Geoffrey winced. He did not share his companions’ belief that the omens were aimed at his intended journey to Jerusalem, but he hated the fact that he was responsible for the horses’ deaths.
‘Not one beast has come ashore,’ elaborated Bale. ‘Poor things! It would have been better to have cut their throats than for them to drown.’
There had been a number of passengers aboard the ship – Captain Fingar was quite happy to accept paying fares for a journey he was making anyway. His ship Patrick traded between Dublin and Ribe in Denmark, carrying hides and linen one way, and timber and furs the other. It did not sound especially lucrative, but Fingar was clearly wealthy, and Geoffrey suspected that the large crew and abundance of weapons were not just for defence: Patrick was owned by pirates.
Autumn was normally a good time for sea-travel, and most of the ships Geoffrey had approached in the port of Bristol had been full. He was beginning to think they might have to go home again, when Patrick had put in, ostensibly for repairs, although she docked in a quiet backwater that was the haunt of those who preferred to unload their cargos away from the King’s taxors. Whether her goods were smuggled or stolen from another ship was impossible to say, but the number of guards and their furtive demeanour indicated it was one or the other.
Geoffrey was not the only one desperate enough to accept a berth on a ship operating outside the law. So had Sir Vitalis and his two women, a monk, and their servants. Vitalis, a crusty old knight from Falaise, owned lands in the ancient Danish diocese of Ribe, and he and his ladies were going to visit them. Meanwhile, Brother Lucian maintained he was on official Benedictine business. With his shiny black hair and ready smile for the ladies, everything about Lucian said he hailed from wealth. He was too young and handsome to be trusted out alone by any sensible abbot, and Geoffrey had not believed him when he said he had been carrying important documents.
When they had embarked, they discovered Fingar already had four other paying passengers, who had joined Patrick in Dublin. These comprised an uncommunicative Saxon and his servant who were secretive to the point of rudeness; a loquacious Breton named Juhel; and a Norman called Paisnel who had been lost overboard several days before.
During his career as a soldier, Geoffrey had spent a fair amount of time on ships, mostly in the Mediterranean Sea, travelling at the command of his liege lord, Prince Tancred. Patrick, however, was like no other. Normally, tents were rigged on deck for passengers, but Fingar claimed such clutter would interfere with safety. His fares had the choice of eating and sleeping on the open deck or crawling on top of the Irish leathers in the holds.
Geoffrey was blessed with a strong stomach, although even he had been sick in the monstrous seas in the Channel. His fellow passengers fared worse. Vitalis, the silent Saxons and the servants spent most of their time in the hold, vomiting what little they managed to eat. Geoffrey suggested they might feel better away from the odoriferous hides, but they groaned they were too ill to move. The longest conversation he had had with the Saxons – the squire was called Simon, but he had no idea of the master’s name – comprised them ordering him away when he tried to help them.
Vitalis’s women – each separately introduced as his wife – were more robust and made regular forays to the deck, where they stood clutching the rails and screeching at the size of the waves. They were often joined by Brother Lucian, who flirted outrageously despite the fact that he appeared at times when he should have been reciting his holy offices. It had not escaped Geoffrey’s attention that Lucian had not prayed when they were in danger, although every other soul on board had done so with increasing desperation.
Paisnel and Juhel had also been largely unaffected by the elements. Paisnel was the more likeable, a serious, sober senior clerk in the service of the Bishop of Ribe. His friend Juhel was a parchment merchant, and when he was not chatting to his fellow passengers, he talked to his pet chicken, a pale-brown bird with wicked eyes.
But, Geoffrey reflected sadly as he huddled with his companions in the biting wind and stinging rain, trying to regain his strength after the desperate struggle ashore, he could see none of them on the beach.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Bale eventually. ‘We cannot sit here all day. It is too cold.’
‘We should wait for the captain to say something,’ said Ulfrith. ‘He is in charge.’
‘Not any more,’ argued Bale. ‘Besides, all he is interested in is rescuing what he can from the waves before they move in.’
Geoffrey looked to where Bale pointed and saw a tremor in the vegetation behind the shore. People were gathering, watching the survivors but making no attempt to help.
‘Locals,’ said Ulfrith uneasily. ‘They are hoping we will all die, so they can claim what is washed ashore. Folk like them killed shipwrecked mariners when I was a boy.’
‘They had better not try anything with us,’ said Roger grimly, fingering his sword.
Geoffrey was glad they had all donned their armour. Mail was not total protection against arrows, but it would give them a chance to fight back, should the villagers be rash enough to attack two fully armed Norman knights and their squires.
‘They will,’ predicted Ulfrith. ‘But not yet – they are not stupid. They will wait for nightfall, when we fall asleep from exhaustion.’
Roger scowled. ‘They are already growing bold. Look at that fellow with the green hat there. He has been watching us from behind that tree since we first reached the shore.’
‘We should offer to help Fingar deploy sentries,’ said Geoffrey. It would not be easy to protect themselves in the dark, but it would be foolishness itself not to try.
The captain, however, was unreceptive to Geoffrey’s suggestion to move inland and find shelter. Fingar was a short, powerful man with red hair and a scar that ran from the centre of his forehead, down his nose and across his lips, to end at the cleft in his chin. It was perfectly symmetrical, and Geoffrey wondered how it had happened.
‘I am not playing milksop to passengers,’ Fingar growled, his attention on the seething waves and those of his men who still floundered in them. The rest sat in deflated, sullen groups around their salvage. ‘I am busy.’
‘Busy doing what?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Nothing is coming ashore in one piece, and smashed planking and soaking pelts cannot be of value to you. We should make our way to the nearest settlement for-’
Fingar rounded on him with a fury that would have made most men take a step back. ‘You do not know what you are talking about! We need to gather every scrap of timber or leather that washes ashore if we want a chance of buying a new ship. And my obligations to you finished when you reached the shore, so you can make your own way.’
‘We do not need your protection,’ said Geoffrey irritably. ‘But you can see from here that the locals have arrived and are just waiting for the right time to attack. None of us will be safe once night falls, so it is better to pool our-’
‘No one will dare attack me,’ said Fingar with great finality. ‘Now bugger off.’
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode towards the thundering surf, where two of his men were struggling with a barrel. Its side was stoved in and its contents lost, and Geoffrey wondered why they were so determined to have it. Disgusted and bemused, he headed back to where Bale and Ulfrith were packing sodden belongings into the saddlebags, aware that the silent locals had edged much closer.
‘No!’ howled Bale, whipping around suddenly, knife in hand. ‘Get away!’
By the time Geoffrey reached his companions, the hapless villager was staggering to safety, trailing blood behind him. The other villagers, clutching a haphazard array of cudgels and pikes, watched tensely, ready to flee if anyone should give chase.
‘That will warn them to keep their distance,’ said Roger, watching Bale wipe the blood from his blade with a handful of seaweed.