To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [209]
Nothing was said. In such a silence, even a whisper would annihilate sleep. In any case, there was nothing to say. The danger was there and increasing – the sulphur betrayed it – but as yet no glimmer of fire beaded the sky; no fissures gaped; the only voice was a low one and distant: that of thunder. They had talked with mock solemnity of the Twilight of the Gods, of the fires of the damned; but if you had knelt at the altar at Sinai, and had stood where Moses stood, and had experienced, in a cold northern town, an exaltation of the spirit which, all unbidden, had carried with it the soul of a child, then you believed in one God and in submission to him. You also believed – contradictory as that air of contentment – that it was right to submit only when you had fought to the uttermost of your powers.
She had meant to say commonplace things: If anything happens, I shall try to do my best for the child, and for Gelis.
Then: As you choose to do this, so Robin has chosen his way, and neither of you must regret what may happen.
If I do not survive, make my uncle your friend.
And, of least importance of all: Of course, Paúel Benecke is waiting to kill you. But he will want to do it in style, and you will probably stop him, one way or another.
After a while it became cold, and she pressed his arm and went in. By dawn, they were all up and travelling.
To the leaderless Hanse ship and the Svipa, it was apparent under the same paling sky that the English vessel had approached through the night. The wind, now from the east, rose and died but provided some help, and their oarsmen had been working. Their course would take them to the north of the fishing grounds, which did not bring them close to the Hanse ship or the Svipa, but was still within range of their guns. They had sent no signals, although Crackbene had brought both his ships early from harbour and lay at anchor, ready for anything.
The Pruss Maiden was now armed. Lacking their master, the crew were far from anxious to fight, but they had been reminded often enough that Paúel Benecke’s life depended on how well they acquitted themselves. And to see off the English ship, after all, was their duty. To make sure they understood this, John le Grant had gone over, with a handful of men, to work as sailing-master with Stanislas. He spoke fluent German, and was known by reputation to them all. Father Moriz stayed with the Svipa and Crackbene, and watched the sky to the north and north-east.
They had all seen the changes, even before the last of the Icelanders came to warn them that they were leaving the settlement. The young Herra Robin, they added, had refused to come with them.
Father Moriz was angry with everyone, and especially with Crackbene and John. The Charity had been here before: they would see the smoke, recognise the danger and leave. The Svipa should send a crew to the settlement to stay with Robin and rescue both Robin and Nicholas, if Nicholas came back by land.
‘It is impossible to come by land,’ Crackbene had said. ‘Also, the Icelanders say the Charity has never seen an eruption and will attribute the fishermen’s flight to their cowardice. They will be disappointed and angry. They will either storm the settlement, hoping for fish, or will try to attack and sink the Hanse ship in particular, taking her catch and destroying her witness. We can’t afford to spare the men for a boat. And if Katla erupts, the boat would be commandeered.’
Then Moriz had asked: ‘You say Hekla would kill. How would Katla erupting be worse?’
After Crackbene had answered, the priest sat silent for a few moments. Then he said, ‘To avoid a death such as that, we should have to stand fifteen miles out to sea?’
‘Or more,’ Crackbene said. The decision is mine. There can only be one master on any ship.’
On the Markarfljót, the day began long before dawn, when the