Out on the ride, Cadfael looked back through the screen of trees towards the sparks of quivering water beyond which lay the Anglesey shore. A slight breeze had arisen, and fluttered the bright green leaves into a scintillating curtain, but still the fleeting reflections of water flashed brighter still through the folds. And something else, something that appeared and vanished as the branches revealed and hid it again, but remained constant in the same place, only seeming to rock up and down as if afloat and undulating with a tide. A fragment of bright colour, vermilion, changing shape with the movement of its frame of leaves.
“Wait!” said Cadfael, halting. “What is that?” Not a red that was to be found in nature, certainly not in the late Spring, when the earth indulges itself only with delicate tones of pale gold and faint purple and white against the virgin green. This red had a hard, impenetrable solidity about it. Cadfael dismounted, and turned back towards it, threading the trees in cover until he came to a raised spot where he could lie warily invisible himself, but see clear through the edge of the woodland three hundred paces or more down to the strait. A green level of pasture and a few fields, one dwelling, no doubt forsaken now, and then the silver-blue glitter of the water, here almost at its narrowest, but still half a mile wide. And beyond, the rich, fertile plain of Anglesey, the cornfield of Wales. The tide was flowing, the stretch of shingle and sand under the opposite coast half exposed. And riding to anchor, close inshore below the bank of trees in which Cadfael stood, a long, lean boat, dragon-headed fore and aft, dipped and rose gently on the tide, central sail lowered, oars shipped, a cluster of vermilion shields draped along its low flank. A lithe serpent of a ship, its mast lowered aft from its steppings, clearing the gaunt body for action, while it swayed gently to its mooring like a sleeping lizard, graceful and harmless. Two of its crew, big, fair-headed, one with plaited braids either side his neck, idled on its narrow rear deck, above the oarsmen’s benches. One, naked, swam lazily in mid-strait. But Cadfael counted what he took to be oar-ports in the third strake of the hull, twelve of them in this steerboard side. Twelve pairs of oars, twenty-four rowers, and more crew beside these three left on guard. The rest could not be far.
Brother Mark had tethered the horses, and made his way down to Cadfael’s shoulder. He saw what Cadfael had seen, and asked no questions.
“That,” said Cadfael, low-voiced, “is a Danish keel from Dublin!”
Chapter Seven
THERE WAS NOT a word more said between them. By consent they turned and made their way back in haste to the horses, and led them away inland by the woodland track, until they were far enough from the shore to mount and ride. If Heledd, after her night in the hermitage, had seen the coming of this foraging boat with its formidable complement of warriors, small wonder she had made haste to remove herself from their vicinity. And small doubt but she would withdraw inland as quickly and as far as she could, and once at a sufficient distance she would make for the shelter of a town. That, at least, was what any girl in her right senses would do. Here she was midway between Bangor and Carnarvon. Which way would she take?
“One ship alone,” said Mark at last, where the path widened and made it possible for two to ride abreast. “Is that good sense? Might they not be opposed, even captured?”
“So they might at this moment,” Cadfael agreed, “but there’s no one here to attempt it. They came by night past Carnarvon, be sure, and by night they’ll slip out again. This will be one of the smallest and the fastest in their fleet; with more than twenty armed rowers aboard there’s nothing we have could keep them in sight. You saw the building of her, she can be rowed either way, and turn in a flash. The only risk they take is while the most of the company are ashore, foraging, and that they’ll do by rushes, fast ashore and fast afloat again.”
“But why send one small ship out alone? As I have heard tell,” said Mark, “they raid in force, and take slaves as well as plunder. That they cannot do by risking a single vessel.”
“This time,” said Cadfael, considering, “it’s no such matter. If Cadwaladr has brought them over, then he’s promised them a fat fee for their services. They’re here to persuade Owain he would be wise to restore his brother to his lands, and they expect to get well paid for doing it, and if it can be done cheaply by the threat of their presence, without the loss of a man in battle, that’s what they’ll prefer, and Cadwaladr will have no objection, provided the result is the same. Say he gets his way and returns to his lands, he has still to live beside his brother for the future, why make relations between them blacker than they need be? No, there’ll be no random burning and killing, and no call to take bondmen, not unless the bargain turns sour.”
“Then why this foray by a single ship so far along the strait?” Mark demanded reasonably.
“The Danes have to feed their force, and it’s not their way to carry their own provisions when they’re heading for a land they can just as well live off at no cost. They know the Welsh well enough by now to know we live light and travel light, and can shift our families and our stock into the mountains at a few hours’ notice. Yonder little ship has wasted no time in making inland from Abermenai as soon as it touched shore, to reach such hamlets as were late in hearing the news, or slow in rounding up their cattle. They’ll be off back to their fellows tonight with a load of good carcases amidships, and whatever store of flour and grain they’ve been able to lay their hands on. And somewhere along these woods and fields they’re about that very business this moment.”
“And if they meet with a solitary girl?” Mark challenged. “Would they refrain from doing unnecessary offence even then?”
“I would not speak for any man, Dane or Welsh or Norman, in such a case,” Cadfael admitted. “If she were a princess of Gwynedd, why, she’d be worth far more intact and well treated than violated or misused. And if Heledd was not born royal, yet she has a tongue of her own, and can very well make it plain that she is under Owain’s protection, and they’ll be answerable to him if they do her offence. But even so…”
They had reached a place where the woodland track divided, one branch bearing still inland but inclining to the west, the other bearing more directly east.
“We are nearer Carnarvon than Bangor,” Cadfael reckoned, halting where the roads divided. “But would she know it? What now, Mark? East or west?”
“We had best separate,” Mark said, frowning over so blind a decision. “She cannot be very far. She would have to keep in cover. If the ship must return this night, she might find a place to hide safely until they are gone. Do you take one way, and I the other.”
“We cannot afford to lose touch,” Cadfael warned seriously. “If we part here it must be only for some hours, and here we must meet again. We are not free to do altogether as we choose. Go towards Carnarvon, and if you find her, see her safely there. But if not, make your way back here by dusk, and so will I. And if I find her by this lefthand way, I’ll get her into shelter wherever I may, if it means turning back to Bangor. And at Bangor I’ll wait for you, if you fail of meeting me here by sunset. And if I fail you, follow and find me there.” A makeshift affair, but the best they could do, with so limited a time, and an inescapable duty waiting. She had left the cell by the shore only that morning, she would have had to observe caution and keep within the woodland ways, where a horse must go slowly. No, she could not be far. And at this distance from the strait, surely she would keep to a used path, and not wind a laborious way deep in cover. They might yet find and bring her here by nightfall, or conduct her into safety somewhere, rendezvous here free of her, and be off thankfully back to England.