To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [169]
That afternoon, the sun dimmed, the sky darkened, and they had their first fall of snow, reducing the horizon to the point where Mogens refused to sail further. It might have been worse. The Unicorn was a commodious ship, with plenty of fuel for her cook-fires and braziers, and they had grown inured to the pitching and rolling. Only, when the snow finally ceased, Mogens decreed that they could not reach the Westmanns by dark, and must therefore remain one further night where they were.
It meant that he had to give up the advantage of surprise: his masts would be seen by the Lübecker, and alert what remained of the Svipa. They had expected, all through the night, to hear gunfire, but nothing penetrated the shriek and bluster of wind and the incessant thunder and boom from the surf.
He hoped that bastard Crackbene was dead. He was in two minds about de Fleury himself. It had been dinned into him often enough. The Vatachino wanted him spectacularly ruined before anything else. Martin had an idea that, back in Cairo, his friend David had deviated from company orders, but de Fleury had somehow survived. Martin didn’t mind. He didn’t refuse easy prizes. But he also enjoyed the occasional personal campaign against a man he truly disliked. He had disliked Nicholas de Fleury ever since he, Martin, had been made to tumble down a Venetian staircase. Naturally, he discussed none of this with Sersanders. Girl or no girl, he didn’t need permission to ram and scuttle the remains of the Svipa. The Lübeckers would get all the blame.
If Martin had prayed, you could say he was partially answered. The weather next day was fair enough to set sail before dawn at slack water, and presently cleared to reveal in the distance the scattered grey and white rocks of the Westmanns, with a haze of gulls finer than gnats, and a dissolving speckle of minuscule fishing-boats, rising and sliding over the crests. He glimpsed the needle-tops of three masts, too far off to identify. One ship. One victorious ship, no longer lurking in harbour, but fishing at ease off the cod banks. One ship which, having dispatched its first prey, might be persuaded to share the grounds with a generous rival. With a ship that happened to be much its own size.
Then, the answer to the rest of his prayer, the weather closed in.
They made their way from that point without sails, even then pushed by the wind faster than Mogens wanted to go. The snow turned to slush on the decks, but slid from the leather and wool of the crewmen plying the lead, and peering chilled from the baskets, and craning down on each side of the prow.
Eventually, Mogens had them lower the boat, and took it himself, with a boy and two oars, digging against the receding tide. Sersanders went with them. Martin stayed behind with the Cologne agent Reinholdt, and Svartecop took the helm. The tide had turned an hour after midday. They were to arrive on the west-going stream with the wind at their backs, Svartecop said; and with ample time to deal with the Maiden by nightfall.
It was like the entry into Tórshavn in fog, except that this time they were forewarned and ready. They crept on through the haze. They were emerging with care from between the ghostly five-hundred-foot walls of two islands when Martin’s prayer failed, and the snow-curtains started to thin.
The first objects to darken the sky were the massive cliffs, white with foam, of Ystiklettur. Beneath them lay the mouth of the dangerous creek, the passage that led to the Westmanns’ sole harbour. They had reached the right spot. The mother holm of the group lay before them. Martin stood beside Svartecop and gazed.
No ships speckled the base of the cliff, or made themselves known through the roar of the surf. The outer passage was empty; the inner harbour was hidden from view by an upheaval of unnatural heights. To the south, the horizon was bounded by the curve of the island’s steep shoulder, jutting into the thundering sea. Within its embrace, and at no very great distance, floated