Ironhand

by Hilary Green

  3.

  'Come! Come out. There's no need to be afraid.'

  The corner of the old sail under which he was hiding was lifted and a broad, sunburnt face appeared. 'Come along. I'm not going to hurt you. Look, I've brought you a bowl of pottage. Old mother O'Dowd makes the best pottage in Dublin.'

  The voice was gentle. The words were English, but the accent was not. He could smell the pottage and his mouth filled with saliva.

  'I've been watching you. I saw you earlier, round the back of the tavern. Come, now. This pottage is better than scavenging amongst the rubbish thrown out for the pigs! I mean you no harm. I will swear it, if you like.'

  Ranulph ran his tongue over cracked lips. His mouth was so dry it was hard to get the words out.

  'Who are you?'

  'My name is Piet. I come from Flanders. My ship, the Waverider, is in dock here. Look, the pottage is getting cold. I will move away, so you can take it without being afraid I will make a grab for you.'

  The stranger got up from where he was kneeling and moved back a few yards. He was a big man, dressed like a seaman, but his clothes were of better quality than Osric's. He looked prosperous and there was a calm confidence in his face that made Ranulph want to trust him. He squirmed out of his makeshift hiding place and grabbed the bowl of pottage. His instinct was to scramble back out of reach, but something stronger than instinct told him that it would be an act of discourtesy, at best, and at worst arrant cowardice. He took a mouthful. This was the basic diet of the poor, a mush of oats and vegetables boiled up with whatever scraps of meat and bones were available. He had eaten many variations, but Piet was right. This was the best he had ever tasted. He did not speak or look up until the bowl was empty.

  Piet said, 'Better?' and when he nodded went on, 'If you come with me, there is a warm bed by the fire in the tavern, and more pottage if you want it, and good ale to drink.'

  Ranulph gazed into his face. The thought of a warm bed and more food was almost irresistible but he shook his head. 'I can't.'

  'Why not? You have my word that you will be quite safe.'

  'No, I can't. People will be looking for me. I did something ….' The words dried in his mouth.

  Piet looked thoughtful. 'There is a strange story going round. It seems a ship mysteriously slipped her moorings a few nights ago and drifted out to sea, and then caught fire. She sank, of course, and the word is that her captain went down with her … together with a boy he had taken on as some kind of apprentice. Such a tragedy!'

  Ranulph stared at him. He understood what he was being told. If it was true, no one was looking for him … but that did not make his guilt any less. 'It was … it was me.'

  Piet nodded. 'I guessed as much. But perhaps you had your reasons. I have heard men speak of the captain... Osric, was it? He has a reputation.'

  'I didn't know anything was burning.' The words came in a rush now. 'I only meant to make sure he couldn't come after me.'

  Piet got to his feet. 'I understand. If what I hear is true, his punishment was well deserved. So, now will you come inside? There is no one else in the tavern except old Mother O'Dowd. I am going. You can come or stay. It's your choice.'

  He began to move away. Ranulph hesitated a moment longer and then he followed. In the tavern's single room the air was thick with smoke from the peat fire in the central hearth, but the straw which covered the floor was clean and strings of onions and bunches of herbs hung from the rafters. Mother O'Dowd took one look at him and said something to Piet in the local language. Then she came over and touched Ranulph's face with rough finger tips, murmuring something, and though he did not understand the words he could sense sympathy and concern in their tone. He was led to a stool by the fire and she refilled his bowl from the big cauldron that hung over it, then poured him a mug of ale. He ate until his stomach felt as if it might burst, while Piet and the old woman watched. No one bothered him with questions and when he was full he was shown a straw-filled pallet where he could sleep. He was still mumbling words of gratitude when he fell asleep.

  Quite suddenly it was morning, and Mrs O'Dowd was raking the fire and setting flat loaves to bake over the hot embers. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and she said something cheerful in her strange tongue and filled a mug from a pitcher on the table. It was goat's milk, so fresh it was still warm, and as soon as the loaves were cooked she gave him one. He ate and drank and thought it was food fit for angels.

  Piet came in from outside, bringing a draft of sea air to cut through the fog of smoke. 'Ah, so you have woken at last! You feel better, no?'

  'Yes, thank you. Much better.' He got up, cautiously. His body still hurt from Osric abuse. 'I need …'

  'Of course. I will show you.'

  Piet led him to the midden, and when he had relieved himself he took him back to the well in the yard behind the cottage and drew a bucket of water.

  'You will want to clean yourself up after your ...adventures.'

  Ranulph rinsed his hands and splashed his face with water. The cold cleared the last vestiges of sleep from his brain. He would have liked to wash the rest of his body, to rid himself of the clinging traces of what Osric had done to him, but he was ashamed to strip and let Piet see the marks of the cane on his buttocks, so he contented himself with plunging his head into the bucket and came up gasping and shaking icy drops from his hair.

  'So,' Piet said. 'Come inside and let us talk.'

  He found he did not need to explain what he had suffered at Osric's hands. It seemed Piet already understood that. What he wanted to know was how Ranulph had come to be aboard the Seagull in the first place.

  Seated on a stool by the fire, his hands clasped between his knees, Ranulph told his story.

  'I was brought up by the monks in the abbey of St Werburgh. My father was the thane of Erbistock. His overlord was Edwin, Earl of Mercia, and when our rightful king, Edgar Atheling, came with his army to drive out the Norman invaders, Edwin joined him and my father fought beside him, as was his duty.' He looked up from the flames. 'Of course, I only know this from what I was told later. I was only a small child at the time. But you must know yourself that Edgar was defeated and the Normans came north to take their revenge. They killed the people and laid waste the land, and my father died defending our home.' He paused again and swallowed. 'I remember the fighting, just, and I remember my mother lowering me from a window and telling me to run and hide. I hid where she told me, in the hollow of an old oak, and I waited for her to come and find me … but she never came.' He stopped again, and ran his hand over his face. 'In the end, I left my hiding place and went to look for her. Our house had been burned to the ground, and so had all the other houses in the village. There seemed to be no one left alive. I was wandering around, searching for my mother, when a monk from St. Werburgh's found me. He had come out of charity to offer last rites to anyone still living, but he found only me. He took me back to the monastery and that is where I lived until … until a few days ago.'

  He fell silent and after a pause Piet said, 'So what made you leave?'

  'The monks took it for granted that I would stay with them. They expected me to enter my novitiate and eventually take my vows. I … did not want that. So I persuaded the son of one of the lay brothers who worked in the gardens to lend me some of his clothes... I said lend, but I am still wearing them. I told him I just wanted to go into the city, to look round. But I went to the docks, and when I saw the ships I decided that that was my way to escape. I was afraid the monks would come looking for me.' He looked at his companion. 'Was it a sin to run away?'

  'I can understand why a boy might want to see more of the world than the inside of a monastery.'

  'It wasn't just that. You see I want … I have to … One day I am going to revenge myself on the men who killed my parents.'

  'But you cannot know who they were. They were soldiers, serving King William.'

  'They were Normans!' He spoke with sudden vehemence. 'That is all that matters. I hate all
Normans. And William is no true king. One day, we English will rise up and drive the invaders out of our country, and I want to be there, fighting. That is why I cannot stay with the monks. I have to learn to fight.'

  'I see.' Piet was silent for a moment. 'And how do you expect to achieve that?'

  Ranulph dropped his head. 'I don't know. I just needed to get away, for a start. I'll find a way, somehow.'

  'What made you take ship with a man like Osric?'

  'I'd asked several other ship masters. No one would take me. I persuaded Osric that I could help him with his accounts. I can read and I'm good with numbers. The monks taught me that, at least. I didn't … I didn't understand that he might have taken me on for … other reasons.'

  Piet let a moment or two pass before he spoke again. 'So, what are your plans for the immediate future?'

  Ranulph looked at him, then away. There was a sudden tightness in his throat that made speech difficult. 'I don't know.'

  Piet said thoughtfully, 'I do not see much prospect of you being able to achieve your goals if you remain here.'

  Ranulph shook his head. He had spent three days scavenging and hiding among people whose language he did not speak and he had no wish to stay any longer.

  'Would you consider taking ship again?'

  Their eyes met. 'With you?'

  'In the Waverider. Yes.'

  He held Ranulph's gaze steadily, then suddenly he smiled and Ranulph found himself smiling back.

  'I'm not much good on a ship. I was sick all the time.'

  'That is something you will get over. I cannot promise to teach you to fight, but I carry six men-at-arms for protection and they may be prepared to show you some of their skills. What I can teach you is seamanship, and the skills of a merchant. You are good with numbers, you said?'

  'Yes.'

  'That is a start. Great plans like yours will require money. A successful merchant can become rich. What do you say?'

  For a breathless moment Ranulph was gripped by indecision. The prospect of committing himself to another sea voyage, and putting himself into the power of another master, filled him with terror. But the last hours had convinced him that Piet could be trusted, and the promise of new skills and the possibility of wealth were alluring. He looked into Pet's eyes again and saw honest compassion and concern.

  'I say yes,' he said. 'If you will take me, I will do my best to serve you in any way I can.'

  The Waverider was well named. Larger and better found than the Seagull she did not wallow as the other ship had done. All day they sailed south. The weather improved, the sun came out, and eventually Ranulph stopped feeling sick. That evening they called at a small village, in a place Piet said was called Cornwall, to pick up a cargo of tin. After a good meal of pilchards in the village inn, they returned to the ship to sleep. The men unrolled palliases and blankets and settled themselves either on the thwarts or on top of the cargo. Piet led Ranulph to the small covered area in the stern and laid out two pallets.

  'There you are, lad. Make yourself comfortable.'

  He handed him a blanket and sat down to pull off his boots. Ranulph hesitated. The memory of what had happened to him with Osric was still too fresh and the prospect of lying down beside another man frightened him. Piet had shown him nothing but kindness, but the terrible suspicion grew in his mind that perhaps this might only be a way of inducing him to drop his defences. Perhaps, he thought, all men had the same desires. He tried to think of an excuse to move away, to find somewhere else to sleep, but his brain seemed paralysed.

  Piet looked up. 'What's wrong? Aren't you sleepy? Got the guts ache?'

  'No … no. Just …' he trailed off into silence.

  Comprehension dawned in the captain's weathered face. 'Be easy, boy. No one is going to lay a hand on you. You can sleep in peace.'

  Ranulph lowered himself onto the pallet. He felt ashamed of his suspicions, ashamed that his mind had been read so easily. 'I'm sorry,' he muttered.

  'No need. You've done nothing to be sorry for. Now, get some sleep.'

  He wrapped himself in the blanket and lay down. Soon the sound of Piet's breathing told him that the captain was asleep, but he lay awake, staring up at the boards of the deck above him. He was bone weary, but it was a weariness that was beyond sleep. During the day, he could forbid himself to think about what had happened to him at Osric's hands, but as soon as he relaxed his defences the memory came back. Tonight, however, that was not what haunted him. It was the recollection of his own actions the next evening. It was no use to tell himself that he had not intended any real harm when he set the ship adrift; that all he had wanted to do was to put a distance between himself and the man who had abused him. He had assumed that soon Osric would come to and would be able to bring the ship under control and sail her back to harbour; or failing that, that some other craft would see the drifting vessel and take it in tow. He could not have foretold the fire that had destroyed it. All this he told himself, over and over again as the stars glimpsed through the cracks in the boards moved across the sky. The fact remained that he had rammed his head into Osric's belly, had sent him flying so that he knocked himself unconscious and upset the lamp as he fell. Perhaps he had already been dead when Ranulph untied the mooring ropes. Or perhaps he had come back to consciousness to find himself surrounded by flames, in the middle of the ocean, far from any help. Whichever it was, the man was dead and he, Ranulph, was responsible. He had committed murder, the ultimate sin. And he had been taught all his life that the wages of sin were death and eternal damnation. He knew that the only hope of escaping that fate was to confess himself to a priest and perform whatever penance was required in order to attain absolution. But there was no priest near, and even if there had been the idea of confessing, of describing what Osric had done to him, was unthinkable. Although his immortal soul depended on it, he could not bring himself to do it. So there it was, starkly delineated. He could not confess, therefore he was damned. He had been brought up to believe that the principal purpose of life was the salvation of his soul. But if his destination was the eternal flames, there was little point in obedience to the dictates of the church. From now on he must forge his own morality. That thought brought him some kind of conclusion, and he slept at last.

  4.

  'Ranulph! Come forward. Here's a sight for you to behold.'

  Summoned by the captain's voice, Ranulph made his way along the gangway between the rowers' benches to stand in the prow of the ship. He had to balance himself against the movement because the Waverider was surging upriver against the current, swept forward by the rising tide.

  'See!' With a sweep of his arm Piet indicated the view ahead.

  Until that moment Ranulph's view had been obscured by the sail. As he stared ahead he caught an involuntary breath of wonder. On either side of the great river the land lay flat and marshy, it's surface glinting with reflected sunlight from myriad pools and rivulets; but ahead, sharply outlined against the blue of the April sky, as if placed by the hand of a magician, was a prospect of walls and towers rising out of the level plain to fill the horizon.

  'London,' Piet said. 'One of the greatest cities in the world.'

  'The usurper's city,' Ranulph said bitterly.

  'Not so! He has held it for what … twelve years. It was not built by him. It was your great Anglo-Saxon kings who created it, building on what the Romans left. Much of it is the legacy of King Edward, he whom they call 'the Confessor'. It was he who built St. Peter's Abbey and the great palace on Thorney Island to the west.'

  'But now it is full of Normans.' Ranulph refused to allow himself to be impressed.

  'Normans, English, Danes, Flemings. A city like this attracts men from all over Christendom.' Piet put a hand on his shoulder. 'I understand your hatred of the men who killed your parents, but do not let it turn you against ordinary men, whose only wish it is to live in peace with their neighbours.'

  Ranulph shrugged off the hand. Piet meant it kindly, but no one cou
ld truly understand his feelings.

  'What is that building?' he asked. ' Look, men are still working on it. It is the Conqueror's stronghold, is it not?'

  Rising above them, protected by a stretch of the walls that ringed the city, was a low mound surrounded by a palisade and topped by a wooden tower. Around the base of it great blocks of stone were being unloaded from sleds and men were wrestling them into place. Already the outline of a new edifice was taking shape. It was obvious that before long the wooden tower would be replaced by a stone one.