To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [206]
‘We know,’ Crackbene said. They had discussed this: he had orders to deal with it. Peaceful incoming ships were to be left unmolested. Ships displaying aggression were to be engaged by both the Pruss Maiden and the Svipa, which would share any booty or prisoners. Crackbene’s eyes were bright with anticipation.
John said, ‘I’ll go and see to the guns. Stanislas will need help with his masts.’
‘I’ve signalled him over,’ said Crackbene. ‘He can pick up his bows and his gunpowder now, and when you’re ready, you can check over his cannon.’
‘You are arming the Pruss Maiden?’ said Moriz.
‘We’re no match for the Charity on our own. So long as de Fleury holds Paúel Benecke hostage, the Pruss Maiden will do as she’s told. If Benecke’s dead, we hope no one will find out till later. Meanwhile, let’s climb a hill. I want to look at this fellow Jo Babbe.’
They climbed the hill. The air was searingly cold, but the wind hardly fluttered their cloaks. Over the thick, lazy swell of the sea, the fishing-boats were curvetting towards home. The gulls and seals had all gone. In the silence the surf sighed, and lingered, and whispered. Moriz said quietly, ‘John?’
‘I see it,’ the engineer said. ‘It’s big, but we could take it, the two of us, if we have to. He’s becalmed, I would say. He may not even get here before nightfall. We’ll be in position outside before then.’
‘John,’ said Moriz again. ‘Look at Hekla.’
*
Robin of Berecrofts stood on an opposite height, also looking.
He climbed this cliff every day, frequently soaked by the waterfall which flowed over it. The cliff was part of the long range of mountains which formed the base of the Eyjafjalla glacier, and the waterfall was the meter by which the fishermen of the Markarfljót measured the wind. If the waterfall climbed into the air, they didn’t go out.
From the cliff, he could see across to the Westmanns, and mark the yoles and the dogger as they plied in and out with their catch. He couldn’t see the Svipa or the Pruss Maiden, but he knew they were there. All the messages Crackbene had received had come from him. It had eased the hurt to his pride to realise how essential was his role by the shore, a link between M. de Fleury and the boats. Only since the smoke from Hekla had thickened, he wished M. de Fleury would hurry.
Wiser now than the men on the ships, he didn’t expect M. de Fleury to lead the way down the vale of the Markarfljót. Every year, in the dark and the snow, the farmers walked two hundred miles to the coast to greet the incoming cod, swarming to fatten and feed before spawning. And bad as that was, the subsequent easing of winter softened the bogs, and brought heavier spates from the glaciers. The safest way, of all the difficult passages, was the one M. de Fleury had already taken, following Kathi and her brother. Mixed with Robin’s anxiety about his employer was a not dissimilar foreboding about Katelijne Sersanders. Even given the easiest route, you couldn’t depend on either of them to keep out of trouble; and neither knew when to stop.
Robin had taken precautions. He had made sure that a boat was set apart to bring them back from the Thjórsá. All the fishermen knew to look out for them. Every traveller who rode in or forded the river was questioned. And just in case something went wrong, he paid a man at Hlídarendi, up the river, to watch out for news from the north. But M. de Fleury would only try to come down by the Markarfljót in an emergency, and the emergency was not likely to be created by Hekla. If there were any danger from Hekla, M. de Fleury would lead them all west, and hope to come back by boat as before. If Hekla exploded, its gas and ashes and lava would destroy anyone on his way south from Skálholt.
In the end, the tales that came from Hlídarendi were not about a band of rash travellers, but about the weather. There had been thunderstorms in the north, and rumours of earth-shocks. Also, as could be seen, the smoke from Hekla had changed. It seemed less than ever likely that M. de Fleury would