and whelks, which simmers over the fire from dawn to dusk. The stodgy broth is served before dark — our only meal of the day.

  Day in, day out, the same routine: M’lym-kun fetches brackish water from the river to eke out our mangy gruel or stirs the pot, while the old woman pretends to sleep. Niamh does her best with the broth, begging scraps of yesterday’s gritty shellfish, when she can, from cockle-girls on the causeway, and filching extra handfuls of barley from the guards, but we all know she is a spy for Drafdrit; she will do anything to keep on the right side of him. M’lym-kun’s absence last night will not have gone unnoticed under Niamh’s sleepless gaze. The first chance the old hag gets, she will spill all she knows to the slave-master, and brag about how useful she is to him.

  *

  ‘Get to your feet, why don’t you!’ M’lym-kun rubs my unshackled ankles, her voice in a hush, not from caution but choked by mounting panic. ‘We can make it. South? — Isn’t that what we agreed? To the mound where the monks live? Once we reach a clearing at the woods, we are as good as gone.’

  ‘Not far enough in daylight, child,’ I whisper in return, without making a move. I make a show of rubbing my neck, now that at last the iron collar is off. ‘We had to be away in darkness. Drafdrit will come and find us. Do you think he won’t? Your friend Niamh will tell him where we are headed.’

  ‘No friend of mine,’ she snaps back. But, quickly forgetting the old woman — with thoughts only of escape — she rattles on nervously; each word spat out, chasing the one before. ‘Where to? Where else but south? Nothing east, nothing but sea.’

  She bites her lip at the thought of the sea — it was by slave-ship that her father and brother were taken to Brythuniog. ‘As for up there,’ she says glumly, pointing to the hill-top town of Linn-dubh — above its roofs cattle-steam simmers from the byres, and threads of cooking-smoke climb aslant in the rain — ‘folk who live inside the palings can’t be seen to help a runaway. They daren’t risk it with a king in residence to answer to.’ After a pause, she adds, ‘I did think of going by Hurdle-ford, of crossing over “the mighty-runner”, and heading north to where the Ostmen don’t go — it’s one place Drafdrit won’t come looking — but we can forget it; we have no hack to pay a toll at the ford.’

  ‘Hurdle-ford won’t be passable, M’lym.’ I speak slowly in the Erse tongue so that she can’t mistake my words. ‘It has been raining for weeks — storm-floods will be everywhere. Look how the waters here have risen. If our sluggish stream has overflowed its banks, imagine what it must be like on an-Ruirthech.’

  She looks at me first with suspicion, and then with anger. ‘Why send me for the keys? I took a risk sneaking to the bothy — to save your hide — why did I bother? I should have listened to my mother. God rest her soul. She always said you were a loser; that you were never going to run from the isle.’ She shakes her head in disgust. ‘Talk of taking me out of here was all lies. When it comes to it, Ostman, you are scared shitless. You would rather stay and kiss Drafdrit’s feet!’

  *

  M’lym treads water — as I showed her — chin out, head back, stepping ladder-wise into the current to stay upright in the flood. With our faces skyward into murk and mist, we float downstream, my arm at her waist, her hand locked on mine. Our knees pummel gently. Waters in the creek taste peaty and cold on our lips, but our feet are warmed by an underflow pushing in from the sea.

  The flooding river, and the countless hill-streams that fed its waters, have run without resistance as far as Inis-dubh. But here, its swollen, muddied waters widen into the creek — they are forced to the surface by mild, incoming seawater — their fierce rush quelled by the dallying tide before it carries them out to sea.

  M’lym and I have our backs to the flow. We are held afloat by under-streams of mild seawater. The surface runs cold, slow and muddy, bearing us gently to the outflow of the creek. I keep one arm braced around the child, leaving the other free to fend off sharp-edged flotsam — a branch of willow, a broken oar, a rotted cartwheel — that buffers above the waterline.

  When slack-water loosens under our feet, the flow will surge seawards in ebbing rapids. We will be flushed through the narrowest point of the creek and into the flood-waters of an-Ruirthech. There, dragged under by the big river — if that is to be our fate — M’lym and I will drop like a stone, a weight of water above our heads. The force of the current, its piercing coldness, will hold us in its grip.

  If by some miracle we survive and reach the estuary, saltwater in the bay will keep us afloat. But we will face greater perils; chased by random rips; pulled this way and that; towed inshore, outshore; drifting blind in misty gloom — unless sea-harr lifts to give us sight of the bay’s northern shore.

  My fears run unchecked — my thoughts outpace the here and now. If we are to be spared to take our chances in river-flood — or, beyond that, out in the estuary — we must first breach the ebbing rapids, the foaming outflow from creek to an-Ruirthech. When we fall into the rapids — when the swift rush grips us — all I can do is hold my breath under water; break surface; take air; kick hard; stop the girl from choking me — the natural panic of one who can’t swim — while white-water sweeps us into the course of ‘the mighty-runner’.

  Chapter 6

  A downpour of rain that rattled the waters and threw darts in our faces has passed over. It has left a dull, gurgling on the surface of the creek. From out of the sea-harr, out of brightening haze, a ship’s prow noses across our path. The ship veers to larboard and shows its full length. The mist is patchy and swirls around mast and sail. Beyond the ship nothing can be seen ahead. I had thought we were floating near the outflow, but if we were close to the brink — the stream of eddies that runs from the creek to the big river — we would hear a spill of rapi
ds; hear the rush of an-Ruirthech nearby.

  Waters under us are running cold, the ebb starting to race, the undertow moving rapidly at our feet. The vessel — its full outline now clear — is no slave-ship, as I first feared, but a cargo-carrier, a type often seen in these parts. It is sea-worthy, but with shallow draught and wide-bellied beam, more useful for estuary work.

  The ship’s skipper — if that’s his shape I see at the helm — looks as if he is sailing from shore, having cast off from a loading jetty, or rolled out from a beaching-ground. His stern is low in the water, his rigging set taut to scrouds and stays, his yard hauled at mid-mast. The sail sags with barely a breath of wind to fill it. The skipper is setting off in hope of catching an early tide out of the creek. He is heading for the estuary. Strange not to hear ship’s orders called from the stern, no hearty hail from the skipper, no sharp reply from his crew. And no one stands on lookout. On a morning like this, when sea-harr hugs the shore, any skipper worth his salt would have posted a crewman on the bows.

  ‘Have — have they spotted us?’ M’lym gulps a mouthful of creek-water and spits out noisily.

  ‘Can’t see from here!’ I whisper in reply. ‘But stay quiet, child! If we can’t see them, it’s a good thing — it means they won’t have seen us.’

  An undertow, running between us and the ship, sucks in water towards its steer-board side. The beam-wave throws up suds from the rise and fall of the hull; signs that the tide is running briskly. We must be closer to an-Ruirthech than I thought. The bulging underside of the hull, swollen with barnacles, gives the impression that its oak frame has been stretched to bursting with too much cargo on-board. The crust of shells on its sea-boards, reflected underwater, plays a strange trick on the eye.

  M’lym shivers and stiffens with cold. I tighten my grip on her, not as comfort, but as warning that we are too close to the hull. My free arm stays above water, held at the ready. If the underside of the ship bears down on us, it will strike with grinding force. Its shell-crusted belly will tear us to shreds. A hand-off on the strakes — if I am quick enough — is all that stands between us and barnacled hull. Head turned back, eyes fixed on the ship’s course, I strain my neck as far as it will go. I watch, as we drift closer, for every bounce on the water, for every wave that passes under the keel.

  To kick against the current will do no good, but my legs demand it. I could dive underwater, try to dodge the hull, choose the moment before impact and take the girl under with me. It is a risk. If I judge it wrong, on our coming back up, we may collide with the keel. Better to call on the ship’s crew for help, for M’lym’s sake; she is cold, she has been too long in the water. A crewman will hold out an oar from the ship and pull her on-board.

  As soon as the man has her safe, and out of my hands, I will swim off.

  I thrust up to lift my head above the wave, and scan the cargo-carrier for any sign of movement on deck. I blink water off my eyes, give a shake of the head and look again. No, I am not deceived: not a single crewman is on-board. No skipper at the helm, not a soul on deck the full length of the ship. Rudder-shaft, tiller-arm and tackle have been lifted clear of the hull, lashed ship-shape and stowed in-board as they would be for a beaching or landing beside a jetty. Not so, the ship’s mooring ropes, which droop over beam and stern, dragging overboard, hanging loose in the water; and close by, rippling on the surface just an arm’s length away, the fore-hawser trails in a wide arc from the stem.

  ‘Grab it!’ I yell without thinking, ‘Grab the rope!’

  The yell goes unheard. M’lym’s head has sunk on my arm, her body limp, her limbs ice-cold; she has stopped treading water. I reach for the trailing rope with my free hand. The hawser, hairy and un-greased, runs hot through my fingers, plays out four, five ells until at last my grip has purchase, and now with a wrenching tug of my arm we are being pulled after the ship and through the mist, M’lym and I, at the end of a rope on the drifting, rudderless course of the hull.

  *

  The mooring-rope, once it bears our weight, begins to glide inward along the beam of the ship, bringing us amidships in steady flux, allowing me to hand-off safely; and close enough — I can’t believe our luck — within reach of a beam-rope to think of boarding. M’lym, still out cold, feels almost weightless in my arms as I lift her out of the water and push her slumping body head-first on-board. She is out of sight, but for her small feet stuck out over the gunnels. Now it’s my turn to board. Bouncing breathless out of the wave, grasping first an opened oar-hole, and then the mooring-rope on the beam — the only sure grips above the barnacles — I haul up, shying away from razor-edged shells. Soaking wet, I turn my shaky legs on-board.

  On deck, a hellish smell from the cargo-hold and a sight to chill the bones: two crewmen, flung on their backs over the thwarts; their grubby serks bloody at the chest — necks slashed ear to ear; their bulging eyes gape in a deathly stare.

  ‘Ahhh!’

  Off-ship, a half-gargled yell, and soon after, a second call, angered and urgent; both cries too near at hand ahead of the ship to mistake that they have come from the water — from someone in the creek. For a sight of who it might be, I run past the outstretched corpses, my bare feet sticking in spilled gore — leap over cargo tarps mid-deck — catch a stench of whatever is in the hold — and pass the upturned skiff, a shore-boat lashed fore of the mast. Finally I lean over the bows and peer through the sea-harr. On the waters to larboard I spot two shapes cutting between the waves, swimming at full-tilt, arms dipping in haste, heading towards the prow of the ship.

  Chapter 7

  ‘Baldr!’ The shout is from the second man, whose swimming has become more cumbersome than the first. He stops to rest and tread water while the first man presses on, swimming at speed to the ship. Again the second man shouts, ‘Watch out! Stranger on the Meuris!’

  The man addressed as Baldr ignores the warning. Maybe he hasn’t seen me at the bows or, if he has, chooses not to reply. He swims with thrusting, powerful movements to gain on the drifting ship, head and limbs in furious motion and yet held in balance by his trunk-like body which swivels to and fro as he swims. He raises his jaw to take air at every four strokes — done with a fierce jerk of the head, without pause to arms or legs ─ and each time, before his face dips under water to start the thrust of another four strokes, a tail of blond hair plaited at his neck smacks the wave like a whip.

  ‘Baldr!’ The call comes a third time from somewhere in the mist, but after that, nothing.

  I lean over the bows and offer my hand to the swimmer. Once he is on-board, I see a look of surprise on his un-bearded face — he is a year or two younger than me — but whether astonished to find a helping hand, where none was expected, or gratified by how readily his bulky frame was hauled from the water, it is impossible to tell and no time to ponder.

  Baldr’s eyes linger for a moment on my neck. I am sure he must be looking at the burn marks left by the iron collar. To divert his glance, while he catches breath, I speak first. ‘No one at the helm — as you can see. No rudder in the water, so we climbed on-board, the girl and I.’ My gut churns as I point to the murdered seamen. ‘That’s how we found them.’

  In a swift turn of the head, Baldr’s glance takes in M’lym, who is coming to her feet in ungainly fashion; takes in the dead crewmen across the thwarts; takes in the upturned rudder with its stowed tiller-arm and tackle. Like a seasoned seafarer long acquainted with hurling calls from deck and in a gesture well beyond his years he cups his hands shell-wise to his mouth and hails a cry from the bows across the misty waters of the creek: short, clear, piercing sounds. ‘Hakon! Hear me, Skip! Will see to rudder! Where are you? Show a hand.’ The second swimmer, Hakon, has dropped out of sight. The only thing near us is a drowned sheep, foul and bloated after days rotting in the water. It passes in a rapid drift among a swill of flotsam.

  A light shore-wind catches the rain-soaked sail. Ebb has taken hold of the keel. Wind and drift spin the ship’s rudderless course on a l
arboard turn.

  ‘There!’ Off to steer-board at three ship-lengths abeam — not on the bows as Baldr and I were expecting — in the blur between rolling mist and running flood I spot a head in the water, a head and then an outstretched pale hand; but no sooner sighted than brow and hand are sucked under the wave. ‘Did you see him, there, your skip?’

  ‘Where is he? Has he gone under?’

  ‘Don’t know. See to the rudder,’ I hear myself say. ‘The girl will help you. Leave it to me! Do you hear? I will go after him.’

  Baldr looks again at the burn-mark on my neck; frowns at my rags. His expression seems to ask: ‘Why should I take orders from a slave?’ or ‘Who said you should take charge of our ship?’ The young man is on the point of rebuffing my command.

  Whether he likes it or not, I will take to the water. An impulse drives me off ship, not to swim and save the stranger, since recovering the man from the water scarcely enters my thoughts. Two things keep drumming on my temples, each opposing the other: to save my own skin, and to deliver M’lym safely from Drafdrit’s clutches. What’s it to me if skipper Hakon loses his ship or drowns?

  The smell of blood on deck — like the gore on the Vigtyr years before — sours my head and guts. A filthy stench reeks from the hold. It fills my lungs with nausea. Once off ship, I can escape the putrid cargo. Jump — and I flush away memories of the Vigtyr. Jump — and I lose myself in the urgent flow of river and tide. I grab the scroud rigging; step to the gunnel-rail, tottering above the dizzy swell. My feet, dripping in blood, slip under me, the wave unbalancing my body on the brink of the ship, the only thought in my head to dive clear of the barnacled hull.