Wiser now than the men on the ships, he didn’t expect M. de Fleury to lead the way down the vale of the Markarfljót. Every year, in the dark and the snow, the farmers walked two hundred miles to the coast to greet the incoming cod, swarming to fatten and feed before spawning. And bad as that was, the subsequent easing of winter softened the bogs, and brought heavier spates from the glaciers. The safest way, of all the difficult passages, was the one M. de Fleury had already taken, following Kathi and her brother. Mixed with Robin’s anxiety about his employer was a not dissimilar foreboding about Katelijne Sersanders. Even given the easiest route, you couldn’t depend on either of them to keep out of trouble; and neither knew when to stop.
Robin had taken precautions. He had made sure that a boat was set apart to bring them back from the Thjórsá. All the fishermen knew to look out for them. Every traveller who rode in or forded the river was questioned. And just in case something went wrong, he paid a man at Hlídarendi, up the river, to watch out for news from the north. But M. de Fleury would only try to come down by the Markarfljót in an emergency, and the emergency was not likely to be created by Hekla. If there were any danger from Hekla, M. de Fleury would lead them all west, and hope to come back by boat as before. If Hekla exploded, its gas and ashes and lava would destroy anyone on his way south from Skálholt.
In the end, the tales that came from Hlídarendi were not about a band of rash travellers, but about the weather. There had been thunderstorms in the north, and rumours of earth-shocks. Also, as could be seen, the smoke from Hekla had changed. It seemed less than ever likely that M. de Fleury would try to come south the direct way. Time passed, and uneasiness lay over the settlement. Then, when the fleet came in at dusk, the men splashed ashore shouting news. A privateer had been sighted: the notorious Charity, with a reputation for stealing fish and attacking its rivals. Now they had man as well as nature to contend with.
It did not take them long to decide what to do. The fishermen of Markarfljót proceeded to pack up their stocks and abandon the station.
Part of the work was completed that evening, while the Englishmen were too far away to do harm. Robin helped. Already the sheer bulk of the catch was overwhelming; by the end of the season, every man could have his tail-mark on six hundred cod, to pay for all he must buy for a year. To have it seized was to lose life itself. So the fish were packed first, to be rowed up the coast and stowed underground inland, in safety. By the time darkness fell, many of the boats had already gone to the west and some of the huts were half empty. The Svipa knew what was happening. It was aware that its lifeline with Robin was lost. If it wanted his news, it would have to send its own skiffs to collect it.
That night, Robin was too tired to sleep. Like the others before him, he had been given a place in the cabin of Tryggvi, and had succeeded in lying alone without offending his daughters – an exercise in tact which his father had taught him some time ago. His father was always gentle with women; even unreasonable women like Kathi.
Thinking of Sersanders and Kathi, he remembered something Tryggvi had happened to say about the Icelanders’ dislike of their foreign tithe-levying bishops. He had heard the same grumbling in Orkney, which led him to wonder whether the Bishop of Skálholt and Bishop Tulloch might not have much in common. It would explain how Sersanders had felt sure of a welcome in Iceland – a welcome spoiled by the Hanse-owned Pruss Maiden. Had the Maiden not arrived before time, the Unicorn might have expected to fish unmolested, and unmolested escape with her sulphur. Martin of the Vatachino was sharp.
He remembered other things Tryggvi had told him about Herra Oddur, the bailiff. Sersanders had wanted to go hunting gyrfalcon. He should have been stopped, Tryggvi had said. It was dangerous. There were bears about. One couldn’t blame Tryggvi for obeying the bailiff and not staying at Skálholt. Fortunately, Robin himself had no conflict of duty to worry him. He would be of little use in a sea fight with the Charity. And if – when – M. de Fleury arrived, he would certainly expect his page to be waiting.
Forty miles to the north, in a basalt chapel the size of a hen-coop, the awaited party lay stricken with sleep, having launched on a journey none of the four would have chosen, however wild some of them were.
Left alone in the last hours of daylight, they had been forced to hurry through rivers and snow, to escape a night in soaked clothes in the open. They had also been forced to hurry by Nicholas who, abetted by Kathi, had transformed his fatigue into an antic simulation of energy which had astonished Glímu-Sveinn and induced the disgusted Danziger to compete, loudly complaining.
Even when tumbling, numbed, into the chapel, they had been given no rest, but had been set to finding writing materials. None was to be had. On their travels over the mainland, they had passed other churches like this, with the bowls of curds set on the altar and the stockfish stacked at the walls, together with the priest-farmer’s boxes of tackle. Sometimes the pastor’s own empty coffin would lie on the steps, prudently completed when wood could be had. Other mortals, with worse luck or less foresight, might be found at the back of the church, neatly stitched into wadmol and patiently awaiting the next season’s timber.
There were no corpses here, which was as well, considering the building was eight feet in width, and only a small man could stand head unbowed. There was no paper either, and the only Gospel the altar produced was a heavy old block made of wood, on which oaths had been sworn long ago, Glímu-Sveinn said, when the real book had been stolen or rotted. In the end, apologetic in their necessity, they added the Helga Bok to the fire at which they were drying their clothing, and Nicholas knelt on the floor and scratched a map on the hide of his jacket, reaching from where they now were to the coast, and containing all the detail that Glímu-Sveinn could give him.
If nothing happened, Glímu-Sveinn said, it was possible – it was just possible – that they would reach Hlídarendi by the following evening. There was the Rangar river to cross, and its tributaries. There was rotten ground under the snow; unseen bogs; and new crevasses sprung by the shocks. There might be more shocks, and more thunder. And there was Hekla to pass, and then the jökull, the glacier which overlaid Katla.
‘The Rangar,’ Kathi said. ‘It means the wrong-running river, because its bed has been distorted by lava.’
‘I know,’ Benecke said. Glímu-Sveinn had gone out to the horses. De Fleury had risen and walked to the back of the church, swinging the jacket. Benecke said, ‘I had the happy idea that if all the rivers dried up, we could cross them. Our friend says that we could, except that the burning lava tends to flow down the river-beds. Is he a magician, or does he just think he is?’
‘M. de Fleury?’ said the girl. ‘He found Sigfús.’
‘So what is he doing now?’ Benecke said. His arm was still sore, but he had got rid of his bandage, which he felt made him look slightly ridiculous. He was remarkably tired.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the girl. ‘It seems to use up his strength. He either had to overdo it, or not get here at all. Tomorrow might be as bad. But we have to hurry.’
‘So he’s divining?’ Benecke said. He began to get up.
The girl pushed him down firmly, on his sore arm. She said, ‘If he’s getting any good advice, I don’t think we should interrupt him.’
‘Advice?’ said Paúel Benecke. Embroiled with lunatics, he was torn between impatience and curiosity. He said, ‘He can get messages from the ships?’
‘In their own argonaut,’ the girl said. ‘Very salty, some of the language.’ She then relented, saying, ‘You’ll get more out of him, really, if you pay no attention. He doesn’t like doing it.’
‘What a pity,’ said Paúel Benecke, his face bland. ‘What else can he reluctantly divine underground? Alum? Silver mines? Diamonds?’
The girl laughed. Her skin was blotched with cold and folded into lines of exhaustion, but her eyes were bright as a monkey’s. Nicholas de Fleury, also smiling, had come to stand beside Benecke. He said, ‘Don’t think of it. My fees ar
e too high, and you haven’t a chance of coercing me. But you may be glad to know that everyone, at the moment, is as you left him.’
The girl looked up. ‘Robin is still on the shore?’
‘Yes,’ said de Fleury. ‘So let’s sleep. We have a race with the demons tomorrow.’
Benecke was sound asleep when, at the hour the Icelanders called ótta, Nicholas de Fleury silently rose and made his way out of the church. A long time elapsed. Kathi, accustomed to the courtesies of travelling, made no effort to follow until, lying there, she realised at last why he had gone. Silently she wrapped herself in her bed-fleece and went out.
First she saw the sky, covered by the stars the Icelanders used to count time. Among them was Sirius, which they called Loki-brenna, Loki’s fire. Below the stars was the dim white of snow, and black against that, the stolid forms of the ponies. The Burgundian was standing beside them, his face turned to the south. She walked to his side and, pausing, looked at the same view: of the jöklar like clouds in the sky, ridge upon ridge, and above the furthest of them a sparkle, as if the fires of Loki were playing about it. The air was so still that the faintest grumble of thunder could be heard, even from such a distance. Katla, not Hekla. And from Katla or Hekla, the thing she had sensed, that had brought her out here in the first place. The faintest odour of sulphur.
She said nothing, but looked up at the singular, well-liked man standing beside her, and after a moment he returned the look with one of his own which bordered on helplessness, but in which ruefulness also played some part, and regret, and awe, and – contradicting them all – a suffusion, bright as Loki’s fire, of contentment.
Nothing was said. In such a silence, even a whisper would annihilate sleep. In any case, there was nothing to say. The danger was there and increasing – the sulphur betrayed it – but as yet no glimmer of fire beaded the sky; no fissures gaped; the only voice was a low one and distant: that of thunder. They had talked with mock solemnity of the Twilight of the Gods, of the fires of the damned; but if you had knelt at the altar at Sinai, and had stood where Moses stood, and had experienced, in a cold northern town, an exaltation of the spirit which, all unbidden, had carried with it the soul of a child, then you believed in one God and in submission to him. You also believed – contradictory as that air of contentment – that it was right to submit only when you had fought to the uttermost of your powers.
She had meant to say commonplace things: If anything happens, I shall try to do my best for the child, and for Gelis.
Then: As you choose to do this, so Robin has chosen his way, and neither of you must regret what may happen.
If I do not survive, make my uncle your friend.
And, of least importance of all: Of course, Paúel Benecke is waiting to kill you. But he will want to do it in style, and you will probably stop him, one way or another.
After a while it became cold, and she pressed his arm and went in. By dawn, they were all up and travelling.
To the leaderless Hanse ship and the Svipa, it was apparent under the same paling sky that the English vessel had approached through the night. The wind, now from the east, rose and died but provided some help, and their oarsmen had been working. Their course would take them to the north of the fishing grounds, which did not bring them close to the Hanse ship or the Svipa, but was still within range of their guns. They had sent no signals, although Crackbene had brought both his ships early from harbour and lay at anchor, ready for anything.
The Pruss Maiden was now armed. Lacking their master, the crew were far from anxious to fight, but they had been reminded often enough that Paúel Benecke’s life depended on how well they acquitted themselves. And to see off the English ship, after all, was their duty. To make sure they understood this, John le Grant had gone over, with a handful of men, to work as sailing-master with Stanislas. He spoke fluent German, and was known by reputation to them all. Father Moriz stayed with the Svipa and Crackbene, and watched the sky to the north and north-east.
They had all seen the changes, even before the last of the Icelanders came to warn them that they were leaving the settlement. The young Herra Robin, they added, had refused to come with them.
Father Moriz was angry with everyone, and especially with Crackbene and John. The Charity had been here before: they would see the smoke, recognise the danger and leave. The Svipa should send a crew to the settlement to stay with Robin and rescue both Robin and Nicholas, if Nicholas came back by land.
‘It is impossible to come by land,’ Crackbene had said. ‘Also, the Icelanders say the Charity has never seen an eruption and will attribute the fishermen’s flight to their cowardice. They will be disappointed and angry. They will either storm the settlement, hoping for fish, or will try to attack and sink the Hanse ship in particular, taking her catch and destroying her witness. We can’t afford to spare the men for a boat. And if Katla erupts, the boat would be commandeered.’
Then Moriz had asked: ‘You say Hekla would kill. How would Katla erupting be worse?’
After Crackbene had answered, the priest sat silent for a few moments. Then he said, ‘To avoid a death such as that, we should have to stand fifteen miles out to sea?’
‘Or more,’ Crackbene said. The decision is mine. There can only be one master on any ship.’
On the Markarfljót, the day began long before dawn, when the lamps were lit and the work of loading and disembarkation started again. It continued all morning under a thunderous sky, while the ether crackled like cannonfire, and the lightning played blue on the crests of the Eyjafjalla Jökull. Every now and then their breath caught with the smell of it. It smelled like gunpowder.
Every boat-load Robin helped to shove off tried to get him to come, and described what would happen if he stayed. He refused them politely, as M. de Fleury would have done. He considered, all the time, what M. de Fleury would do, and what a sensible man ought to do, and tried to follow the mean. Kathi, he knew, would concede, if with reluctance, that he was right. M. de Fleury was not a sensible man.
*
Commonsense tracks the way across deserts; faith and laughter sustain those who cross them.
Glímu-Sveinn had faith, and had prayed aloud at the altar before leaving the chapel.
‘Almattigr Gud, allra stetta
Yferbiodandinn, engla og thioda,
Ei thurfandi stadi ne standir …’
‘It is from an old poem,’ M. de Fleury had said, when Kathi asked. ‘All-powerful God, Who presideth over all orders of beings, both angels and mortals; Who, independent of place and time, continuest undisturbed in Thy sovereign power … I ask of Thee, that in Thy great mercy, Thou wouldst grant me what I implore with a submissive soul –’
‘A dish of beef collops with ale,’ Paúel Benecke had interrupted. ‘Since you’re asking. Shouldn’t we go?’
‘When we’ve settled this wager,’ had said M. de Fleury, staring at him.
For three of them, a dedicated levity was their chosen shield against what was to come. The fourth, being an Icelander, had his own form of strength, and was to show it on that first killing stretch which was to take them south to the farmhouse of Selsund, a halfway station where they could take time to rest. They each had three lean-bellied animals, economically laden; and must ride them hard over the snow-covered lava, for after Selsund was passed, the basalt ridges and the bogs and the Markarfljót would hinder all progress.
That was the plan. The rest was outside their control. The Hades within Hekla might explode, and send its flames down the mountain behind them. Ahead, the Plutonic cauldron within Katla might rise, and give its glowing carpet of ash to the wind. After Hlídarendi, the danger would be nearer and worse.
At the outset, M. de Fleury had claimed that the thunder was a stroke of good luck, since it would alert the fisherfolk to the danger of Katla. He said if they could smell anything, apart from each other, the stink of sulphur would be noticed as well. He said that if they had any sense, they would all get out to the west, includ
ing Robin. It annoyed her, since she knew he didn’t believe it. She was arguing when the Danziger had interrupted.
‘Excuse me, but are you proposing to call this man M. de Fleury throughout this entire journey? You realise he could fall into a crevasse while you are still pronouncing his name?’
She had, with annoyance, felt herself colouring. Then M. de Fleury had said, ‘I think she thinks it’s a charm against evil. She can call me what she likes.’
‘Then for God’s sake, tell her to call you the same as everyone else.’
‘That wouldn’t be very polite,’ said M. de Fleury. ‘I don’t know why she doesn’t call me Nicholas.’ He addressed her mildly. ‘Do you want to call me Nicholas?’
He had looked reasonably patient, and probably serious. Under the circumstances, it clearly made sense. ‘All right,’ said Kathi. ‘It’s shorter.’ Then they were off. When she had breath at all, she tried to get used to it, while reviewing her precise situation.
They carried some hay, and had fed the horses from a small store they had found in a cave. They had kept the makings of one single tent and their survival supplies, including some oddments of dried fish and blubber, a lump of tallow and a flask of sour whey. Glímu-Sveinn led, followed by the head of the Bank of Niccolò, followed by herself, and with Benecke in the rear. His mount had a bell on its harness, the way they had in the Tyrol. M. de, now Nicholas, had lifted it from the church. He probably wished, Kathi thought, that he had crampons and snowshoes and servants with baskets of food and warm coaches on runners to meet him. Well, it had been his idea to come fishing for cod.
Paúel Benecke said, ‘What are you grinning at?’
‘Something Tryggvi-Sigurdsson taught me,’ she said. ‘Do you know the Icelanders make up lampoons they call nídvísur? Rude lampoons?’
To Lie with Lions Page 47