The sound of battle died away and all the men aboard both ships paused, staring towards the massive pirate captain and his hostage. The beast-helmeted man cast a glance over his shoulder. He tensed. He too had spotted the approach of the other Northumbrian ships. He raked his gaze across the blood-soaked decks, clearly weighing his chances against the handful of warriors on Háligsteorra and whether his men could hope to be done with them before the reinforcements arrived.
The hulls scraped and groaned where they had been lashed together. The ships rolled and pitched. Above them, a gull let out a shrieking cry. The leader fixed his gaze on Beobrand.
“Get off my ship or this boy dies,” he said. It seemed he had decided to cut his losses and retreat. Beobrand gripped Hrunting so tightly that his knuckles cracked. His blood roared in his ears. He looked about him at the dead and the dying. His body screamed at him to continue, to drench this ship in the blood of these pirates who had dared attack them. He took a step forward, but the pirate leader shouted again.
“I will slice his throat like a pig for bleeding. Get off my ship now.”
Dalston’s eyes were white-rimmed with fear and he was trembling like the severed sheet that flicked and shook in the wind. The pirate pressed his wicked blade into the pliant flesh of Dalston’s throat and the monk moaned.
“You will withdraw from our ship too,” Beobrand said, his voice as cold as the slate-grey sea. “And sail your ships away.”
The pirate met his hard gaze for a long moment, then nodded.
“Go, Cynan,” Beobrand whispered.
Cynan stepped away from the sailors and scrambled over the side of the ship, back into Háligsteorra. Beobrand followed him and quickly joined Bassus and the others where they stood before a pile of bloody corpses.
The pirates clambered off the ship even more quickly than they had boarded. Their leader was last, and he shuffled towards the wale still clutching Dalston to him, with the sharp seax blade digging into the skin beneath the monk’s chin.
When he reached the side, he stepped over, steadied by the welcoming hands of his men. He lifted Dalston bodily and carried him over with him.
“Take the treasure the boy carries,” shouted Beobrand. “Send the boy back.”
The dull thuds of axe blows signalled the ropes that had held the ships together being cut. Using their oars, the pirates shoved the two ships apart. The gap between the vessels widened quickly, soon it would be too far even for an unarmoured man to jump.
“Send the boy back!” yelled Beobrand again, but as he said the words, he tasted the bitterness of defeat and deceit in his throat.
Beneath the animal skull helm, the pirate’s eyes gleamed and his mouth widened into a gap-toothed grin.
“Here,” he said, “you can have him.”
With one hand, he plucked the finely decorated casket from the monk’s grasp and with the other hand, he sawed his blade across Dalston’s pallid throat. Blood welled and then rushed from the wound in a torrent. The blood streamed down, splashing over the strakes of the pirate ship. Dalston’s mouth opened and shut, as if he were trying to speak, but no words came. The pirate held him upright for several heartbeats as the ships drifted further apart. Dalston gurgled and blinked in terror.
As if from a distance, Beobrand heard Coenred let out a howl of anguish at seeing his friend’s fate.
When the pirate at last tired of holding the monk, he shoved him forward and Dalston tumbled into the seething sea. He made no sound and there was only the briefest of splashes. For an instant, the foam was a blur of red, and then the monk vanished, swallowed into the darkness beneath the waves. It was as if Dalston had never been.
Chapter 3
Ardith knew that something was amiss the moment her father awoke early.
Had she had an inkling of what was to pass that morning beneath the ashen, autumnal sky, she would have leapt from her bed and sped off barefoot into the woods to the north of their hut.
She had planned to be up long before her father, to be far from the house by the time he roused himself. But here he was, filled with an urgent energy she did not recognise. The sight of him, face blotched and eyes shot through with red veins, terrified her. He was not one to rise in a good humour, and she had learnt to dress herself and to leave their home silently so as not to disturb him.
He had been out late the night before, his drunken stumblings around the farmhouse had awoken her in the deep of night. She had lain there, her body rigid and still with fear that he might be angry, as he so often was. She had pressed her eyes tightly shut, willing her breathing to be even and deep, feigning slumber in the hope that he would not come to her. She had prayed silently to the Blessed Virgin, for her mother told her there was no one more holy than the mother of Christ and that Maria would surely answer the prayers of womenfolk over the supplications of men.
There had been a crash and her father had cursed. Ardith had held her breath then, more intent on not being noticed than pretending to sleep. She had remained perfectly still while in her thought-cage the words of her prayers to the Virgin tumbled and churned like the frenetic paddling of a swan beneath the still surface of a pond. The mother of Christ must have heard her frantic silent pleading, for with a loud belch and a grunt, her father had collapsed onto the pallet, where he usually slept beside her mother, and within moments his snores had filled the room.
The house had settled and creaked around them, as if it too had been woken and now once again would return to its secret dreams. Outside, the breeze had picked up and whispered through the boughs of the hornbeams and oaks that grew close to the house. The wind had blown under the eaves and the timbers groaned and sighed.
The soft sounds of the night and the all-too-familiar sawing snores of her father had eventually ushered her back to sleep. In her dreams she had walked through fields of waving barley with her mother. They had laughed and talked of all manner of things and Ardith had been content.
Her father’s rough voice had shattered her sleep and her happy dream. Fingers of grey dawn light found their way through the shutters and beneath the door. Her father’s grizzled face stared down at her and for an instant Ardith was filled with horror. She recoiled, before forcing herself to appear at ease. She knew her father hated it when they showed any display of nervousness around him.
He seemed not to notice her reaction. Flinging open the shutters, he allowed more watery light to wash in.
“Come on, girl,” he said. “Get up. No time to dawdle. Brush your hair and put on your best peplos. The green one that mother is always telling you not to make dirty.” He grinned at her conspiratorially. His tone was jovial, yet brisk. Despite his drunkenness of the night before and the stench of sour ale that rolled from him like the fog that wafted over the fields before the sun climbed high, his body seemed to thrum with excitement.
Unease rippled through her. She wished her mother had not been called away to help tend to aunt Inga in her confinement. Or that she had allowed Ardith to travel with her. She had taken Tatwine, and he was only five. It wasn’t fair.
“What is it, father?” she asked, keeping her voice even and calm, in spite of the anxiety that flapped its wings around her. “It is very early. Should I prepare food? There is some pottage left from last night. It won’t take long to warm.” Her words tumbled from her in a rush.
Her father shook his head and sat on his favourite stool. He glanced at the window, perhaps gauging the time from the light, and then began to quickly bind his legs.
“There is no time for that,” he said. “Just do as I say.”
Ardith climbed from her bed. She knew not to argue.
*
The sun had barely crept above the horizon when they walked down the main path between the buildings of Hithe. The settlement was waking from slumber, shaking off the shackles of sleep. From the houses off to the east came the wails of a child, followed by the harsh words of a woman, angry and tired.
Ardith’s toes hurt. Father ha
d ordered her to wear her finest shoes, made of supple calf’s leather. They were soft and had been comfortable when her father had bought them for her from a merchant from Wessex. But that had been the year before and her feet had grown considerably since then. She had grown in height too, and the peplos, made of finely spun linen, green and vibrant as the grassy hilltops to the north of Hithe, was now too short. Like the shoes, the dress was tight and uncomfortable. Her breasts had blossomed in the last few months and the fabric of the peplos pressed against them, accentuating her burgeoning feminine form.
“Must I wear this dress, father?” she had asked when she had seen how much she had outgrown the garment.
He had looked up from where he was fastening his leg bindings. His hooded gaze took her in, from her golden braided hair to the peplos that was stretched over the curves of her chest. He nodded appraisingly.
“Yes. That dress makes you look pretty.”
In the distance, Ardith saw smoke rising from Byrhtísen’s forge. As they walked past, Byrhtísen called a greeting. Her father grunted a reply. Ardith kept her eyes turned downward. She felt her face flush hot. She could feel the gaze of the smith’s son, Brinin, upon her. She tugged the hem of her dress, trying in vain to make it longer, to cover more of her pale slender legs.
“Where are we going?” she said in a small voice. She had asked her father the same question several times already, but each time he’d given her no answer.
“You’ll see soon enough,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
Her unease grew as their destination became clear. They had passed the houses of the village, leaving the great hulk of Folca’s hall looming on the hill in the distance behind them. All that was between them and the iron-grey expanse of the Narrow Sea was the strand of shingle. Three large ships had been pulled up onto the beach. Several men lounged in the wind-shadow of the canted keels. Smoke curled above the pebbles where the men had kindled driftwood fires. They were traders who had put ashore the previous afternoon. These were the men in whose company her father had spent the night drinking. Usually, travellers were welcomed in the great hall, where they paid for Folca’s hospitality with news of the world, tidings of the comings and goings of kings.
But these men had not been welcomed to Folca’s hall. No, the lord tolerated them, allowed them to land upon his beach and to trade with his people, but he did not invite them into his home, to warm themselves at his hearth. For these men were not men of honour. Not men to trust. They were a slovenly band from many remote places. Waelisc, Hibernians, Franks. One even had skin as dark as burnt oak. God alone knew which faraway land he came from. These were the roughest sort of men and Ardith prickled with disquiet as her father raised his hand in greeting and one of the men who lolled by the smoking fire heaved himself to his feet.
He was a hulking man, and for a sickening moment she thought him a creature from legend. A night-stalker, one of Cain’s kin, a fell giant, broader than any man, but walking upon God’s earth on two legs. She shivered as the figure approached, his massive booted feet crunching in the shingle.
“So, you came back,” the night-stalker said, its voice thick with a strange accent. She saw then that what she had thought of as his head was in fact a strange helmet made of the skull and savage, dagger-like tusks of some terrible creature. Over his shoulders he wore a thick, wrinkled leather cape. The cape was topped with a hood that was pulled over the skull helm, making it seem as though his skin was the grey hide and the skull and vicious, hand-length teeth that framed his face jutted from his own jaws. But this was no beast, but a barrel-chested man who walked with the rolling gait of one who spends most of his life at sea. His face was wide and whiskered, his eyes deep-set and dark. He flashed an appraising look at her and she felt his stare roving over her body. Again she tugged at the hem of her peplos in a pathetic attempt to cover her bare thighs.
He smiled at her, the great slabs of fat of his jowls twisting and quivering. There were scant teeth in his fleshy maw and what few there were protruded, brown and pitted, at odd angles like ancient, canted grave markers. He moistened his lips with a fleshy tongue. Ardith shuddered, but could not look away. Her eyes were wide and glistening.
“I told you I would come,” her father said. He spoke with a forced friendliness. “I kept my word.”
Again the beast-man’s eyes flicked in her direction.
“Yes,” he nodded, once more licking his lips, “yes, you did.”
“Wait there, child,” her father said. His mouth stretched in a smile, but she could see the lack of love or mirth behind his eyes. He turned, leading the huge sailor back towards the fire and the ships.
The two men talked in hushed voices, more than once glancing in her direction. As she watched, her unease grew, as did her hatred for her father. All of the men on the beach were now aware of her presence and she stood uncomfortably, squirming her feet further into the pebbled beach, wishing that she could hide from the hungry eyes of the sailors. A chill breeze blew from the sea, tugging at her hair and her dress. The skin on her legs and arms pimpled like that of a plucked goose.
Her father and the leader of the seamen must have reached an agreement, for they spat into their palms and clasped each other’s hands. Then the sailor handed over a large pouch to her father. He weighed it in his hands and pulled open the thong that fastened it. Peering inside, he nodded, apparently content.
Until then, she had not understood what it was that her father had planned for her, but watching the exchange, in a sickening instant, she knew. If she stayed in this place, rooted to the shingle like the sea campion that grew above the tide line, she would be lost. She must run. She should have fled as soon as her father woke early; the moment he had told her to put on the damned, too-short peplos. And yet, she had clung to a thin hope. He was her father. Surely he could mean her no harm. He sometimes had good days when he was happy, jubilant and exalting in the joys of life. His exuberance on such days was unnerving, and she had grown to know that they were always followed by bouts of drinking and darkness, sour moods and slaps or punches if she wandered too close. Still, when he was in such a buoyant mood, her father was generous, buying her gifts such as the fine shoes that even now pinched her toes. And yet this morning, when he had roused himself before the sun had risen, she had known this was something different. But how could she have imagined the horror of what he had agreed with these sailors?
Their business concluded, the leader of the sailors and her father turned back in her direction. Her father looked away from her. Was he ashamed? They trudged over the strand towards her. The beast-cloaked sailor stared at her and nodded as they approached, clearly pleased with his purchase. He clapped his meaty hands together in an expansive gesture of his contentment.
The sharp sound made her start and she awoke as if from a nightmare. She must flee. Now!
Spinning around, she made to rush back up the beach. But before she could take more than a couple of paces she was brought up short. Directly before her stood the black-skinned man. His eyes and teeth flashed a brilliant white in his dusky face. Ardith took a quick step to the left, but there was another of the sailors, a red-haired man with a plaited beard and a dark, scarred hollow where his left eye should have been. He reached out to stop her. His arms were long and muscled, as thick as her thighs. She darted back to the right, but another man blocked her path. The three sailors must have risen unnoticed from the campfires and positioned themselves behind her, clearly anticipating her actions. Behind her, she sensed that her father and the leader were close now.
With a sinking in her stomach, she knew that the moment for running had passed.
“She’s a feisty one,” said the leader in his heavy accent. “We’ll need to keep an eye on her, lads.” The red-bearded man grinned at her, opening his single eye wide. The scarred skin around the empty eye socket stretched sickeningly.
“They’ll be no touching, Draca,” the leader said. Raising his voice, he continued, “That goes
for all of you. This treasure,” he reached out gnarled, callused fingers to stroke her hair, “will fetch a lot of coin in Frankia. I know of men who would pay a fortune for such a sweet, golden-haired virgin.”
She recoiled at his touch, pulling away and once again trying to run, hoping to catch the watching men unawares. But strong hands gripped her and she was pulled back. With a start, she realised the hands that had restrained her belonged to her father. He leaned in close to her.
“Do not fight them, Ardith,” he said. “It will be better for you, if you go easily and don’t cause trouble.”
As suddenly as lightning flashes in a storm cloud her anger flared, burning away her fear. She spat a great gobbet of spittle into her father’s face and tugged her arms free of his grasp.
“It would go easier for me if you had not sold me to pay for your next drink,” she screamed, her fury giving vent to words she had longed to say. “You are no man. And you are no father to me. Do not speak to me. You have no right.”
As quickly as her own ire had sparked, so did his. His face contorted into a mask of rage and his hand lashed out, striking her on the cheek. She did not see the slap coming and the force of it sent her reeling onto the pebbles.
Belying his bulk, the leader of the sailors sprang forward quickly and without pause smashed a fist into her father’s face. Her father staggered and fell. Instantly, the sea captain was upon him. He punched her father again, making his head rock back, before dragging a wicked-looking seax from a sheath on his belt and holding it to her father’s throat. The ship’s captain grabbed a fistful of her father’s hair and pulled him onto his knees. Blood welled from his split lips and he spat into the gravel of the beach.
Storm of Steel Page 3