remnants remained suggested the vessel had been torn to pieces. The coarse sand stretched up to a line of brown rocks. Above it was a sky burned silver. No trees, no vegetation of any kind. A bare and lifeless land.
His gaze flickered towards sudden movement. A figure silhouetted against the glare whirled across the beach in a wild dance of flailing arms and kicking legs. Lank wet hair flew and a high-pitched tuneless song rolled out. Squinting, Hereward realized it was Hengist finding his mad joys in the midst of disaster. The Mercian hauled himself up on shaking legs. Where there was one there could be more. His crew would fight to the last, even against turbulent seas, and they had been close to shore when the ship had been wrecked.
‘Hengist,’ he yelled, cupping his mouth. ‘How many more yet live?’
Grinding to a halt, the other man beamed, then raised his head and his arms to the sun. Hereward cursed under his breath. Striding up the beach, he surveyed the shoreline. Sodden figures lay in the surf. Some did not move – dead or dazed, he did not know. Others clawed their way out of the foam or struggled to stand. His heart grew heavy. How few there were. He could not see Guthrinc, or Kraki, and perhaps fifteen more.
His gaze fell on a slight, still form and he felt a pang of fear. Racing along the beach, he dropped to his knees beside Alric. The monk lay face down, unmoving.
Hereward spun his friend on to his back and held his face between his huge hands. ‘Monk,’ he urged, shaking the other man. ‘Monk.’
Alric jerked and vomited a mouthful of seawater. Feebly, he tried to bat away Hereward’s grip as if he were swatting a fly. ‘You have laid a curse upon me,’ he croaked, ‘to be thrown into the sea whenever I cross the whale road.’
With a grin, Hereward released his grip. His friend jolted back on to the sand. ‘You live, monk,’ the warrior called back as he strode to the next survivor. ‘That is all that we can hope for on this journey.’
One of his men cried out, and he turned to see a figure clambering over the rock pools at the margin of the cove. It was the woman, still wrapped in the soaking cloak that had covered her nakedness aboard ship.
‘Take her,’ the Mercian commanded.
Two of the warriors raced down the beach and collected the woman.
Once they had gathered the men together at the top of the beach, Hereward saw that his first impression was correct. Near half the crew were missing, and five of their number there were dead. He bowed his head for a moment, feeling the weight of loss as if he had killed each one himself. And in truth he had, for he was their leader. He had made the choice that allowed the storm to claim them. Closing his eyes, he ran through the names, remembering the faces, the lives.
Eadlac. The best riddle-maker amongst them. Guthmaer. A gentle man who carved toys for children. Aliwin. A farmer from Wessex, dour but brave. Scirheah, who had sired ten children. His heart had broken to leave them all behind. And Yonwin, who took four cups of mead to find the courage to talk to the woman he secretly admired.
Every one felt like a knife in his heart.
Hereward forced aside his grief. It would not do for the others to dwell upon such matters. He eyed Sighard, who already seemed to have a cloud over him.
‘No dark thoughts,’ he commanded as he searched the faces of the ones who had survived. ‘Look around you. This cove is small. Our spear-brothers could have washed up anywhere along this coast. They could be hunting for us now.’ He cocked his head to listen for any calls, but only the wind moaned across the arid landscape. ‘We will search until we find them.’
Alric, though, was peering away from the sea, across the brown rock and sand that stretched to the horizon. ‘What then?’ he asked. ‘Where do we find water? What would you have us eat – the dirt beneath our feet?’
Hereward watched the brows of his men knit with worry. ‘We will
His gaze flickered towards sudden movement. A figure silhouetted against the glare whirled across the beach in a wild dance of flailing arms and kicking legs. Lank wet hair flew and a high-pitched tuneless song rolled out. Squinting, Hereward realized it was Hengist finding his mad joys in the midst of disaster. The Mercian hauled himself up on shaking legs. Where there was one there could be more. His crew would fight to the last, even against turbulent seas, and they had been close to shore when the ship had been wrecked.
‘Hengist,’ he yelled, cupping his mouth. ‘How many more yet live?’
Grinding to a halt, the other man beamed, then raised his head and his arms to the sun. Hereward cursed under his breath. Striding up the beach, he surveyed the shoreline. Sodden figures lay in the surf. Some did not move – dead or dazed, he did not know. Others clawed their way out of the foam or struggled to stand. His heart grew heavy. How few there were. He could not see Guthrinc, or Kraki, and perhaps fifteen more.
His gaze fell on a slight, still form and he felt a pang of fear. Racing along the beach, he dropped to his knees beside Alric. The monk lay face down, unmoving.
Hereward spun his friend on to his back and held his face between his huge hands. ‘Monk,’ he urged, shaking the other man. ‘Monk.’
Alric jerked and vomited a mouthful of seawater. Feebly, he tried to bat away Hereward’s grip as if he were swatting a fly. ‘You have laid a curse upon me,’ he croaked, ‘to be thrown into the sea whenever I cross the whale road.’
With a grin, Hereward released his grip. His friend jolted back on to the sand. ‘You live, monk,’ the warrior called back as he strode to the next survivor. ‘That is all that we can hope for on this journey.’
One of his men cried out, and he turned to see a figure clambering over the rock pools at the margin of the cove. It was the woman, still wrapped in the soaking cloak that had covered her nakedness aboard ship.
‘Take her,’ the Mercian commanded.
Two of the warriors raced down the beach and collected the woman.
Once they had gathered the men together at the top of the beach, Hereward saw that his first impression was correct. Near half the crew were missing, and five of their number there were dead. He bowed his head for a moment, feeling the weight of loss as if he had killed each one himself. And in truth he had, for he was their leader. He had made the choice that allowed the storm to claim them. Closing his eyes, he ran through the names, remembering the faces, the lives.
Eadlac. The best riddle-maker amongst them. Guthmaer. A gentle man who carved toys for children. Aliwin. A farmer from Wessex, dour but brave. Scirheah, who had sired ten children. His heart had broken to leave them all behind. And Yonwin, who took four cups of mead to find the courage to talk to the woman he secretly admired.
Every one felt like a knife in his heart.
Hereward forced aside his grief. It would not do for the others to dwell upon such matters. He eyed Sighard, who already seemed to have a cloud over him.
‘No dark thoughts,’ he commanded as he searched the faces of the ones who had survived. ‘Look around you. This cove is small. Our spear-brothers could have washed up anywhere along this coast. They could be hunting for us now.’ He cocked his head to listen for any calls, but only the wind moaned across the arid landscape. ‘We will search until we find them.’
Alric, though, was peering away from the sea, across the brown rock and sand that stretched to the horizon. ‘What then?’ he asked. ‘Where do we find water? What would you have us eat – the dirt beneath our feet?’
Hereward watched the brows of his men knit with worry. ‘We will
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