To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [165]
The priest said, ‘I hate to say it, but it looks as if you were right.’
Nicholas grinned. So far he had been gloriously, happily right in all his guesses. The Unicorn’s problem was the same as his own: how to obtain a full load of fish and get away before the Hanseatic ships came to blow them out of the water.
The Svipa had a head start. Instead of trying to race them, Martin would surely consider alternatives. Every inlet on the south coast of Iceland was known to have its store of dried cod: stockfish already in store and ready to sell to incomers. By visiting the best of these now, the Unicorn could expect to arrive in the Westmanns with its holds already well filled, and would require no more than a little brisk fishing to leave well ahead of the opposition, including the Svipa.
Moriz said, ‘He’s running into a noose of your making.’
‘What noose?’ Nicholas said. ‘Poetic ropes, like poetic justice, are invisible, especially on mythical animals. The beards of women, the roots of stones, the sinews of bears, the breath of fish, the spittle of birds and the noise of the footfall of a cat made the cords that they used to bind Fenrir. Absolutely no residual evidence: they threw the poor brute’s case out of court and he didn’t even get compensation, although he did make a strong point with Odin. Never mind. Come and dice with Old Nick. First prize, Valhalla; second prize, you get cuckolding Vulcan. Moriz, you are Vulcan, I never noticed till now. John? Mick? A wager?’
His delight, his childish delight, the delight of childish anticipation ran through the ship like phosphorescence and carried them across the cobalt-blue sea until, between the sea and the sky, a white surf line appeared. A surf line that thickened and shone and took to itself glinting small shapes in a landscape of long gleaming whalebacks. On the sea just in front was a handful of rocks set in dust.
The dazzle of white came from the glaciers of Iceland. The rocks were the Westmann archipelago. The dust was the fishing flotilla of Iceland, busy there. It was spring in the orchards of Edinburgh, but Iceland in March floated pure as the hot-mountain clouds, white as mist, white as steam, white as snow, save for the fingers of smoke from the pyres of the damned.
Under the hand of Mick Crackbene, the Svipa sailed innocuously towards the storm of shrieking gulls and plummeting gannets and dropped anchor well short of the fishing. Then Crackbene went and stood in the prow while the sails were stowed softly as eggs, the awnings rigged, and the ship set to rights after her voyage.
The Svipa swung. Forward, the cook had set up his fire and his oven: smoke rose and was snatched by the wind, and a tapping told of a keg being broached. The gulls at their masthead had left to join those over the Icelanders, for the fishing there had continued, even if every man turned now and then to glance over his shoulder and stare. The faces, hatted and hooded, were generally bearded and seemed curiously pale. It could be seen, between waves, that most of the boats had only two oars or four, and some of them were made of pieces of driftwood.
The moments went by. Oddly, the flotilla had thickened. A swirl was created within it, caused, it was apparent, by incomers from beyond; in particular a much larger boat approaching the bank from the shore, having set off, it was clear, as soon as the masts of the Svipa were seen. The flotilla embraced it and then, moving apart, allowed the new boat to row through and pass it. Now it could be seen that this was many times the size of the others: a dogger, recently built of good wood, and obeying a firm sweep of multiple oars. A man stood in the prow, and the men behind him were chanting. They were coming straight for the ship.
Then Michael Crackbene leaped up to the peak of the