We passed our packs up over the gunwale to the boat guards, taking care not to make too much noise as we did so. It was not unknown for ships to leave port in the middle of the night, but it wasn’t commonplace either, and we didn’t want to attract more attention than was necessary. Already some of those keeping watch by the other ships were calling to us, asking what we were doing about at this hour, and their shouts were waking other crews, who yelled back in their various tongues for them to be quiet. We ignored them all as we went to work pushing Nihtegesa down the mud and the shingle, her keel scraping against stone, towards the blackness of the creek, until she was fully afloat. We waded out to her and those already on board held out their hands to help haul us up and on to the deck, where we shook free strands of wrack that had become stuck to our sopping trews and boots, and then set about raising the mast and the rigging, pulling on ropes according to Magnus’s and Uhtferth’s instructions, and tying them off where needed.
The rowers took their places on the sea chests that served as their benches, lowering their oars into the water with a soft murmur of splashes. As the incoming tide continued to surge up the inlet, they steadied Nihtegesa, taking care that the swell didn’t take her and run her aground. It wasn’t long before the waters began to ebb, Magnus gave the signal and we slipped down the creek, past the landing stages and hythes, the slipways and coves where river-barges, wide-beamed traders, rowing boats and fishing craft lay at rest, and a handful of longships, too, most around the same size as Nihtegesa, but one larger.
Much larger, in fact, I saw as we grew nearer. Outlined by the moon’s light, she was a fearsome and magnificent sight. Probably thirty benches in length, she dwarfed every other vessel beached or at anchor in that creek; indeed she would have dwarfed most vessels in all of Britain.
To eyes untrained as mine were, there was little to tell one ship from another, especially in the dark and from such a distance. Nevertheless I realised in that moment that I recognised her, for I’d sailed on her once before. This was Wyvern, the ship that once had been the pride of Guillaume Malet and that now belonged to his son. Which only confirmed that the Normans we’d seen in the city earlier had indeed been Robert’s men. And if his ship was here, did that mean that he himself was too?
I glimpsed a flurry of movement on her deck as men were roused and lanterns lit. Voices carried across the water, hailing us, and a shiver ran through me, for those shouts came in French. The men pulled on shoes and, leaping down on to the shingle, came running down to the shore, waving their arms at the same time. No doubt they’d worked out by then what was happening, and that we were getting away, but they were too late. We were already past them, and gathering speed, Nihtegesa’s prow carving through the star-glistening waters towards where the narrow creek emptied into the river mouth, and I was laughing, whooping with the thrill of the chase, of having eluded them.
‘You’ll have to try harder if you want to catch us!’ I yelled at them, into the breeze gusting from astern, and Serlo and Pons were quick to join in, hurling insults at the Frenchmen, who could only watch, powerless to do anything, as we pulled away. They shouted something in reply, but whatever it was they said, I couldn’t make out. I saw some of their comrades labouring to float Wyvern, but she was easily half as large again as Nihtegesa, and they were clearly struggling.
That was the last I saw of them. A moment later the creek opened out into the bay, we rounded a headland and they were lost from sight. Breakers foamed as they met the shore, whilst Nihtegesa rode the swell, the salt spray crashing into her bows and her gunwales, luminous in the moonlight. With one hand Magnus beat a small drum that hung by a leather strap around his neck, keeping the oarsmen in time, while Uhtferth kept a steady head on the steering-oar, his thin face drawn in concentration.
Ahead the open sea beckoned, stretching as far as the eye could make out. Somewhere out there, among the islands known as the Suthreyjar, was Haakon, the man whom I had been seeking for a year and more.
I hoped for his sake that he slumbered soundly while he still had the chance. For all too soon we would be descending upon his halls, wreaking our own night terror, inflicting upon him the same despair as he had inflicted upon me. He had taken something that did not belong to him, something precious to me. Now I would take it back, and make sure that he paid for the suffering he’d inflicted.
He had no way of knowing it, but we were coming for him.
Twenty-two
WHETHER I TRULY believed that was the last we would see of our pursuers, and that we had shaken them off our trail for good, I can no longer remember. If I did, however, then I was not only foolish but also gravely mistaken.