To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [158]
‘We haven’t a ship,’ Crackbene had said.
‘Then get one.’
‘Once we get one, it will be known what we’re doing.’
‘Will it?’ had said Nicholas.
A pause. ‘You’d have to get to the fishing-ground first. Even then, you’d find the Pruss Maiden likely creeping up on you. And then forty others.’
‘We have a master gunner,’ said Nicholas. ‘And yes, we’d need to get there very early, before the convoys arrive.’
‘In March. In the Arctic Circle in February and March.’
‘The Westmanns are south of the Circle. You’ve done it before. We’ve just talked of it.’
‘And even if the foreign ships aren’t there, the Icelanders will be. Their Governor’s Danish. They’re an island colony ruled by Denmark like the Faroes. They have a contract with the official Hanse ships, and that’s all. They don’t like it; they hate it, but they’re helpless. As I said, they’ll slaughter you to save their own taxes and skins. Or if they don’t, there will be an inter-state row and they’ll hang you.’
‘You’ve forgotten,’ said Nicholas. ‘The King of Scotland is being contracted to Margaret of Denmark.’
‘Are you simple?’ had said Crackbene, who occasionally forgot he owed Nicholas anything. ‘How in hell can the King of Denmark afford to fall out with the Hanse? And King James, so far as I’ve noticed, doesn’t have any uncles or aunties in England. What do you do when a fleet of bullies from Hull sets about boarding you?’
‘I’ll think of something,’ Nicholas had said. The scheme was possible. He had seen at once it was possible. Mind you, he hadn’t guessed at the time that Anselm Adorne would find out what he was building in Danzig and decide to compete. But it created interesting odds. The Banco di Niccolò against the Hanse, the English, the Icelanders, the Vatachino and the sea. He would have laid a good wager with Roger except that if he didn’t win, he wouldn’t be in a position to pay him.
In the event, they didn’t sink between there and Orkney, although they lost a sail before they got into Scapa, and even there the ship needed four anchors. Mowat went ashore first, and came back with good news and an invitation. The yoles were built and delivered, and no one had spotted them. Bishop Tulloch was not on the island. And they were welcome to rest as many nights as they liked at his second cousin’s.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Robin who, in his new element, was becoming forgetful of form like Mick Crackbene.
‘To spend the night ashore and take on provisions. Make the most of it,’ Nicholas said.
Robin scrambled down to the ship’s boat beside him. ‘Yoles are boats.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Fishing-boats, clinker-built, with one mast and three pairs of oars.’
‘A team can build one in three or four days,’ Nicholas said. ‘In any small corner. Provided they are given the wood.’
‘The Earl of Orkney—’ began Robin in a great burst of realisation.
‘There is no Earl of Orkney,’ Nicholas said. ‘Only a Bishop. And he is away. The omens, in fact, are quite good.’
They were storm-stayed for three days on Orkney but kept away from the other bu farms and the castle. Some of them had been here before; none seemed surprised by the rolling moors, the looming menhirs, the sheer red cliffs from which waterfalls spouted upwards. English ships had also touched there. Robin, the climber, brought back battered hooks found embedded in fish-bones. Crackbene recognised them.
‘But last season’s,’ he said. ‘And don’t concern yourself. Going north, the English ships prefer passing by Shetland.’ He paused. ‘But all the same, we ought to get on.’
‘How near are we?’ said Robin.
Crackbene stretched and looked down, hands on hips. Like all of them, his face showed a rough salty stubble, and the deep indents at his nostrils looked grim.