To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [174]
‘You never know,’ Crackbene had said. ‘But the reverse of hellfire seems to be likelier. Frozen pack ice all the way over to Greenland; foxes and bears coming ashore; snow in March. They say the hot springs have increased, which means something is boiling up somewhere, but I don’t think the sea will divide. Plan for snow. Benecke will. Benecke will stay till it lifts, confident that you’re not going to run. Then he’ll come for you.’
It had been good advice. That was when he had sent out to find Glímu-Sveinn.
Chapter 24
THE SNOW FELL for two hours, as any Muscovite could have predicted. And, in the icy seas off the Westmann Islands of Thule, three well-found vessels each sought to make use of it.
On the Svipa, the work was already done: the weapons and cannon and armour prepared; the grappling irons laid out; the instructions given. When Nicholas gave the order to stand down and eat, he made sure that the food was the best they had left, and that there was enough ale to lift the heart without drowning it. Robin, torn between worry and ecstasy, obeyed his commands in a dream, and excitement sparkled like lightning in summer.
On the Pruss Maiden, men ate as they worked, but bore no grudge, because the Danziger had made them rich men, and they were going to be richer. The Unicorn, empty, would have recouped all the cost of the voyage. But it had proved to yield much more than that: an international broker to ransom, and a man who, on courteous questioning, had proved to come, would you believe it, from Cologne. But better even than that was the cargo, the surprising high-quality cargo lodged among all the barrel staves and the salt, and now being deftly transferred to the Maiden.
The Unicorn had been proposing to trade. The absence of stockfish must fairly have sickened them. The men chattered and laughed as they worked, and swore that Paúel Benecke was the best man off dry land.
Paúel Benecke, a jug of beer to his hand, sat apart in his room with his lodesman and studied the drawings before him. Stanislas, an old colleague, dared to speak. ‘You say he will stay, like a child, to confront you. With what? He is half your size. He did not take the Unicorn. We did.’
Benecke spoke without looking up. ‘He has cannon.’
‘There is no sign of them.’
‘Of course he has cannon. He would have left three days ago if he hadn’t. And a bigger crew than we think. He is equipped, as we are, for taking prizes.’
‘He didn’t know we should be here.’
‘No. He came intending to fight with the broker. You heard the man Martin. I think de Fleury still wants to capture the Unicorn. That is the other reason he stayed.’
‘And to find the stockfish,’ Stanislas said.
Paúel Benecke let the map close. ‘Great Christ, the man has the stockfish already. Did you not hear the Icelanders talking? They call him Nikolás-riddari, the Knight Nicholas, as if he were a talisman of some sort. That is why, before it is night, we must take him.’
‘If the snow stops,’ the pilot observed, and was quiet. He knew the shipmaster Paúel of old. A brutal, dedicated privateer while at sea, and a dilettante owning farms, castles, women at home. Many mercenaries – the Count of Urbino for one – behaved so, despising their underlings. Stanislas admired his employer, and didn’t give much for the chances of Nikolás-riddari.
On the Unicorn, even the prisoners were asleep.
There was no need to be vigilant. Just before the snow fell, the last of the boxes and bales had been hoisted across to the Maiden, and the skeleton crew had come on board, after which the grappling irons had gone, and the two ships had anchored apart. Enclosed in its circle of snow, the captive ship might have been quite alone; none, it: was sure, could interfere with it; and its new crew, leaving a watch, were thankful to huddle under whitening awnings close by