Knights of the Hawk (Conquest #3)

How flimsy were the bonds that held us together. Perhaps that had always been so. Alliances were rarely forged through mere friendship, after all, but out of convenience, in the hope of mutual gain, and because both parties shared a common interest. He owed me nothing; he didn’t even like me, not really, despite the many ways in which we were similar. For the time being we were useful to each other, and that was all that mattered.

For two more days we ran north with a swift following breeze, and saw no more sign of Wyvern, but on the third day the wind dropped and there was barely enough to make the sailcloth flap, which meant we were forced to go under oar alone. Each of us, even Magnus, took our turn to sit upon the sea chests and bend our backs to the waves. It was hard work, even for one like myself who was well used to long days of exertion, spending almost every day practising at arms or in the saddle. When my stint had finished and it was time for someone else to take my place, my hands were raw, my forearms glistening with sweat, my bones aching and my throat parched. I was searching for some water with which to moisten my lips and tongue, for they had grown dry with the salt air, when ?lfhelm, who was keeping watch on the steering platform, gave a sharp shout.

‘It’s them,’ he said. ‘The Frenchmen!’

I glanced up and saw him pointing towards the southern horizon, where once more the black speck of a ship was visible. Her sail was furled, and so it was hard to be sure, but there was little doubt in either my mind – or Magnus’s – that Wyvern had returned. At once he began barking orders to his crew and beating a quicker time upon the drum. He realised, and so did I, that we couldn’t rely on another squall blowing in to help us escape, not this time, and so if we were to have any chance of outrunning them, it would have to be through our own toil.

‘Row,’ Magnus roared. ‘Harder, you bastards, you sons of whores, you lice-ridden dogs!’

Quickly, though, it became clear that it wouldn’t be enough. Before, with the wind behind us, we just about been able to keep pace with Wyvern, for we were lighter and narrower and shallower of draught, and therefore easily able to skip across the waves. But when it came to a battle of oars alone we could not compete, for she had almost as many rowers on one bank as we had on both larboard and steerboard together.

‘Faster!’ ?lfhelm bellowed, adding his exhortations to those of his lord. ‘Faster, you wretches!’

But it was no use, and they both realised it, too, as Wyvern continued to bear down on us. We were steering as close to the rocky shore as Uhtferth dared, yet still she was closing. The other ship’s thirty pairs of oars rose and fell in steady rhythm, like the beating of wings, as she soared across the blue-grey waters, gliding through the spume and the spray, while desperately we floundered. She was little more than an arrow’s flight away now, close enough that I could hear their shouts, though not close enough to hear what it was they were saying. They had chased us across the kingdom of England, from the fenlands to the Marches, across the sea to foreign shores, and now finally their doggedness was to be rewarded, for they had caught us.

‘To arms,’ I shouted, not just to my knights but to those of Magnus’s huscarls who weren’t at oar. I’d already donned my helmet and buckled my sword-belt upon my waist, and now snatched up one of the round shields that I’d purchased in Dyflin, gripping the leather brases firmly in my hand.

I’d never had to fight aboard ship before, although I had come close to doing so on occasion, and didn’t much relish the prospect, especially when it meant coming to blows with fellow Frenchmen and even, possibly, the man who had been my lord. But if a battle was what he wanted, a battle was what he would get. He wouldn’t take me without a struggle.

‘Scyld,’ Magnus shouted to one of his men, cursing violently. ‘Bring me scyld!’

My eyes met his. I saw the grim look upon his face, and wondered if he remembered our conversation the other night, and whether he still had half a mind to turn me over. His huscarls closed ranks around him, beating their sword-hilts, the flats of their blades and their spear-hafts against their shields, raising the battle-thunder.

‘Acwellath hi!’ Magnus roared in his own tongue, and the cry was taken up by the rest of his men. Kill them. He wasn’t about to forsake me, then. Not yet, anyway.

By then the remaining rowers had realised they faced a struggle they could not win, and had hauled in their oars, abandoning them in favour of knives and axes and whatever other weapons were to hand. They rushed to form a line along Nihtegesa’s broadside, making ready to face the onslaught as the ship heaved and rolled in the swell. The deck was slippery and I almost fell, but managed to recover my balance in time.

‘To arms,’ I yelled at Serlo and Pons and Godric, thinking that perhaps they hadn’t heard me, then in English to Eithne: ‘Get below deck.’

‘I can fight,’ she protested. ‘Give me a knife and I’ll fight.’

Having heard the tale of how she had resisted her captors in the battle for the Isle, I didn’t doubt her, but whatever others might believe, I held to the opinion that a battle was no place for a woman.

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