One King’s Way. Chapter 4, 5, 6
Chapter Four
Sigurth Ragnarsson stared thoughtfully over his ship’s port quarter. Significantly, he had not picked up his long scarlet cape, but had left his arms free for action. He braced himself against the Ormr’s heel on a long spear, iron-shafted, with a heavy triangular head. His brothers stood with their backs to him, also seeming relaxed but with weapons drawn. Discipline was savage in the Ragnarsson fleet. But the men in it were savage too, and these were picked veterans. They had no liking for turning from a battle, were already imagining what men might say about them later. Wondering if the Snake-eye had gone soft.
No point in trying to explain. Just keep them wondering a little while longer.
“What do you make of our friend behind?” said Sigurth to Vestmar, indicating the Norfolk laboring a long mile in their rear.
“It’s a clumsy rig, but he can sail it,” replied Vestmar briefly. “One thing, though. He doesn’t know his way. See the lookout on the yard, and the skipper leaning over the prow looking for shoal water?”
“Plenty of that around,” said Sigurth. He turned to look inland. A coast nearly featureless. The two small islands of Neuwark and the Scharhorn already passed. The silty current of the Elbe stirring beneath the keel, and then nothing till the base of Jutland and the fought-over lands between Denmark and the Empire of the Germans.
“All right. Strike sail. Get the men to the oars. And get someone in the bow with a lead-line.”
Vestmar gaped, almost voicing a protest. A lead-line, he thought. But I know the Elber Gat like I know my wife’s backside. And if we strike sail those bastards back there will be hurling their iötunn-rocks at us while we break our backs to get away. He swallowed the words and turned on his heel, calling hoarsely.
“We’re gaining on them,” called Shef. “Cwicca, stand by the mule!”
Ordlaf did not reply. He looked tensely at the sky, looked again at the ship they were pursuing, took the lead which his crewman in the bow had passed to him. Sniffed the mud sticking still to the wax at the end of the lead cylinder on the five-fathom rope. Stuck a tongue out, tasted it.
“What are you doing that for?”
“Don’t know,” muttered Ordlaf. “Sometimes you can tell if there’s shellfish, what kind of sand it is… If there’s a shoal coming up.”
“Look,” snarled Shef. “He doesn’t know where he is either, he’s had a man in the bow swinging the lead this last two miles, just like you. Keep behind him, and if he doesn’t run aground you won’t.”
Not as easy as that, young lord, thought Ordlaf, not as easy as that. There’s other things, like the current—see him sliding through it like a snake while it grips our keel. And the wind, and these blasted squalls of rain coming down. And the tide. Is it still making? Now if I was at home in Yorkshire I’d feel it in my bones when we got to the full. But here in foreign parts who’s to know when it turns? Can’t be far off.
“Another quarter-mile and we’re close enough for a shot,” called Shef. “Get the oars out bow and stern. Just leave space clear round the mule.”
As the grinning men heaved awkwardly in the short chop of the waves, the Norfolk picked up another trifle of speed, began visibly to close on the long dragon-shape ahead. Shef stared, estimating range and bearing.
“Right, that’ll do. Take a good aim, Cwicca. Ordlaf, swing her to the right, no, to starboard, so we can shoot.”
As the Norfolk swung to the steering-oar, the sail canted round. Yells of rage from Cwicca as its lower edge blocked his view. A scurry of sailors hastily heaving the ropes to brail up. Ordlaf cursing furiously as the oarsmen faltered in their stroke and the prow swung further, steadied, lurched back. As the sail finally jerked up out of their way Shef and Cwicca gaped for a moment, wondering where their quarry had gone.
“There!” In the instants of confusion the Frani Ormr had jinked like a hare, spun to port, and was now directly stern on to them, moving away at a frantic speed, oars flashing like the last moments of a race.