“See,” the town reeve was explaining to Godwin at the front, “the wind’s east a point north. If they put up a scrap of sail they can run west, north or south.” He drew briefly in the wet sand at their feet. “If he goes west he hits us. If he goes north he hits the Head. Mind you, if he could get past the Head he’d have a clear run northwest away up to Cleveland. That’s why he was trying his sweeps an hour ago. A few hundred yards out to sea and he’d have been free. But what we knows, and what they doesn’t, is there’s a current. Hell of a current, rips down past the Head. They might as well stir the water with their…” He paused, not sure how far informality could go.
“Why doesn’t he go south?” cut in Godwin.
“He will. He’s tried the sweeps, tried the sea-anchor to check his drift. It’s my guess the one in charge, the jarl what they call them, he knows his men are exhausted. A rare old night they must have had of it. And a shock in the morning when they saw where they were.” The reeve shook his head with a kind of professional sympathy.
“They are not such great sailors,” pronounced Godwin with satisfaction. “And God is against them, foul, heathen Church-defilers.”
A stir of excitement behind them cut off the reply the reeve might have been incautious enough to make. The two men turned.
On the path that ran along behind high-water mark, a dozen men were dismounting. The levy? thought Godwin. The thanes from Beverley? No, they could not possibly have arrived in this time. They must only now be saddling up. Yet the man in front was a nobleman. Big, burly, fair hair, bright blue eyes, with the upright stance of a man who had never had to plough or hoe for a living. Gold shone beneath his expensive scarlet cape, on buckles and sword-pommel. Behind him strode a smaller, younger version of himself, surely his son. And on the other side of him another youth, tall, straight-backed like a warrior. But dark in complexion, poorly dressed in tunic and wool breeches. Grooms held the horses for half a dozen more armed, competent-looking men—a retinue, surely, a rich thane’s hearth-troop.
The leading stranger held his empty hand up. “You do not know me,” he said. “I am Wulfgar. I am a thane from King Edmund’s country, from the East Angles.”
A stir of interest from the crowd, the dawnings his message might be of hostility.
“You wonder what I am doing here. I will tell you.” He gestured out at the shore. “I hate Vikings. I know more of them than most men. And, like most men, to my sorrow. In my own country, among the North-folk beyond the Wash, I am the coast-guard, set by King Edmund. But long ago I saw that we would never get rid of these vermin while we English fought only our own battles. I persuaded my king of this, and he sent messages to yours. They agreed that I should come north, to talk with the wise men in Beverley and in Eoforwich about what we might do. I took a wrong road last night, met your messengers riding to Beverley this morning. I have come to help.” He paused. “Have I your leave?”
Godwin nodded slowly. Never mind what the lowborn fish-churl of a reeve said. Some of the bastards might come ashore. And if they did, this lot might well scatter. A dozen armed men just might be useful.
“Come and welcome,” he said.
Wulfgar nodded with deliberate satisfaction. “I am only just in time,” he remarked.
Out to sea the penultimate act of the wreck was about to take place. One of the two knorrs was fifty yards farther in than the other; her men more tired or maybe less driven by their skipper. Now she was about to pay the price. Her wallowing rolls in the waves changed angle, the bare mast rocking crazily. Suddenly the watching men could see that the yellow line of underwater sandbanks was the other side of the hull. Crewmen exploded from the deck and the planks where they had been lying, ran furiously up and down, grabbing sweeps, thrusting them over the side, trying to pole their ship off and gain a few extra moments of life.