To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [193]
The Icelander stared at him. The dog, gazing up at his master, was growling. In a moment, Nicholas felt, the Icelander would start growling as well. He felt unalloyed gratitude to them both, even if they didn’t understand one another at all. He said to Glímu-Sveinn, ‘He doesn’t mean it. He’s coming,’ and after a further glare, the Icelander turned and went down to the boat.
Paúel Benecke said, ‘Don’t you understand a categorical refusal?’
‘No. And you can’t even spell it,’ Nicholas said. He led the way down, pulling horses behind him.
Benecke came with his own. He said, ‘This is really exceedingly dangerous.’ He sounded petulant.
‘Blame Herra Oddur, or the Bishop,’ Nicholas said. ‘They wanted you killed. Anyway, you can’t afford to run away now. Men would laugh at you.’
‘No, they wouldn’t,’ Benecke said. ‘There would be nobody left to tell them what happened.’
‘Not even you,’ Nicholas said. ‘If you go back without me, John will kill you. It’s white bears or nothing.’
They argued all the way over the river, while the horses wheezed and snorted at angles behind them, their eyes rimmed with white, their broad heads shoved into the current. In the boat, the dog shivered and whined. Nicholas was thinking about Glímu-Sveinn, all the time he was talking. Until now, he hadn’t been sure how far to trust him. Paúel represented authority, and by bartering fish for the dogger, Glímu-Sveinn had committed a crime. He owed something to Nicholas, but need not put himself out to preserve Benecke’s life any more than had the bailiff.
But it was more complex than that, as the outburst just now had revealed. If Sigfús dies because of the Flemings, I will kill them. Glímu-Sveinn despised Sigfús. He had no relationship, good or bad, with Sersanders. He was giving form to a sense of unease that now appeared to have a reason behind it. Benecke played no part in the equation at all.
Nicholas understood that, because he too had been aware of unfocused foreboding. He had experienced this manifestation of it often enough in the past: from Julius, complaining of some trouble Nicholas had got Felix into; from Tasse in Geneva, when he had lured another boy into mischief in an obstinate rebuttal of misery; from his mother, when he had dragged off her baby half-sister into some wild children’s game. They had all exploded like that, until he had learned to do things on his own.
He had not felt like this when his mother died. He had had no foreboding at all. It was only in recent years that he had found himself beset by strange fears and premonitions; punishment for crossing some mystical threshold. He had felt the sense of danger again, ever since setting foot on the banks of Markarfljót. Now, like Glímu-Sveinn, he supposed that he had discovered the cause.
He put his gloved hand to his throat, and saw Benecke watching him, but in fact he felt better. Sersanders was sturdy and well trained and armed, and the guide was not surely a cipher. As for Kathi, she was probably match for any three bears. Despite himself, the excitement rose in his blood. Kathi had not wanted to miss this experience, and neither did he. It was the threat of the intangible which had shaken him. But of course he could not predict. He had not been able to predict the death of his mother.
Now there were practical things to be done, and they did them. The ferryman would not come with them, but helped them catch the ponies as they landed downriver and took the three men into his cabin for soup. It was wise, although they wanted to hurry. And the ponies had to be reloaded with the necessary gear ready to hand. Nicholas uncased two crossbows and, keeping one, gave the other with its forked bolts to Benecke. The Icelander already carried a spear and a knife and an axe: it would do.
When they left, the dog was put on a lead. It ran back and forth barking and no one attempted to silence it. At intervals, Glímu-Sveinn set his lips to his horn.