The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [196]
So they passed round the shoulder of Norway: past Soroya and Senieno; past the teeth of the Lofoten Islands; white spray like knives against the staring snow ranges beyond; for a hundred miles and fifty miles more rock after rock, cliff after cliff, until they heard, above the thunder of their own passage, the rolling voice at Moskenesoy of the Maelstrom, which could swallow trees and toss them out, limp as hemp stalks; whose roar could shake the door rings on cottages ten miles from its brink.
Because they knew precisely where they were and were expecting this; because Chancellor had given the right instructions and Buckland, using his sails like a sculptor, had carried them out, they weathered it and pitched past, changing the helmsman over and over because of the weight of the whipstaff, dragging a ship foul-bottomed and battered, laden with ice and with bilge water which moved over her keel like a boulder, pushing her shuddering into the waves.
Past Vaeroy and Rȯst, with open water before him again, and daylight to see by for a while, Chancellor untied his lashing with frozen fingers and got back to his cabin where Lymond, waiting to relieve him, had fallen asleep on the edge of the straw mattress which had been Christopher’s, before this small shack on the poop quarterdeck had become the workbench and altar and parliament of the Muscovy fleet.
Francis Crawford was asleep, for once dreamlessly, in the clothes he had worn for three months, with dirt grained in his hands and dulling the salt-tangled hair over his eyes. Unable to shave, he had joined them all in the uniform anonymity of a barberless beard: even fur-hatted on deck, he could be picked out from the rest by the bright glittering gold, which concealed the marks of undernourishment and fatigue, as Chancellor’s clinging black hair emphasized his.
He bent now over the Voevoda and, touching him, said, ‘A penny for the turnspit. You are needed.’ And as Lymond opened his eyes, ‘I have news for you. We are going to winter at Trondheim.’
He was roused into automatic movement at once, swinging round from the mattress, and reaching for the matted sheepskin, soaked still from its last wearing. He said, ‘Weather ahead?’
In the doorway, Chancellor shouted, ‘John!’ into the wind and then returned, Buckland on his heels.
‘Weather ahead. The wind is veering again. And the beakhead has broken again, and one of the spars. The sails will hardly mend one more time: the forecourse and maintop are in tatters.’
Buckland said, ‘We’re more than half-way home, with by far the worst of it behind us.’
Lymond said, ‘But with the weather worsening, and this bloody wind heading us off. We haven’t got time to wander about. Or if we have, the other three haven’t. The Esperanza springs her planks if you cough.’
‘That’s the point,’ Chancellor said. ‘We have 160 tons under us. The Bona Confidentia is a cork and the Esperanza little more, and low in the water. Even if we could make the crossing, they can’t.’
‘Have they said so?’ said Buckland.
‘They won’t say so,’ said Chancellor.
Lymond said, ‘How good are your charts?’
‘Good enough. It’s a dirty entrance. I shall have to con them in.’
It was his supreme domain, and there was no argument. Only Buckland said, after a moment’s silence, ‘It means spending the winter in harbour. Once in, we shan’t get out until the spring. If you have contrary winds, you might not be in London till May, or back in the Dwina till summer or autumn. You won’t get a cargo from Muscovy next year at all.’
‘If we don’t do this,’ Chancellor said, ‘we may