“Too far for a shot now,” yelled Cwicca into Shef’s ear, beside himself with excitement.
“They can’t keep that up for long. Ordlaf, take us in after her.”
Ordlaf hesitated, eying the long ripples of shoal water either side of the fleeing Viking. Shoal water half a mile wide between two long banks just showing. Beyond that, a waste of unknown banks and channels leading for miles to the featureless German shore.
The memory of the other skipper’s lead-line reassured him. Dangerous water, but he doesn’t know it either. If anyone strikes, he’ll strike first. The Norfolk heeled round, bringing the wind on to her other beam, spread sail again and headed for the narrow channel in her enemy’s wake.
That’ll do, thought Sigurth, feeling the faintest grate of sand under his keel. We’re through, at the very top of the tide. He caught a glint of relief in Vestmar’s eyes as well, hastily dropped. One of the rowers blew out his cheeks and, greatly daring, raised an eyebrow at the helmsman. They had felt the pull of the sand under their blades these last minutes, had rowed shallow automatically like the seamen they were. Now they could feel the water deepening again. Maybe the Snake-eye had not lost all his luck. Maybe…
Behind them Sigurth could see the English ship still coming on, the hammer and cross half-visible on her sail. And behind her a squall blowing across the flat open estuary, a squall that would catch up with her… Now.
As the rain drummed down with sudden April fury Ordlaf peered tensely over the bow. The leadsman’s voice in his ear rose to a shriek: “Two fathom now, skipper, two fathom and I can see the shoal!”
“In oars,” bellowed Ordlaf in the same moment, “furl sail, stand by to back off.”
Too late. As he shouted, one of the oarsmen, swinging stoutly but unskillfully, felt his oar turn under him, twist and throw him bodily off his bench, half over the side. Jammed in the sand, the stout ash wood held the weight of the driving ship for an instant, dragged her over, snapped into splinters. As the ship heeled, more oars caught, throwing the rowers this way and that. The last gust of the squall caught the sail, drove the keel on to the crest of a wave. Dropped her with a grinding thud on the sand. For seconds there was total confusion as Ordlaf and his mates, yelling frenziedly, kicked men out of their way, heaved ropes, seized oars, tried first to boom the ship off the bank on to which she had run, then to prop her at least on an even keel. Slowly the noise died, the landsmen, their king included, huddled nervously in the center of the boat. Shef found himself facing a pair of reproachful eyes.
“We didn’t ought to have done it. Run aground right on top of the tide. Look—” Ordlaf pointed over the gunwale at the sandbanks already appearing to either side, as the sea started its long six-hour ebb.
“Are we in any danger?” asked Shef, remembering the way Ragnar’s two knorrs had run aground and gone to pieces before both of them two long springs before.
“No, not danger of breaking up. It’s soft sand, and we hit fairly slow. But they took us in proper.” Ordlaf shook his head with rueful admiration. “I bet that skipper there knew where he was to the inch. Swinging away with that old lead-line, and just drawing us on. And now a mile off and making his way back to sea.”
Shef looked round sharply, suddenly conscious of what might happen if the Snake-eye and his picked crew came wading across the shallows. But they were nowhere to be seen. He stepped to the prow and looked slowly and carefully right round the flat gray horizon, looking for the mast, the Raven banner that had been flying in front of them not ten minutes before. Nothing to be seen. In some inlet or creek the Frani Ormr was lurking like a poison snake, waiting for the tide and clear passage out. Shef sighed deeply, tension released, and turned back to Ordlaf and the silent crew. “Can we get off before nightfall?” Ordlaf shrugged. “We can try and kedge her off. Keep everyone busy.”