Hawk Quest

by Robert Lyndon

  ‘Everything I’ve learned about you confirms the justness of my quarrel.’

  Vallon eyed him. He really was much reduced. ‘You’re in no state to quarrel with a cat.’

  Feet pattered towards the byre. The farmer and two other men stopped outside the door, swaying from side to side and brandishing their weapons uncertainly.

  ‘Go back to bed,’ Vallon told them.

  The farmer spoke to Drogo. The Norman made a helpless gesture and the Icelanders retreated muttering and shaking their heads. Vallon picked up a stool by one leg, set it down and seated himself.

  ‘I heard about the shipwreck. Where are your men?’

  A spasm ran along Drogo’s jaw. He looked away. ‘One of them drowned and the other two suffered broken limbs. They’re too crippled to travel.’

  Vallon leaned his hands on the pommel of his sword and regarded Drogo with a kind of wonderment. ‘You’re not the luckiest of men, are you?’

  ‘When I’ve mended, we’ll see who has the luck.’

  ‘I should lop off your head right now and put an end to your pestering. There’s no death penalty for manslaughter in Iceland. People rely on their kinsmen and followers to settle scores. You have neither. I still have my company.’

  As Vallon said this, he realised that Helgi would soon find out about Drogo and his grudge. He could imagine how they’d stoke each other’s enmity.

  ‘How many of your gang are left?’ Drogo muttered.

  ‘All but the English youth killed in Northumberland.’ Vallon frowned. ‘You sailed from Orkney. Did you encounter Snorri, our shipmaster?’

  ‘I thought he was here with you.’

  Vallon clicked his tongue. ‘Poor Snorri.’ He was silent for a while. When he spoke again, his tone was almost conversational. ‘Richard and Hero are away on trade. Wayland and Raul have sailed to Greenland in search of gyrfalcons. They’ve been gone two months and I begin to worry.’

  ‘I’m surprised my weakling brother still lives.’

  ‘Not such a weakling. He’s grown in stature and confidence since escaping your tyranny. I’ve appointed him treasurer to the expedition and he’s proved himself a shrewd handler of money.’ Vallon leaned forward. ‘Every man in my company is under my protection. I’ll treat any attempt to harm them as an assault on my own person.’

  Drogo shifted. ‘You’ll agree to a trial by combat once my ribs are mended.’

  Vallon stood. He was dizzy from hunger and he still had the ride to his lodgings ahead of him. ‘You won’t be fit to fight by the time we leave. We’re sailing as soon as Shearwater returns.’

  ‘So you still intend to free Sir Walter.’

  ‘Why not? The hard part’s done.’

  ‘What did Lady Margaret offer you in return?’

  ‘Profits from trade.’

  ‘There must have been more.’

  Vallon set off towards the door. ‘Whatever my reasons for completing the journey, they’re more honourable than your reasons for stopping me.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘Do you need anything?’

  Drogo winced. ‘I’d die before accepting charity from you.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  XXVII

  Hero and Richard finished their trade mission in Skalholt. There they bartered their remaining clay pots for half a dozen sacks of sulphur and bales of woollens. They dined that night with the bishop. Since it was a fast day they ate fermented shark and boiled seal, which counted for fish. The bishop asked his guests about their trading activities and told them that they could have struck much harder terms. Cooking vessels were in such short supply that even well-to-do households rented them, and the bishop had recently pronounced an anathema on a villain who’d used the baptismal font to make a stew.

  The bishop was called Isleifur, son of Gissur the White, one of the first Icelandic chieftains to have been baptised. Isleifur confided that pagan practices hadn’t been entirely eradicated in the remoter parts. In times of hunger parents still exposed infants to the elements and made blood sacrifices. Education was the dew that would help water the tender shoots of Christianity, he told Hero. To this end he’d founded a school where pupils were taught the Roman script. He himself had been educated in Germany and was deeply interested in Hero’s medical studies and impressed by his facility in languages and knowledge of the classics.

  They talked long into the night and next morning the bishop lent them two of his men to escort their pack train back to Reykjavik. Their journey took them through heathland ablaze with shades of russet and ochre. The pair hadn’t covered many miles when they saw two horsemen riding towards them.

  ‘It’s Vallon and Garrick,’ Richard said.

  ‘The ship must have returned. What perfect timing.’

  Richard’s eyes were sharper than Hero’s. ‘No. It’s bad news. I can see it from here.’

  Vallon reined in. He didn’t even greet them.

  ‘Shearwater?’ Hero said.

  Vallon shook his head. ‘Drogo’s here.’

  Hero almost fell off his horse. Richard’s face drained.

  Vallon’s manner was distracted. ‘He was on the ship that was wrecked in the south. He’s not an immediate danger. He’s broken his ribs and his surviving company are still on the Westman Isles.’ Vallon nodded towards the armed escorts. ‘Who are those men?’

  ‘Servants of the bishop. He thought we should have protection on the road.’

  ‘Why? Has anyone threatened you?’

  Hero and Richard looked at each other. ‘No, sir. Everyone has treated us with kindness. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I crossed swords with a chieftain’s son.’ Vallon looked back down the road. ‘I was concerned for your safety.’

  First thing most mornings, Hero and Richard rode to a headland overlooking the harbour and scanned the Atlantic for a ship sailing from the west. Days passed and the horizon remained empty. The nights grew longer and the air crisper, with frost at dawn. In the harbour three ships were being prepared for the voyage to Norway. One of them was the vessel that would carry Caitlin to her arranged marriage. Drogo had left the farm that had taken him in and that’s all anyone knew. His appearance out of the blue had knocked the stuffing out of Richard.

  Hero tried to reassure him. ‘Drogo can’t harm us once Helgi’s left Iceland. It won’t be long. The fleet is just waiting for a favourable wind.’

  ‘Vallon’s stupid if he believes Drogo isn’t a threat. I don’t understand why he didn’t kill him when he had the chance.’

  ‘Richard, you’re talking about your own brother.’

  ‘Do you think Drogo would spare me if he had me at his mercy? Or you? Any of us?’

  ‘Your brother was helpless.’

  ‘So was Vallon’s wife.’

  When they climbed to their lookout next morning they saw a fourth ship moored in the harbour. The convoy was complete and ready to sail. The morning following Hero woke to thick fog and a gale lashing from the north-east. For three days the storm howled around the house. When it eased the wind turned to the west, bottling up the convoy. Two days later a boy rode to the hall after dark with news that a Greenland ship had limped into harbour. Everyone threw on their clothes and rode pell-mell to the coast.

  They found the skipper supervising the unloading of cargo from his battered vessel. Vallon pelted him with questions and received terse answers. They’d set sail from the Eastern Settlement more than two weeks ago. The storm had blown them far to the south-west. No, Shearwater hadn’t returned to the settlement by the time they left. Yes, the ship could have started out since then. If it had, the storm would have carried it many leagues off course.

  ‘They have a navigator.’

  The captain regarded Vallon with eyes slitted by exhaustion. ‘Your pilot’s dead. He sickened during his stay at the settlement. One eye swelled up as though it would burst. He took to his bed and gave up his ghost inside a week. Without a pilot your men would find it hard to follow the correct course even in fair weather. If
your men sailed through that storm, they don’t stand a chance of reaching Iceland. You’d better look for them in Ireland.’ He started towards one of the longshoremen. ‘Hey. Careful with that.’ He turned back to Vallon. ‘I’m sorry about your ship, but I’m busy.’

  It was a sober party that rode back to the farm for breakfast. Vallon ignored his food.

  ‘What date is it?’

  Richard kept the calendar.’ By my reckoning, today’s the twenty-second of August.’

  ‘When did Shearwater leave for Greenland?’

  ‘The last week of May.’

  ‘Almost three months.’ Vallon sucked in his cheeks and stared at the wall. ‘We can’t wait any longer. The sailing season will soon be over. Remember the ships stuck in harbour since last autumn.’

  ‘We can’t leave Iceland without Wayland and Raul,’ Hero said.

  ‘I gave them instructions to return no later than the first week of August.’

  ‘The storm will have delayed them.’

  ‘By a week at most. If they’re not back by the end of the month, we have to assume that they’re lost or dead.’

  ‘What will we do?’ Richard asked.

  ‘How much money is left?’

  ‘About fifty pounds.’

  ‘More than enough to pay for our passage. We’ll have to arrange it soon, though.’

  ‘So that’s it,’ said Hero. ‘Our quest is over.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve ridden off to fight for kings who were dead or deposed before my orders reached me. I’ve fought in battles where neither side knew that their rulers had signed a peace treaty that same morning. If we can’t keep track of the affairs of men, we can’t expect to command the wind and weather.’

  Vallon was wrong about finding a ship to take them to Norway. He and Garrick were gone for days, enquiring up and down the coast. When they returned, he sat in his place with such a grim expression that no one dared speak.

  He ballooned his cheeks and slowly released the pressure. ‘We’re stuck. No one will take us. The only vessels sailing south are the four ships in harbour. And they’d have left days ago if this wind had relented.’

  Hero felt his throat. ‘The wind that thwarts them could be carrying our friends back.’

  ‘They’ve had westerlies for a week. That sea captain was right. The storm either sank them or blew them so far south that they couldn’t find their way to Iceland.’

  Hero’s head drooped.

  Vallon drummed his fingers. ‘I tried to purchase berths on the Norway convoy.’

  Hero’s head jerked up. ‘With Helgi?’

  ‘Not him. I sought out the other sailing masters. All of them peddled the same excuse. Every place taken. It’s Helgi’s doing. He intends to keep us here until he returns. He thinks his revenge will taste sweeter the longer it simmers.’

  Vallon stood and leaned against the doorpost, looking out into a miserable rain. He drew his sword and made a lazy sweep.

  ‘We still have a chance. Drogo has challenged me to combat.’ Vallon turned his head. ‘I forgot to tell you. Drogo’s found shelter with Helgi.’ He looked back into the rain. ‘Helgi wants me dead, too. I’ll oblige them both. I’ll face them in combat — the two together if necessary.’

  ‘You said that Drogo wasn’t fit to fight.’

  ‘He will be by the time we reach Norway. That’s the challenge and that’s the contract. We get a passage to Norway and in return I face Drogo in combat.’

  Richard bolted up. ‘Drogo won’t honour it. Whatever terms he agrees, he’ll break them.’

  ‘Not if he’s dead. Have more faith in me.’

  ‘I have faith in Wayland and Raul,’ said Hero. ‘I know they’ll come back.’

  Vallon didn’t seem to hear. His lips moved as if he were forming words in his mind. ‘I’ll couch my challenge tomorrow. In public so that neither dare refuse.’ He gave an ugly laugh. ‘Injured pride? Nobody has suffered more injury than I have. I’ll teach them.’ He slashed his sword into the doorpost. ‘I’ll teach them!’

  ‘Wake up,’ Hero whispered. ‘It’s getting light.’

  Richard rolled away. ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘We mustn’t abandon hope.’ Hero looked through the dim to where Vallon lay sleeping. ‘I know what makes him despair. He lay entombed for months, resigned to a slow death. Although he escaped, the horror still preys on him. For Vallon, waiting is hell. But just because he’s lost hope, that doesn’t mean we have to do the same.’

  ‘It’s too late. Vallon will deliver his challenge today.’

  ‘Then let’s stand a last vigil.’

  Richard buried his face in the pillow and rocked his head.

  Hero stood looking down at him, then went out.

  He was cinching his saddle when Richard stole into the stable. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘My hopes were crushed the day Drogo turned up.’

  They rode towards the coast with their capes drawn across their faces. A following wind as fresh as this could have blown Shearwater back to Iceland in five days.

  They reached their lookout and sat their horses, watching the rollers flooding in until their eyes watered. They retreated to the lee of a rock. Hero kept getting up to scan the sea.

  ‘Vallon should never have let them go,’ Richard said.

  Hero slid down beside him. ‘Do you think Drogo will accept his challenge?’

  ‘I don’t see how he can refuse. That’s what scares me. The prospect of sailing to Norway with my brother.’

  ‘We don’t have to go. We could stay here. Vallon would understand. Without the falcons, the journey has lost its purpose.’

  ‘What would we do?’

  ‘The bishop will take us in. You heard him lament the shortage of Latinists. We could teach at his school.’

  Richard blew into his hands. ‘Spend the rest of our lives in Iceland?’

  ‘Only until next summer. I don’t want to leave until I’ve found out what’s happened to Wayland and Raul.’

  Richard fell quiet.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Hero asked.

  ‘Staying here. Never tasting another apple or smelling another rose. Never being able to lie in the shade of a tree on a hot day. Dried fish morning, noon and night.’

  Hero laughed. ‘Our lives won’t be that awful.’ He stood and offered his hand. ‘We’d better tell Vallon before he issues his challenge.’

  Richard struggled up. ‘Do you really think the bishop would take us in?’

  ‘I know he will.’

  They mounted and cast their eyes seaward one last time. Hero had already turned his horse when Richard stuck out a restraining arm.

  ‘I saw something.’

  Hero squinted into the wind.

  ‘Something white,’ said Richard.

  Hero gave him a sharp look. Every part of the ocean was highlighted by white. Foam creaming on the waves. Fulmars gliding between the troughs. An island blanched by guano.

  ‘It’s gone,’ Richard said. ‘No, there it is again. It comes and goes.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Richard heeled his horse and leaned across. ‘See the island? Look beyond its north shore. Almost at the horizon.’

  Hero shielded one eye and squinted along the line indicated by Richard’s hand. ‘I don’t see it.’

  ‘There!’

  Hero wiped his eyes with the hem of his cloak and peered again. It popped into focus. A shape as pale as a tooth. It vanished and then appeared again, rising and sinking in rhythm with the rollers.

  ‘Are you sure it isn’t waves breaking on a rock?’

  ‘It wasn’t there yesterday, or any other day we’ve stood here.’

  Hero studied the speck and a tingling sensation crept over him. It was moving. ‘You’re right. It’s a sail.’

  ‘And heading from the right direction.’

  Hero and Richard stared at each other as if they stood on the verge of a revelation.

  Hero slapped Richard’s horse. ‘Fetch Val
lon.’

  ‘Wait until the ship reaches harbour. I don’t want to miss them.’

  ‘No. Quick. Before he makes his challenge.’

  Richard wheeled his horse and galloped away. Hero clutched his cloak about him and watched the ship riding the combers. So small and frail. He looked behind him. He wanted Vallon to be here, not to shame him for his doubts, but to show him how hope could ride out the billows of fortune.

  The ship was only about a mile from land when Hero heard a cry behind him. It was the rest of the company. ‘We met on the road,’ Richard shouted.

  Vallon threw himself off his horse, strode to the edge of the cliff and leaned into the wind, his cloak flapping behind him. When he turned, his eyes were streaming. From the wind or emotion, Hero couldn’t tell.

  ‘It’s Shearwater. Our friends have returned.’

  Garrick and Richard crossed themselves. Vallon regarded Hero with a rueful expression. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘But so was I. I always discount miracles.’

  Three riders appeared below them, spurring towards the harbour. Shearwater had drawn close enough for Hero to make out figures shortening sail for the final approach.

  ‘Let’s be there to welcome them,’ Vallon said.

  They rode down in a laughing and whooping chorus. They weren’t the only ones heading for the harbour. It looked like half the county was converging on the haven. Vallon’s company clattered onto the jetty. Their voices stilled as Shearwater entered harbour. The sail came down.

  Richard jumped off the ground. ‘There’s Raul. How savage he looks.’

  Hero waved. ‘And Wayland. And Syth. She looks different. Oh, and the dog. They’re all safe. Oh, thank God!’

  Wayland lifted his hand in what looked like a salute. On it sat a large white bird.

  Hero clutched Vallon. ‘He’s got the falcons.’

  Syth hung smiling from Wayland’s other arm.

  Garrick chuckled. ‘Manned the maid, too, by the look of it.’

  Hero and Richard locked wrists and cavorted like lunatics. The Icelanders looked on with smiles, most happy, some poignant. Many of them had stood on this spot waiting for the return of loved ones, and some of them had returned to their homes alone.