New Found Land (7 page)

She spoke with a flat certainty Simon recognized. Surprise was succeeded by exasperation.

“What's proper got to do with it? You
must
get out of here.”

Her yellow hair swung with the shake of her head. “I cannot.”

Brad took up the argument. “Simonus is right. What would happen if your people knew you'd warned us?”

She said simply: “My father would kill me with his own hands.”

“There you are! And they'll know someone told us. They'll guess it was you.”

She looked at Brad with unhappy eyes, but said after a moment: “It is not proper.”

Simon had a moment of fury. She really was pigheaded to the point of dumbness. He raised his voice.

“It's your
life
we're talking about. You have to come.”

“No.” Her mother was heading in their direction. “I must go.”

Later Simon said: “We'll take her by force if necessary.”

“I can see us doing that,” Brad said, “—carrying her kicking and screaming down to the longships. At least, I can just about imagine you or Bos trying it. I doubt I could lift her.”

“When it came to the point, she might not resist.”

“On the other hand, she might, and it would only take one yell to have them on our necks. She sleeps in her parents' hut. How do you feel about getting her out at dead of night, without waking anyone else?”

“We can't just leave her to be slaughtered.”

“She may not be. They can never be certain, unless she tells them. And she is Wulfgar's daughter.”

“That wouldn't save her—she said so.”

“Anyway, they can't be
sure.
We might have overheard something one of the Vikings said. Or figured things out from their laughing when Bos said he'd seen no eagles.”

“You don't really believe that.”

“I believe we have to face facts. There's no way of taking her except voluntarily, and so far she's
determined not to come. We can keep trying to persuade her.” He grinned. “You're probably better qualified for that job.”

Simon did his best. He worried at first that the change in the weather might come before his persuasive powers had time to take effect, but days of cloud succeeded one another unremittingly, while on the other hand Lundiga seemed to grow stubborner as time went by.

One morning they woke to find a blizzard sweeping in from the west. It snowed all day, and as night came with snow still falling, Simon realized that the invisible moon would be three-quarters full. The moment was approaching when they would have to take their chance without moonlight. And without Lundiga.

Next day the snow had ceased, and the clouds were breaking; patches of sunlight made the whiteness dazzle. Bos and Curtius were jubilant, seeing this as the signal to go. When Simon argued for giving it another day, Curtius said: “Another day may mean another blizzard. It must be tonight.”

Brad said: “He is right, you know. We can't afford to wait.”

Bos said: “It is true, Simonus. I am sorry for the girl, but she must take her own chances now.”

•  •  •

Lundiga was clearing snow from the paths with the rest of the women, but they managed to get her on her own. Simon explained that they would be leaving that night. She listened in silence, leaning on a broad wooden shovel. He spoke urgently, though with no real hope of convincing her. “You must come with us, Lundiga. Please!”

She was silent.

Brad said: “We'd better not stay long talking. It's something that could be remembered tomorrow, and make things trickier for her.”

Simon said: “Lundiga . . .”

“It is not proper.” She paused. “But there are some things which cannot be denied. I said I could not bear the thought of you being killed, but it was not just that. All my life I have lived among my people and known no others. When you came here, I saw you as outlanders and, worse, as Romans. Even when I smiled at you, I remembered what your ancestors had done to mine. But my heart has changed as I have come to know you better—one of you, in particular.”

Her look fastened on Brad. “I have thought about it through many wakeful nights, and I know what I must do because my heart commands it. I cannot bear the thought of losing you, Bradus. Since you must go, I shall go with you.”

•  •  •

Before supper that evening Bos slipped away; on a reconnaissance, he said. Brad urged him not to do anything suspicious, a warning which the big man treated with amiable contempt. He turned the point against Brad later when Brad suggested he and Curtius ought to cut down on their drinking after supper, so as to keep clearer heads.

“That really would be suspicious, eh Curtius? Don't worry, lad. A man who has been schooled on wine can outdrink any of these ale swillers and stay cold sober.”

When at last they went back to the hut, the night sky was bright with starlight and the incandescence of a moon close to full. They allowed an hour before setting out again, their footsteps crunching on the packed snow. The things they needed for the voyage had been hidden beneath rubbish in one of the abandoned huts. It was not far from there to the chief's
hut. From a distance, Bos gave the owl hoot which was the signal to Lundiga.

It sounded exactly like an owl; if she were asleep it would scarcely wake her. And they were committed now; could not wait. Bos hooted again and, after a few moments, turned to them, shaking his head. But at that moment Lundiga slipped out of the shadows.

They had earmarked Wulfgar's own longship for the enterprise. As they made their way down the hill, they could see its dragon head swaying against the moonlit waters of the bay. The noise of their footsteps on the snow seemed very loud, and Simon was glad when they were clear of the village. Despite the cold, he was sweating.

When they were no more than fifty yards from the quay, there was a sudden outburst of wild screeching behind them. Simon glanced back quickly. The din was emanating from the chief's hut, or rather from a figure just outside it: Lundiga's mother.

Even at this distance the sound was shattering; up among the huts it must have been ear-piercing. Viking men came running out.

Curtius spoke sharply. “Into the boat! I'll cast off.”

His voice carried the authority of a Roman
centurion, and they did not argue. The quay was a narrow wooden structure, raised on piles and connected with the shore by a rickety causeway. They clattered over it. Lundiga seemed to hesitate, and Bos picked her up as though she were a baby and dropped her into the longship; then he and Simon and Brad followed. Curtius was wrestling with the rope that secured the ship to its mooring pole.

“Axe it!” Bos shouted.

Curtius swung his axe violently. The deck beneath them shuddered from the impact, but the rope failed to part. He swung a second time, and a third. By now the Vikings were charging down the slope and very close.

An end of rope dropped loose on the deck and Bos shouted to Curtius to jump. Simon was in the prow and could see across the quay to the galloping Vikings. One was in advance of the rest: Wulfgar, barefooted and without his helmet but brandishing his axe, bellowing incoherent threats. Curtius too could see him. He uttered a growl which swelled to a roar of anger.

Brad shouted: “You fool, Curtius! Never mind about him. Jump!”

Instead of doing so, Curtius leapt back and stood blocking the causeway. Wulfgar came at him, and they swung their axes. There was a howl of pain from Wulfgar, of triumph from Curtius, and the Viking went down. But as he did, he grappled with the Roman, holding him.

Lundiga gave a great howl of anguish at the sight and made for the side of the ship. Simon grabbed her but could not hold her; it took Bos's strength to prevent her leaping off. The ship was already drifting away: there was a widening gap of water between them and the quay.

They watched helplessly as the pack of Vikings crowded forward and Curtius sank under their assault. For a moment or two he was invisible, but then amazingly rose again out of the melee, his axe arm flailing. A figure toppled from the causeway and splashed into the water. But the rest were all round him, and a couple had got between him and the quay.

Bos said in a low voice: “We can do nothing.”

He grabbed an oar and jabbed it hard against the next ship in line: the gap of water widened.

“Man the oars,” Bos shouted.

As he took an oar, Simon saw two axe blows
strike Curtius simultaneously; he dropped again, and this time there could be no getting up. At least he had got the battle he had been pining for and the death he would have chosen. There was no more time for reflection. Simon concentrated on rowing.

He had wondered whether Lundiga would take advantage of their preoccupation and jump into the water to swim back: there was nothing that could be done about it if she did. But she simply sat staring into the night. The Vikings, on the other hand, were wasting no time; within seconds they were piling into the remaining longships and casting off. Visibility was excellent across the silvery bay; the moon, for which they had waited so impatiently, was an enemy now.

“Pull!” Bos roared. “For your lives . . .”

Heaving on his oar, Simon was aware of the hopelessness of it. There were three of them against dozens in the other two longships. The leading one was closing; within minutes it would be alongside, with Vikings pouring across. He envied Curtius the blood lust which had marked his last few moments; all he himself felt was the icy bite of fear.

The men in the following ships were yelling in
anticipation, but suddenly the tone changed. There were cries of bewilderment. Pulling on the oar, Simon thought he noticed something different about the longship nearest to them. Was it lower in the water? And the gap between them—it was no longer narrowing, but widening.

The pursuing dragon's head rose sharply, as though it were a wingless beast trying to fly. The cries changed to a clamour of despair. The head stood right up, for a moment blacking out the moon. Only for a moment; then, with a giant's gurgle, it slid beneath the water.

Astern of it, the second ship was also tilting. Simon said: “How did that happen?”

“I'm not sure,” Brad said, “but I think I have an idea.”

They had all stopped rowing. He looked across at Bos, whose teeth gleamed in a grin.

“That little reconnaissance you insisted on making . . . it didn't by any chance include coming down to the quay to loosen a timber or two?”

“Leave nothing to chance,” Bos said. “It is the first thing a gladiator learns. Otherwise he does not live to learn anything else.”

He released his oar and stood up, stretching out a hand. “A fair breeze, and from the right quarter. Let us get that sail up.”

•  •  •

Their first intention had been to head for the nearest point on the mainland, but once they were clear of the harbour and in open sea, Bos had another idea. The wind was from the northeast, filling the longship's sail. Brad had said this coast was of great extent: why not aim for a point further south, out of winter's grip?

Brad at first argued against it, but when Simon strongly supported Bos he did not press his objection. Two to one was a clear majority anyway; Lundiga sat huddled and silent, paying little attention to her surroundings. It was understandable that the double shock, of seeing her father struck down in combat and of leaving the small island which was the only place she had known, should have subdued her.

The others, too, once the initial excitement of the escape was over, were hit by the realization of Curtius's death. It was a loss that affected all of them, but especially Bos. Curtius had been closer to him in age, and they had shared more of a common
background; although born a barbarian, Bos had been captured and brought south at an early age. What had happened made him more deeply aware of the distance he had travelled from familiar places and people, leaving him bewildered and unhappy. Simon and Brad did their best to cheer him up, but to little effect. Of course, Bos believed they were heading towards their own country, while he was all the time going further away from his.

At least the weather was good; the sun rose out of a calm sea and the wind stayed fair. Rowing was unnecessary, and they closed the shutters over the oar-ports. It would have all been very pleasant, Simon thought, but for the two melancholy ones on their hands. Having had small success with Bos, they turned their attentions to Lundiga. She seemed not to respond at first, and Simon gave up on it. Brad persisted, trying to divert her with talk of the wonderful land of California which was their eventual destination. Lack of response did not seem to bother him; in fact Simon had a feeling he was talking as much for his own satisfaction as hers.

At any rate he went on and on with his account of the wonders of this earthly paradise, and it
produced a sudden and unexpected result when Lundiga burst into laughter.

“You are better than our Viking men,” she said, “with their stories of the whales they almost caught. Go on, little Bradus. I like hearing you talk.”

When he protested that he was giving a true account, she shook her fur-hatted head, smiling, and said it was no shame to tell tall tales: all men did. The hat completed an outfit which had quite transformed her appearance. She had bound her breasts under the shapeless coat of skins they all wore, and had the look more of a husky boy than a girl. In the middle of the day, with the sun quite warm, Simon tried to persuade her at least to take the hat off, but she refused.

“It is not proper.”

Simon was tired of hearing the phrase, but he was beginning to understand the ironclad prejudices of the Viking women. Her infatuation with Brad might have persuaded her to come away with them, but that did not mean she was willing to relax tribal conventions. Quite the reverse, probably. Her amusement over Brad's stories of California was a part of that outlook. She came from long generations of women who had cared for their drunken feckless
menfolk with a mixture of affection and contempt.